Author's Note

I do not own Game of Thrones.

Thank you to everyone who has followed, favourited, or reviewed this story so far, it is all appreciated.


Myr was a beautiful city that welcomed them with open arms. The buildings were tall, with wide windows showing off intricate lace and clothing inside, there were stalls on the street displaying exquisite pieces of jewellery, and everything was made with delicate care.

Saeherys was enthralled almost instantly.

Expensive items and pretty objects - her two favourite things.

The only thing that could possibly make it better was music – which of course there was, flutes and violins being played on every street corner.

Jaemar and Daenara were pretty sure their sister was in love.

They were invited in by one of the Magisters, a man called Zuun Tathkel, almost immediately after arrival. He paid for them to have new clothes in the Myrish fashion and took them on a tour of the city on horseback.

Saeherys dismounted her horse and bounded from shop to shop, stall to stall, peeking at the displays and eyeing up the wares.

"No," said Jaemar before she could ask.

"But-"

"I said no."

Once upon a time - and maybe again, a long time in the future - he could buy his sisters all the jewellery and finery they wanted. Necklaces and bracelets and rings and crowns of gold, petticoats and dresses of silk, fine leather for riding clothes-

But no more.

Now they had to save their jewels and coin for things more important.

Like food.

And hard wearing clothes.

And, almost certainly at some point, keeping a roof over their heads.

Saeherys sighed. "Fine."

Tathkel smiled. "Which one do you like most girl?"

Saeherys's eyes lit up. "That one, and that one, and-"

She stopped.

The next piece was of a dragon, back facing the ground, wings thrust up above its body as though in free fall toward the ground.

"Ah, yes. Myr was once a Valyrian freehold, we do still have some of their images left."

Falling.

Saeherys still dreamt of falling.

Jaemar dreamt more often of burning these days, of struggling to breathe and pain in his chest.

Daenara dreamt of skeletal hands that tried to pull her under the soil.

And still occasionally, far rarer than it had once been, they dreamt of flying on great wings, of hunting the wolf and the stag and the lion, of their warm blood and soft meat in their mouths, and they woke sweating, Saeherys clutching her eyes, Daenara her throat and Jaemar his chest.

None of them talked about it.

They should, one day they should, but for now they avoided the subject.

"I want that one," Saeherys whispered, and even if Zuun Tathkel had not agreed to get it for her, Jaemar would have done. Just that one, only that one.

"Are you sure you should buy us all this jewellery? It's expensive and we can't pay you back."

"Nonsense! It is a gift, given freely!"


They stayed with Thathkel for eleven moon cycles and soon learnt what he really wanted in return for his generosity.

He had three young daughters and a son, all with his chocolate colouring and amber eyes, but the copper hair of their Bravosi merchant mother. The girls had pretty singing voices and the boy could play the harp; all four could dance; and the girls smiled when he talked, blushed when he came near and helped brush Daenara and Saeherys's hair out until it shone like golden moonlight. They were pretty, Jaemar could admit, but he had no desire for them.

What use was a wife whose sole job was to look decorative?


Eventually they wore out their welcome at Thathkel's when he realised they had no intentions of marrying any of his children, and were invited to stay by another of the Magisters, Forran Haisrel, an older man who could clearly see the political benefits of having the last Targaryens under his roof and talked often about providing them monetary support if they were to launch an invasion, which Viserys liked the sound of. He also had a daughter of about Viserys's age, a mousy little thing with big brown eyes.

Eight moon cycles after he invited them, he suggested a marriage pact.

"What; marry her?" spat Viserys. "I'd rather marry a pig!"

They were not welcome in Magister Haisrel's home after that.


They stayed a while longer in Myr, as guests of a few other nobles, but the whispers from Braavos were catching up with them and Viserys's insult of the Magister had not helped relations. Sometimes the triplets wondered why they bothered staying with him.

They reminded themselves that he was their blood, blood of the dragon, just like them.

But he wasn't like them.

He didn't remember as they did; he didn't growl in his sleep like Saeherys, or wake snarling like Daenara; he didn't remember fighting like Jaemar or falling like Saeherys; he didn't know what it was like to be alone like Daenara or make decisions like Jaemar.

He'd never flown in his sleep, never tasted the blood or felt the heat of the flames.

In fact, while they still seemed to have their usual comfort with the heat – even more nowadays, Saeherys only felt truly warm in a bath heated to near boiling – the heat seemed to bother Viserys like it would anyone else.

He was a Targaryen, he was their brother, but he wasn't the Great Dragon he claimed to be.

Of course, he was still a boy, and most boys grew out of tall boasts eventually.


They left Myr for Tyrosh almost a year after they arrived there.

(and the whispers that made it back to king robert said they were children, scared children who had fled in the dark of the night)