There weren't many occasions in which Daenerys ever flew for so long. She rarely stayed above ground for more than three, maybe four hours, as dragons were a fast means of travel, and her destinations were never too far. Even when she had to reach Winterfell, she would land within at most half a day of flying, rest, then continue. It was never consecutive seeing as one, she was afraid to tire out Drogon, and two, she herself would be exhausted.
Yet, after they took off, they never stopped until two days later. Drogon took her circling above the city, then towards the ocean, where he dived multiple times and grazed the water with his wings, at times splashing his mother with a vehement wave that nearly toppled her over and succeeded once. Of course, she got right back on and they resumed.
Daenerys felt like a girl again. Her trek to the throne just to lose it within seconds of touching it had stolen all happiness away from her. Westeros was not her home, and Winterfell way less so, but she felt she didn't need a home anymore. This exuberant feeling could feed her and shelter her forever; she couldn't bear to imagine what forgetting this feeling would turn her into, and the fact that she almost did scared her to death, and she did not want to die again.
The night sky, littered with gleaming little diamonds and a huge porcelain plate, was as much her home as anywhere else. Though she felt happy, she could not stay, and the mother of dragons urged Drogon to land as she felt him falter from weariness. Taking her from the city to the mountains and back had no doubt tired the dragon, who dove down from the skies and into the clouds, cutting a hole through the mist and returning from a place of absolute serenity to a bustling, bright city of Braavos, denoted by the behemoth guarding the city. Daenerys felt the clouds with her hands extended, closing her eyes as a pleasant breeze graced her skin and countered the sultry weather in Essos that spring rolled around. Drogon cruised down, circling as he descended on a grassy hill just a walk away from the edge of the city. The mother of dragons slid down onto the grass, keeping a hand on him as she feasted on the sight of the city's oddly calming nightlife.
She spied the house she stayed in, with the ever distinct red door and lemon tree. Near it, brothels were bustling with hot-headed men and women. The clink of cups and coins sounded faint, ringing in Daenerys's ears like mellifluous music. Oh, how she longed to be amidst them, caring for the people, or even just to become one of them and live a normal life. Everything that led up to the present smothered her wish to be Queen, casting layers and layers of cloth upon a match, overwhelming it and suffocating it, until it lost all hope and stopped burning. The throne had long since eluded her, and there was no ounce of want for it left.
She was no longer Daenerys of the house Targaryen, rightful heir to the iron throne. The title died with her. The Breaker of Chains was no more as she watched Missandei return to chains and suffer in them. A Khaleesi sent her Khal to a suicide mission miles away from their home in Essos, and now the Dothraki is no more than a small herd. What protector of the realm torches a city in an attempt to save it?
Her heart's contempt for her actions and her past served only to rob away her faith in herself and leave nothing but a regretful, hateful, and vulnerable girl. It was clear to her how wrong her actions were now that she had nothing more to cloud her mind. There was no way, absolutely no way, that she could repent for what she has done. Perhaps this was the reason why the Lord of Light had returned her life to her: to repay the lives she took. And she would start here, in the free city of Braavos.
Under a dark canvas filled with bright spots, Daenerys Stormborn dyed her hair brown, strip by strip, and, cloaking herself in the colors of the night sky, ventured out as no one.
It was difficult to perceive emotions through the eyes of a raven. The bird could not discern between joy or sadness, much less anger, frustration, weariness, or all the more complex emotions that a man could exhibit. Viewing the world in the minds of said bird meant only an unflavored impression of the events transpiring before it.
Such were the problems that Bran the Broken faced.
While he was able to watch Daenerys descend down the steps of her house, he could not tell whether she was excited or conflicted. The raven's mind merged with his own, in some ways dumbing down his perception of the world and removing the empathetic part of his brain. Kicking off from Kinvara's shoulder, Bran shot out the window and traced the mother of dragons through the streets.
The cloaked figure weaved and dodged, hell-bent on avoiding contact with everyone. Her motives were not clear, but Bran suspected she had none as she wandered from street to street, never once lingering in one place for too long, though she paused once at the very back of a crowd watching a play dictating the death of the Mad King Aerys and his son Rhaegar. She turned away just as the prince began to shed Lyanna Stark's clothes.
Bran himself stayed and watched a little longer. It seemed that the folks of Braavos were still not aware of the true happenings between the dragon and the wolf, and was rightfully so. The free city of Braavos has no reason to worry over the matters of the Six Kingdoms, but after the Battle of King's Landing, he was surprised that rumors of Jon's heritage hadn't spread to the edge of the world yet.
"Your Grace."
The voice was far away, echoing, like someone speaking from the bottom of a well, but it was all too familiar for the king to miss. Bran had named Tyrion Lannister his Hand out of consideration the dwarf's approval of him, but recently he had begun to regret (though only ever so slightly) his decision to put such a chattery man in his group of counsels. Somehow, in every meeting, there was always something Tyrion wanted to talk about for hours. Though Bran would never explicitly express it, he thought that the process was incredibly tedious.
Perhaps he wasn't more suited for this position than the figure in his borrowed eyes. A man who could bear to sit beside and watch the destruction of the homes of millions and take the throne without a thought right after was no better than the mad queen who burnt the city. Brandon Stark knew that 'it was bound to happen' was a horrible excuse. The Three Eyed Raven thought it wholly reasonable.
"Your Grace…?"
Bran ripped his presence out of the raven, Daenerys's elegant stride an echo in his mind. He blinked the whiteness out of his eyes and squinted slightly as they adjusted to the orange tint of the flames.
"Tyrion."
The little man clapped his hands and grinned. "Ah, Your Grace. I was wondering if I should come back another time. You seemed… preoccupied."
"No," the king waved his hand dismissively, "No need. Though you ought to get used to waiting. I'll have to make more than a few more trips." He sighed, glancing towards the flames licking at the fireplace. The red priestess, Kinvara, seemed to have more influences on life and death than Melisandre did. The Lord of Light certainly had his preferences.
"You've found something?"
"No."
"Not even a lead? The dragon was not in Old Valyria, then."
"No."
Tyrion rubbed his hands together, then stroked his chin. "Have you searched Meereen? Daario Naharis still, though rather surprisingly, has a strong hold of the place. It's been maintained quite well… Or perhaps Volantis? The city is known for the red temple. In that case, maybe Qohor would be a logical place as well. The bloodmages are renown for their skill."
"Patience, my Hand. The dragon will reveal itself soon enough, I believe."
"Oh?" Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. He chuckled. "Of course. I will leave you to your own, now. Rest well, Your Grace."
Bran hummed a soft goodnight. As the door closed, the king wheeled himself to a table, where the history of the Doom of Valyria lay sandwiched between heart trees and blood magic.
