Chapter Text
It was not until the hour of the nightingale that the Gates of the Moon settled into some semblance of peace, though Daella found no rest; not that she tried.
She pulled the hood of her cloak up high, tucking away the loose locks that had escaped her braid before slipping from her chambers on light feet. She made quick work of reaching the main gate from there, catching up with the men that had been sent to bury the bodies.
She grabbed a shovel. “Wait!” She called out, her voice deepened to a baritone that would match their own whileher face remained hidden in the shadows. “M’lady has commanded I help." She told the guards.
The men did not question her sudden appearance, not with the Royce sigil clear on her breast.
“Come on then, lad.” One of the soldier’s gruffed. “They ain’t going to bury themselves.”
She began to dig with them, laying each of the bodies to rest in unnamed graves.
"Hold on." She said before the last of the five was laid with the others.
She reached for the dagger at her waist, cutting the torn Hardyng sigil from the man's jerkin.
She noticed the questioning gazes of the other men. "Will Lord Hardyng or Ser Joffrey not come?" She asked. "They were their men after all."
To her right, she heard a scoff. "Why would they bother?"
She had to bite her tongue at that. "I had thought the lord might want to take this to his man's family, but..." She let her words fall off as she tucked the tattered cloth into her pocket.
"Should we say something?” Another man asked as they put the final man to rest.
"The old gods don't care for it." Daella answered. "I don't know about the new ones."
"Aye, can’t say I know much about them either.”
“I do.” The youngest of the group spoke. “My mother took my sisters and I to hear the Septon preach every Maiden’s day.”
“Go on then, boy.”
The prayer came from the young man’s lips like a whisper on the wind. He was no older than Luke and spoke with the same soft strength Daella associated with Rhaenyra’s second son.
She sighed, patting the boy’s shoulder as his words gave way to silence.
They stood there for a moment longer until the man to her right lifted his shovel, declaring they all needed a drink. The rest of them followed his lead, turning back to the holdfast.
Daella hung to the back of the group, waiting for them to pass through the large stone gate before she tore away, making for the treeline.
Her uncle would be wroth when he woke to find her gone. She had left a letter by her bed explaining that she would not be away for long.
"They cannot burn a dragon. Daorys and I shall scout from the skies."
Elbert Royce would not believe it, but the others would, and that was what mattered. Her uncle would understand eventually. He knew she would not be able to rest until she found the answers she sought, and they both knew she could trust him with her men in the meantime.
"I shall return soon. You must ensure the lords do not march before then."
It was more than wishful thinking to hope that she could find her dragon and return in mere days, but Daella knew Daorys was here. She knew it the very second she saw the Hardyng scout’s body.
She ran her thumb across the torn fabric in her pocket before reaching for the short sword at her waist. She rested her hand on the hilt, eyes flitting across the dense forest that had begun to wake with the sliver of sunlight on the horizon.
With dawn, a vague memory of Aemond came to mind. If she tried hard enough, she could almost see him there, sword in hand, as he trained against some unnamed foe at daybreak as he always did. It was an odd comfort to think on, one she did not quite understand, but still, she let it play in her mind’s eye as she ventured out into the brush.
▁▁▁▁▁
Daella could not say how long she had been walking when she finally heard it - the sound of dried leaves crushed beneath footfall that was not her own.
She lowered herself behind a large oak, steadying her breath as the noise continued, a rhythmic beat to accompany the endless songs of the forest.
Three men, she thought. Maybe four.
She drew her short sword, straightening up as she waited for the steps to come closer. Peering over the edge of the wood for less than a moment, she grasped her only throwing knife with her other hand.
The wolf girl would have been able to use it blind. She had done. Beth had spent endless nights on the streets of Braavos with little more to do than practice while her masters decided what the Many-Faced God would have of her next.
She took a breath, waiting until one of the four came close enough to be within reach.
He was broad and had a head on her in height at least. Were it a matter of strength alone she would be dead, but stealth and surprise had always suited her far more than force alone.
She threw her knife at a man to her left, a distraction that allowed her to approach the mountain man nearest from behind. She brought her short sword across his neck, his blood drenching her leather-covered hands. It happened in a flicker of a heartbeat, such little time that the two men still standing had not yet drew their weapons.
As the broad man dropped before her, Daella ran for the next one. She was fast, fast enough that she was able to reach him before he could put a hand on his axe - but not fast enough to stop his fist.
Giving him the blow was a mistake the wolf girl would have been punished for were she still with her faceless masters. It winded her, weakened her, a strike so hard it forced her to the ground - giving the two men a chance to close in.
They spoke amongst themselves, speaking in words she knew and words she did not; the Common Tongue and something else, though Daella did not have the time to decipher it. She reached back until her right hand found something hard.
She brought the rock down onto one man’s knee, a sickening crack that was followed with his curses, while her short sword went out to block the axeman’s swing. But she was not strong enough to stop him. While his fellow clansman limped and screamed, cradling his leg, he forced her onto her back.
She tried to kick out, tried to push him away as he descended further, knees falling on either side of her torso, his full weight driving his axe as well as her own sword towards the sensitive skin at her neck.
It was only then, when he was that close, that Daella truly saw him. Half his face had been burned like the old dog that had once captured Arya Stark.
“Kill her!” The other man demanded of him, but she knew today was not her day.
She crashed her head against her attacker’s skull, black spots dancing across her vision at the sudden impact, but as the pressure on her neck lifted, Daella did not waste a moment. She slashed her sword across the burned man’s flesh, clumsily across his face at first before she met her mark, lodging it between the juncture of his neck and shoulders.
She tried to stand again. There’s still one more, she told herself. But the headache that pounded across her skull only bloomed and grew, taunting her even more than the man that limped her way.
As nausea gripped her, she stumbled back, but she was not scared.
Not today, she repeated.
And finally, that screech she had come to love so greatly sounded out; a call so terrifying, yet one that brought a smile to her face and laughter to her lips. Even as she felt herself slipping, her eyes falling as her mind clouded, Daorys’ cry had her breathing ease and her heart lift - a welcome sound that lulled her to sleep as well as her mother’s own songs once did.
▁▁▁▁▁
“It is good to see you well, Ser.”
Criston Cole peered over his shoulder, ever-vigilant, before he took the torch offered to him.
He leaned close, slipping the coin purse into the other man’s pocket. “You have done well.” He whispered.
“I only wish to serve the rightful king.”
Cole’s mouth fell, the sharp reminder of betrayal twisting in his gut like a knife. There were so few left that he knew he could rely on. Most had turned their backs for that harlot; the spider who had ensnared so many in her web.
Rhaenyra. Her name echoed in his mind, a curse that brought fire to his veins and rage to his heart.
“Then you are one of the few true knights left to us.” He said as he was led down the damp staircase into the Black Cells. “Look how easily the rest have forgotten themselves.” He hissed. “Men I trained to hold honour and dignity now stand at the Bastard Queen’s back.”
“There are more of us than you think.”
Yes, he thought. There was still hope.
When he was sent by Her Grace to find Prince Aegon, when the King still lived and the realm still held true to its values, Cole quickly learned who he could trust.
Ser Arryk had been a surprising knight of that order. He who had shielded Aegon when the city’s bells tolled and the Gold Cloaks came for them. Between himself and Ser Criston they had been able to pull the prince from the brothel and cut down any man that stood in their path.
And he remained faithful even now, guarding their King despite where his brother swearing to the Usurper.
But his loyalty will not keep Aegon safe forever. They had no time, and yet Cole could not leave, not without Queen Alicent.
He looked at the guard from the corner of his eye. The man was known to Ser Arryk, someone he swore could be trusted. It seemed his promises held true though he still had his doubts.
“Where is the gaelor?” He asked.
The guard let out a short laugh. “Eron is a good friend. You need not worry about him, Ser.”
Cole frowned though did not speak to his mistrust. The last thing he needed was more enemies.
“Very well. I thank you for taking me this far, but for what is to come next I need you back at your post.”
The man nodded his head, turning to leave without question. The familiarity of his obedience settled his misgivings.
“Wait.” He called out, and again, with no word of protest, the guard stopped.
“If you truly wish to show your loyalty to Aegon, I have a task for you and your friend. If you complete it, I can promise you will both be rewarded greatly.”
▁▁▁▁▁
Muffled voices filtered through Daella’s clouded mind, drawing her back from the depths that held her.
Her eyelids fluttered open to find dark stone above her. Light glittered against it, drawing her gaze to a great fire held at the mouth of the alcove.
She drew steady breaths as she tried to move. Her fingers twitching as she suddenly noticed the sharp edges that lay beneath her. She winced as they scratched against her legs and arms, even through her thick leathers she felt them, grating on her skin like glass.
She brought her arms under her, lifting herself, but as her eyes finally caught sight of what lay below, she froze.
Eggs, hundreds of pieces of crushed dragon eggs were scattered across the ground. She sat up, running her fingers across large shard of emerald green.
It feels like stone, she realised. Cold, lifeless, and wrong.
A low rumble sounded out. She turned to find Daorys, her black dragon surrounding her and the broken pieces. At the sound of her movement, he lifted his head, his glowing eyes meeting her own.
“Skoros iksos bisa?” She whispered. What is this?
“You are awake.” A voice spoke.
Daella’s head spun at the sound. She reached for her short sword on instinct, only to find the scabbard at her waist empty.
“We will not hurt you.”
She lifted her gaze from her waist to the man that stood above her.
He wore thick fur across his shoulders and deerskin below his waist, and on his chest… Daella frowned as her eyes fell to the breastplate across his wide chest and vambrace fitted to either arm. And beneath that she saw seared flesh, red and raw from a burn so fresh she could smell it.
“Eldurinn mikli brought you here.” He went on.
Eldurinn mikli.
“Who are you?”
She leaned against Daorys’ side as she stood, her feet steady despite how weak they felt.
“Finnandi elds. Chieftain of Burned Men.”
Mountain clan territory. She took a step closer to her dragon, eyes briefly flickering to him. Why was he nesting in mountain clan territory?
She looked back at the man. “It is you then, who has been attacking innocents travelling through the High Road.” She accused.
His mouth lifted in barely concealed amusem*nt. “Innrásarher Andal.” He hissed. “And it is you, falcons, who have taken our land and our ways.”
Her fists tightened at her side. “I have taken nothing from you. Those people you killed took nothing from you either.”
He laughed. “You have much spirit for an Andal. I had wondered why Eldurinn mikli claimed you.”
Her gaze fell to Daorys once more, who let out a low rumble. Despite his presence, everything about this place made her feel uneasy.
“I am no Andal, but I am a Valeman and I have a duty to this land.” She said. “Take your people and return west, or the might of the Vale shall descend upon this mountain seeking justice for what has been done to their own.”
She turned to her dragon. “Daorys, ivestragī īlva jikagon.” Let’s go.
He heard her, letting out a short sound in return, but he did not lower his wing as he usually would. Instead, he dropped his head, resting it against the hard stone.
“Daorys.” She said his name again, but he did not rise; only letting out a long, tired breath.
She slowly turned to the burned man, wariness giving way for anger.
“What did you do?”
▁▁▁▁▁
The Black Cells echoed with the screams of broken men.
It was not torture that turned the prisoners to madness. The darkness, the solitude, men living in their own filth, freezing against iron bars while rats gnawed at their rotting flesh - that was what destroyed them.
Criston Cole brought his hand to his nose as he passed through, ignoring the begs for mercy, the pleads for death.
He held his torch out, looking for a familiar set of eyes amongst the damp cells.
Eventually, he found the huddled form he was looking for.
“Lord Strong.”
Larys Strong raised his bruised face, wincing at the movement.
“I had wondered when you would come.”
“I am sorry to see how you have suffered under Rhaenyra’s cruelty, my lord.”
The Lord of Harrenhal let out a weak laugh. “I am sure.”
Cole frowned, lowering himself so he might look the man in the eye. “Her Grace has always relied on your loyalty. She needs it once more. King Aegon needs it.”
The man scoffed. “King Aegon needs dragons, not cripples.” He said, those cunning eyes mocking his choice of words. “I assume you must have him then.”
Cole ignored the teasing, reminding himself why he was here; who he was doing this for.
“I do. He requires information which you and I both know is your speciality.”
“Once.” The man coughed. “But the White Worm has made work of eating my birds, it seems.” He shook his head. “Come now, Ser, even you must see the irony in that? Her brothel was meant to burn that night, but they were waiting for me. Tanda Ashford handed me over to Gold Cloaks herself.”
Cole’s eyes fell. “Her Grace’s lady?”
“The very one.”
Traitors. He heard the word in the heavy silence, felt it in the damp air. They turn to her. They all turn to her.
“Do you think the realm will ever accept me as their queen?” She had asked him once. Rhaenyra looked at him so earnestly then, and he believed… He thought… Cole shook his head. It did not matter what he thought. She betrayed him; forcing him to forsake the only thing he had to his name. His honour.
He still remembered her face the day she rejected him. She took everything from him then, and yet she still finds more to take.
He forced his breaths to steady, trying to shake all thoughts of her from his mind. “What else do you know?” He asked the man in front of him.
The lord raised a dark brow. “Have you seen where I am, Ser?”
“I have. And I have also seen the fresh bandages on your leg and the plate that lays by your feet. Most of the smallfolk outside these walls have never been treated so well.”
“My gaelor has been kind.”
“This is more than just the gaelor. What do you want?” He asked, frustrated with this cat-and-mouse game the lord always seemed to be playing.
She liked games too. His jaw ticked at the reminder. Rhaenyra.
“Out, of course. My position by the Dowager Queen and King restored. That would certainly be a start. I assume you do have a plan to get them out of the city?”
“Where are Her Grace and the Hand? Where are Prince Aemond and Princess Helaena?”
The man tutted at his harsh tone. “Really, Cole? We are meant to be allies, are we not? This is not how allies treat one another.”
He slapped his hands against the metal bars, rage spilling over. “Answer the question, Strong.”
The Lord of Harrenhal raised his hands in surrender. “I am afraid the only words I hear are blacker than these cells.” He sighed. “Do you really wish to know that Prince Aemond has fled the city with his sister? That with him King Aegon has lost his largest dragon?”
Cole almost flinched. Aemond… Aemond, who he had trained. Aemond, who he had protected, encouraged and raised. Aemond, who… who stood beside the girl who put a dagger to his neck.
Daella, the cells creaked. Rhaenyra, they whispered. Traitors.
“Where is the queen?” He said between clenched teeth, hands tightening around the iron bars.
Daella. Rhaenyra. Traitors.
“How exactly do you plan on getting her and the Hand out, Cole?”
Rhaenyra. Traitor.
“Where is the queen? He asked again.
“I will tell you.” Was the man’s reply. “I will ensure the wealth of Harrenhal is at His Grace’s disposal too once I am relieved of my current accommodation.”
Rhaenyra.
Traitor.
Traitor.
Traitor.
“Where is she?” He hissed.
“I understand your haste. But-“ Larys Strong gasped, hands shaking as they reached for the ones Cole had wrapped around his throat.
The Lord of Harrenhal tried to choke out broken words, he tried to plead, but nothing came from between Criston’s fists.
Cole blinked and suddenly he was bringing the man’s head against the metal bars, again, and again, and again.
The sickening sound of his skull breaking felt like justice. It was right, fitting, an end he deserved. That was what he told himself over and over.
He closed his eyes and saw silver hair there; he saw her face, the same one that rejected him, but when he opened them again, it was only Larys Strong that lay before him.
“You were right.” He told the dead man. “It is dragons I need, not cripples.”
▁▁▁▁▁
Daella looked upon the great fire. The winds blew harsh this high, but the hard stone that made these mountains protected it and what lay within.
The egg was a deep red, darker than Prince Daemon’s Caraxes, and the only one to remain whole.
Daorys watched it night and day, as did the Burned Men.
“Nyke ȳdra daor shifang.” She told her dragon. I don’t understand.
The day had given way for dusk, though the mountain was still full of life. The clansmen feasted, hunted and celebrated - their spirits high as more and more of their men came back with meat, gold and other prizes.
They lived amongst the mountainside like Daorys did, making their homes in the scores of alcoves carved into the strong stone.
“He needs time to gorge after what you and your people did to him.”
Three lambs were lain out before them and the men quickly retreated as Daorys lunged at the meat, a satisfied rumble leaving his throat.
The chieftain then dropped a small rabbit at her feet.
The warriors at his back snickered, teasing words shared between them in their tongue.
“My men wonder if they should have their children show you how to prepare it.” He explained, a grin pulling at his lips.
While the tribesmen looked upon her dragon with great wonder and reverence, they only spared her looks of disgust and curses spoken in their own tongue.
Daella snarled at his words, reaching for one of the broken egg shards, a piece sharp enough to cut with. She skinned the rabbit in front them, throwing both the meat and fur at the chief afterwards.
It hit his arm unceremoniously and for good measure she threw the egg shard too, watching with satisfaction as it cut the deerskin at his waist.
“Me?” She walked up to the man, glaring at his dark brown eyes. “You did this to him!” She cried, pushing his chest with the palm of her hands. “You!” A push quickly became a punch. She lay it square at his nose, her wrists seized immediately by rough hands following.
“You think I do not see?” She went on, struggling against his hold. “You hold crates of castle-forged steel. Your people spit at the mere mention of an Andal, do they know you have been paid by them?”
The vambraces, the breastplates, the axes, the greaves and the swords - they were identical. Even now as she looked between the chieftain and his men she could see it.
“Who?” She seethed. “Who paid you to do this to him?”
There were no physical wounds, whatever they had done to her dragon lay deep within.
The chieftain’s nostril’s flared, his amusem*nt falling into anger. “Heimsk Andal.” He sneered. “You know nothing.”
He released her wrists, the look of loathing clear on his face. “Eat. Starve. I do not care.” He said, turning his back to descend the mountainside.
Daella watched him go, cursing him with each step he took. She returned to Daorys then, dropping next to her sleeping dragon.
That was all he had done since he brought her here - slept and feasted.
She looked down at the broken eggs beneath her feet once more.
“Nyke ȳdra daor shifang.” I don’t understand.
▁▁▁▁▁
By the next morning, Daella’s hunger had worsened though she ignored it, refusing anything that was brought before her.
Daorys, however, had no such qualms. He did not tolerate the clansmen, but at the sight of their offerings he settled some. The food was no guarantee of protection, however. Daella woke that very day to the screams of a man. He cried terribly as the flames of her dragon engulfed him, but any sound he made ceased when Daorys consumed him and the lamb he offered whole.
And yet, the tribe was not deterred, they were never deterred, nor their devotion strained in the slightest.
The children, especially, scaled the mountain night and day in hopes of seeing the black dragon, though they remained far beyond the perimeter of the alcove, the wounds of their fathers and brothers lesson enough alone as to why they should not attempt to come closer.
When she first ventured beyond her dragon’s nest, she found a score of them waiting there, whispering amongst themselves and staring at her.
Eventually one brave enough to approach separated from the gaggle.
“Er það satt?” The girl asked, almost jumping up and down with delight. “Andals koma?”
Daella shook her head. “I do not speak your tongue.”
The child frowned, running to the ledge to call out to someone.
An older girl answered the call. She frowned as she caught sight of Daella, though her features softened as the other girl took her hand, leading her to where she stood.
The child repeated her words, pointing to her.
“She asks if it is true, that the Andals are coming.” The older of the two explained.
Daella frowned. “If your chieftain does not cease in this madness, then even I will not be able to stop them. What is your name?”
The elder ignored her question, turning to speak to the other child instead.
Daella wondered if something had been lost in translation then as the little girl practically gleamed, responding in rushed, excited words.
“Do all mountain clans speak the same tongue?” She asked, halting their conversation.
The girls turned their attention to her. There was hesitance on the eldest’s features while the youngest was blissfully unaware, eagerly tugging at the other child’s arm so she might understand.
“No.” The former answered. “Only we remember. The rest forget, even Painted Dogs.”
Something twisted on the girl’s face at the mere mention of them.
Daella raised a dark brow. “Is that why your chieftain brought you here?”
Communication between the Valemen and the tribes was nonexistent, but they had shared common land for a millennia - the lords of the Vale knew more about the clans than any maester could.
Since the Andals came, the tribes’ territory had been cut to the mountains between Grey Glen and Strongsong and those west of the Bloody Gate. The peaks this far east had not been theirs in hundreds of years.
The older girl seemed angered by her words. “This is our home now as it was before.” She insisted, only turning those fiery eyes away at the insistent pull of the younger.
More words were exchanged between the pair before the smaller girl directed some at her.
“She wishes to know where your Andal tail is?” The eldest muttered.
Daella almost choked. “My what?”
“Your tail. Our mother tells us all Andals have twisted tails. That is why they wear such silly clothes, to hide it.”
“My tail?” She repeated, stunned for a moment before laughter left her lips.
The children appeared perplexed by her sudden outburst, though their confusion turned to indignance when she informed them that she had, in fact, no tail and that no Andal did.
“And besides,” she went on “the Andal blood in House Royce is thin. It comes from marriage alone. We are First Men, like you.”
“You are not!” The older girl insisted. “You are not like us!”
“I am.” Daella promised. “I can prove it.”
She retreated to her dragon’s alcove. Daorys appeared more himself as the day went on - alert, restless, but she could see how his hunger persisted.
She watched his nostrils flare as he smelled the children. He shifted, as if to retrieve his next meal.
“Ao jāhor daor ōdrikagon zirȳ.” She said firmly. “Umbagon.” You will not harm them. Stay.
He was displeased but lowered himself once more with a loud thud.
Daella leaned down, retrieving a broken egg that lay at his feet.
“You should not have come so close.” She told the girls once she returned. “If I was not here, he would have killed you.”
They both frowned at her - the eldest for her words and the youngest for lack of understanding them.
“He lets you near him, and you are just an Andal.”
“He and I share a bond, he will not hurt me. But he holds no such loyalty to others. He was weaker before, when your people brought him sheep and goat and lamb. He is not now.”
“What does it mean? A bond?”
The younger girl whined as her sister spoke, though the other child only batted her away with a dismissive hand. “What does it mean?” She insisted.
“Our blood is tied.” Daella explained. “Through the blood of my father, it is. Our blood is tied too, you and I, though that blood comes from my mother.”
She sat on the stone beneath her using the shard she had retrieved to scratch runes she had known since she was a babe into it.
“See,” she told them “it is the Old Tongue, is it not? The language which you still speak now.”
The girl’s eyes widened and her lips parted. Daella watched those eyes trace each mark over and over. There was wonder there. She reached out to touch them, as though she could not believe what she was seeing. But she caught herself before her fingers met stone, that wonder fading into something else.
Slowly, that dark gaze lifted to look at her once more. “Then why did you let them take our land from us?” The words were whispered, but soon rage filled her voice. “If you are one of us, why did you fight us? Why do you fight with them?” She spat. “It does not matter who your mother was, you are Andal now.”
She ran off, taking the younger girl’s hand and dragging her away too. Daella brought her lower lip between her teeth as she watched their retreating forms.
She spoke as if it was so simple. She wished it was so simple. Moments like this made her wish she was little Arya Stark once more, living in a world of black and white, good and bad, those that deserved her justice and those that did not.
Daella made things complicated. She dropped the shard from her hand, tucking her knees up to her chest.
But then she supposed that was not true either. The wolf girl saw the grey too - she saw it in many, those she could not bring to add to her list no matter what they did, as well as those she eventually took from it.
Soon, she felt a presence nearby.
She turned to see the gaggle of children had disappeared, and in their stead, the chieftain stood with two men behind him.
Daorys roused at their smell, lifting his heavy head in the darkness once more.
“I would not come closer.” She warned them from where she sat. “My dragon is hungry and most displeased that I denied him a meal.”
The chieftain stopped in his steps but the others did not.
“Fools.” She whispered.
Green flames flickered behind the light of the great fire, building at the back of Daorys’ throat. One man tried to approach with a skittish pig in hand. He pulled the animal towards her dragon by the rope tied around its neck, forcing him forwards no matter how much the little thing cried.
“Daor zirȳla.” She spoke. Not him.
But then Daorys’ gaze shifted to the other man that followed him. True to her command, he did not burn the first but he brought his jaws down upon the second before she could say a word against it.
Her eyes never left the chieftain’s then, nor his her’s. “Tell your man to leave. You should go with him.”
He held her gaze for a moment longer before he turned to his warrior. The order was clear. Daella understood it even if she did not understand the words themselves.
But when his man left, he did not.
“You are either very brave or very stupid to stay.” She told him. “Daorys cannot be subdued by the promise of food.”
The fading daylight bathed him in the same hues as the fire. Even from as far as she was Daella could see the way his lips pulled as they often seemed to do. But this was neither happy or sad, she did not know what it was.
“I know that.” He spoke, turning to look at the great fire that lay near her. “Do you know what Finnandi Elds means?”
His words gave her pause. She shook her head.
“It is Finder of Fire in my tongue.”
He then turned his gaze to the darkness behind her, where her dragon lurked.
“My people gave me that name. Many nights ago, he came to us. Eldurinn mikli. The Great Fire. Only days before we had left our homes in the west, left the clans who let themselves forget, settling here.” Anger swept across his face at the mention of them, just as it did the young girl’s before him. But as soon as it was there, it was gone. “When he came, he could barely fly. He landed here, on the summit, burning all those who lay beneath him. My people were scared, but I was not.”
“I killed my horse.” He went on. “Skinned him and dragged his body up the mountain. Eldurinn mikli was weak, but even then he was strong. He brought his flames down on the horse, and on me. I did not feel it at first, not until he swallowed my horse and turned his face towards where I stood. I ran then. I survived, as did he.”
“I brought him a horse everyday. And everyday I received another burn. My people thought me mad for it. They wished to leave, but they did not see what I did.”
“What did you see?” She asked.
“A message from the gods. A blessing that has never been given to any other. He is their power, their fire, their gift to us.”
“In the days that followed my warriors and I took greater and greater spoils from the Andals. We won victories we had only heard of in the stories of our elders. And finally, my people saw Eldurinn mikli for what he was.”
Daella frowned, standing to meet him. There was only truth on the chieftains face, and that left her mind racing with more questions than she had started with. “Say I believe your tale. Why would you let more of your clan burn?”
“Only the mighty can survive the fire.” He stated. “From the flames, men are born again, better, stronger than before.”
“And the rest?”
“The mountains are no place for weakness. Eldurinn mikli sees that just as we do.” He nodded his head in the direction of the broken egg she had left behind. “He crushed those that were weak and deformed, just as he took those from us that were not meant to fight.”
Daella took in a heavy breath, shuddering as her heart raced in her chest.
He had done it before, so many times. The other dragons learned not to lay clutches near him for it. But this felt different. The chieftain’s words had buried themselves deep in her bones, seeping into her bloodstream and clutching at her heart.
“The gods will honour those that have passed for their sacrifice.” He went on.
She scoffed, not hiding her contempt. “Your people died screaming. They died in pain. No one deserves that. No god would ask for it.” She thought of the girls then, the faith they held that was so plain to see. “If you care for your clan at all you will return west. Daorys and I will leave soon and an army of Valemen will come in our place, an army which you cannot hope find victory against with faith alone. Leave now and survive. Let your people survive.”
It was his turn to frown. “Eldurinn mikli will not leave us.”
“And when he does?” She challenged. “What will you say to your people then? Will you run to the Andals that gave you your weapons and beg for their protection?”
She sought anger with those words, and that is exactly what she received.
The chieftain hissed at her with such venom she was surprised it did not drip from his tongue. “You Andals have cut your own palm so many times, why should I not take the knife when it is offered to me? I will see that your people bleed and then I will cut down those that tried to use me.”
“Who? Who did this?”
He did not hurt Daorys, his clan did not - they could not, even if they had tried, that much was clear. But that left one question.
“Who hurt him?”
The man’s anger gave way to spite, a mocking grin falling over his features. “Maybe it is two shadows, maybe they are one and the same. It matters not to me, they both bleed the Andal blood. The blood of my enemy.”
He was unwavering, his hatred inviting the Stranger to his door. Daella could feel him closing in, the seconds counting down with each beat of her heart.
“You will lead your clan to their death.” She told him.
But he only laughed. “Your people are weak, hiding behind suits of metal and stone walls. You may bring a thousand, thousand men to us, it matters not. We will destroy you all. You will burn in our fires and lay as ashes under our feet, the stain you leave on this land removed once and for all. I will see to it.”
▁▁▁▁▁
Rhaenyra gazed upon the Iron Throne.
Her father had once told her that no man was ever meant to sit it comfortably. That was before Baelon and her mother had passed, before he considered that the next Targaryen to sit it could be his daughter rather than the son he had always wanted.
Rhaenyra still remembered those words. The duty he had passed to her was not one she bore lightly. She knew what it meant to wear the crown and what must be done to keep it.
“Baela, one day very soon you and Jace shall wed and you will be Princess of Dragonstone.” She spoke.
Her son’s betrothed stood beside her, clad in Targaryen black and red.
“As far as the realm is aware, your queen is sending you to care for your betrothed’s rightful seat until he can join you. But between us, my reasoning in sending you east holds a different purpose.”
The corner of the girl’s lips lifted. “Whatever you need of me, Your Grace.” She swore without fear.
“Your father and I need you and Moondancer patrolling the Gullet. I have written your grandmother, she will join you on Meleys. You must watch for Vhagar and her rider. I do not know when but they will return.”
The Dragon Keeper that told her of Aemond and Helaena’s visit to the Pit swore as much.
“It came from the Prince’s mouth himself.” The dark knight solemnly said. “Forgive me, my queen. My order is sworn to the crown, had I known of your wishes Dreamfyre and the young dragons would never have been allowed from the Pit.”
He did not speak of Vhagar. The old dragon would have destroyed the Hill of Rhaenys and everyone upon it if she was kept from her own will. The Dragon Keepers had some semblance of control over the she-dragon but their order would fall before any of them could get close to stopping her.
Daemon had wanted to take the man’s head there and then for letting her brother and sister escape with the children. But one look from her had him sheathing Dark Sister once more.
“You only did as your prince commanded.” She said in return. “But as your Queen, I command that no other dragon is to leave the Pit without my permission. Sunfyre, especially is to be guarded night and day.”
While she had heard of her younger brother and sister’s escape, Aegon had remained a mystery to her. Her husband’s Gold Cloaks were scouring the streets for him and the missing Kingsguard that might be harbouring him, but it was as though he had disappeared into thin air. Not even her new Mistress of Whispers could find him.
“I must advice caution, Your Grace.” Lady Mysaria had warned after her first council. “The people will not take well to having their houses torn apart in search of the Prince. They will mislike you for it. More than that they will make assumptions.”
“And what assumptions might those be?”
“That you are scared of him. It brings into light his position as King Viserys’ firstborn son and the claim that comes with it, his claim.”
Rhaenyra had hissed that he had no claim, which the pale lady did not disagree with. “But with each home you search you bring his name to more and more people’s lips, and you make him more than he is.”
She saw the merit in those words, in truth, but what the White Worm did not understand was Rhaenyra had no choice. She had to find Aegon. She could not let the very threat to her legitimacy as queen walk free and name himself king. It would bring war, a war that would tear the realm apart, and tear the duty her father entrusted in her asunder.
“If you see Vhagar, or even Dreamfyre for that matter, you are not to engage.” She told Baela. “Moondancer is faster than both of them. You are to return to the Keep at once and warn us so we might be prepared.”
Her stepdaughter’s eyes widened. “You mean to face Vhagar?”
“We may not have to. The Dragon Keepers told me she flew north. There is only one keep north of Dragonstone that would even know what it meant to harbour a dragon, let alone be one that Aemond would turn to.”
Baela drew in a soft breath. “Daella.”
“Indeed. It is my hope that your sister will aid in bringing us towards a peaceful path forwards, but we must prepare for all possibilities.”
“Daella would never betray her family!” The girl insisted fiercely.
Rhaenyra hoped so, she prayed for it to be so.
She and Daemon had fought over her relationship with her Alicent’s second son for moons now.
“I will not have it!” He had hissed. “If you wish to subdue the threat he and Vhagar pose then send Caraxes and I. I shall run Dark Sister through my nephew’s other eye.”
“And make yourself a kinslayer? Mar what will be the beginning of my reign with the blood of our own kin? I am protector of the realm, Daemon. The whole realm. I must seek peace before I turn to Fire and Blood, and wedding your daughter to him is my best chance at keeping the Hightower’s in line. Aemond may hold no love for us, but if he loves her, he will never turn Vhagar against us. They will know that just as well as we do.”
Daemon reached for her hands then, gripping them tightly. “Something as fickle as love will not protect your throne. What if he turns against her? Or worse, what if he turns her against us?”
Rhaenyra did not know the answer to that question, none of them could know, but Baela was so sure in her sister’s loyalty that it gave her hope.
“I trust your sister.” She told the girl. “But I do not trust him. That is why we must be prepared.”
“When you leave, Luke and Arrax will join you as far as Driftmark. Your grandfather has recovered well, I hear, and I thank the gods for it, but we need his fleet ready. You know I love my sons much more dearly than anything else in this world. When you are flying out there, I want you to remember it is Luke you are protecting beneath you on Driftmark, it is his brother and your sister that are you protecting, here, in Kingslanding. It is not easy, what I ask, but like your sister, I trust you, Baela.”
Resolution came over her stepdaughter’s face then. “I will not let you down, Your Grace.”
“I know.” Rhaenyra raised a hand to cup the girl’s cheek while the other went to the swell of her own stomach, cradling her child that lay inside. “I know.”
▁▁▁▁▁
“Why would you do it?” Daella whispered to her dragon as she gazed at the broken egg held between her fingers.
“They were yours.” She knew it. She did not know which she-dragon laid the clutch but he fathered them. He would not have bothered taking them so far otherwise. “They were yours.” She repeated. “Which meant they were mine. I would have cared for them, no matter how they hatched or what they might have looked like.”
She felt a lone tear drop to her cheek. She wiped it away furiously. “We will have justice for them.” She promised him. “I will have justice for you.”
Her eyes fell to the lone egg within the pyre. “But there is something here we must do first.”
