Chapter 20 - The Prisoner
It hadn't taken them long to subdue her. Daenerys had rushed out the door, leaving her rent and bleeding from not one but two grievous injuries. The hand, well, the hand would heal, eventually; it was the slashing cut through her soul that would not mend so easily. She flexed the bandaged appendage experimentally, it hurt, like few things did in this world, but it seemed that her queen had missed the delicate bones and tendons that she had spent so many years honing to precision.
Her queen. She had to laugh at that, as if this woman wanted her fealty more than a traitor's blood staining the planks of the Honorro. No, there would be no fighting her way out of this one; she had made that decision when the Unsullied had rushed in.
It had been a deliberate misstep, she was left handed where swordplay was concerned, and it was her right that lay pinned to the rough wooden planking that made up the walls. Holding the door to that tiny cabin with her left hand and a dueling saber would have been child's play. She had fought without an arm, without legs, without eyes, and without ears. They had taken it all away from her, one element at a time, and then given her No One's limbs and senses in exchange.
There was one thing that remained untouched throughout her training in the House of Black and White, and it was that one hidden facet that Daenerys had teased out of her, only to leave it mangled on the floor alongside the fallen buttons from her shirt.
She didn't have a name for this feeling, this spark of her very essence, but it was deep, so deep that it bedded down alongside loyalty, an aspect which she held above all others.
Or had, anyway. Her latest actions had been anything but loyal to the Faceless Men. Cressio's instructions had been very clear, and she had ignored them for no reason that she herself, or even the trailing thoughts of fading eunuch, could fathom.
Her dark brows furrowed in consternation as she recalled Tyrion's words upon recognizing her.
When she refused to fight, the Unsullied had relieved her of her sword belt before yanking her dagger out of the wall. It took the muscled soldier two tries to pry it loose, Daenerys had struck true. She was roughly grabbed and thrown down in front of the dwarf, she heard bodies moving and felt the telltale pinpricks of spears encircle her throat.
"Years may pass, but I never forget a face." Tyrion said plainly, dispensing with his attempts at Valyrian. "You're the missing Stark girl."
It hadn't been a question, so she said nothing.
Missandei, Daenerys' handmaiden, had been only a few paces behind him and started to translate, but he held up a hand. "She understood me perfectly."
He looked at her, examining her as one would a small insect under glass.
"You ran away, halfway across the world, and hid your face the best way you could think of," he chuckled, "as a Faceless Man." His eyes widened as he realized the implications of this.
"These bank notes you have been writing, were they commissioned by the Iron Bank, or was that merely a ploy to get close to the queen?"
"They're real." The girl hissed, steeling herself into immobility against the spear heads.
"And that missive, the one with the blank red seal, tell me now, since we're feeling honest, what was truly writ upon it?"
She gritted her teeth in silence. Tyrion gave a Valyrian command, pressure, and she felt the razor sharp tips of a dozen points sink into the flesh at her throat.
"It's no use pretending loyalty." He said to her. "You know as well as I that what happened in that cabin was nothing short of high treason."
"I had only-" She started in outrage, before silencing herself as she felt droplets, warm and thick, slide down her neck in the cool salt air.
Calm as still water. A voice resonated deep within her.
"If you would let me finish." He chastised her. "I would inform you that the party wronged is not actually our Targaryen queen, but the Faceless Men. Clever as they were to place an agent of their own in a place where they could snuff out an entire monarchy in the blink of an eye, they overlooked the obvious."
She waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be waiting for her to ask instead. He waved his hand and the shining points backed off ever so slightly.
"Which is?" She asked gruffly, resisting the urge to wipe the blood away as the droplets sank down even further.
"Love." He informed her, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Love. She snorted derisively. That was his answer?
"Love." He repeated. "Though you wouldn't think it, I am quite an expert on the matter. From what I know of you, what I know of Daenerys, and what I know of the contracts put out by the Faceless Men, it would have to be love, and love alone, that managed to stay your hand after you had clear orders in your missive, am I correct in this line of thought?"
She had failed Cressio's mission, and the penalty for that was clear. If you were unable to serve, there was only one other fate remaining.
"You are correct in that I disobeyed orders." She told him, as for the rest of his speech...was that the feeling that writhed within her?
"One more chance." Tyrion said. "Tell me your orders and I will do my best to spare your life." He looked thoughtful, his mind churning with plans of what could be. He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "If I can get you through this, Arya, because you are Arya, Westeros is in for quite the surprise."
He was not talking to No One, the Faceless Man, nor Cressio, it was the Stark girl he wanted.
Arya Stark, the wild daughter of Winterfell, half a boy and half a wolf and more than a handful to anyone who had tried to tell her otherwise. The name she had discarded as a child in order to survive could now be the only thing that would keep her alive.
Was that what she wanted, to live, to continue this struggle against adversity, especially after news of her failure reached the House of Black and White, and to live as Arya? She had spent so long burying that identity that it was now almost foreign to her.
There was a sudden memory of a fierce, proud alpha wolf, running with her pack through the forest.
No, not foreign, if she was being honest with herself. The direwolf had never left her. In her dreams, night after night, face after face, mission after mission, Nymeria remained. They could mold her waking self, her consciousness, but they could never take the wolf.
Tyrion seemed to know what extreme measures keeping her alive would take, and here he was, offering his services.
The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.
"If the dragons are tamed," she said softly, "you must give the queen the Gift."
Instead of the shock of surprise that she saw on Missandei, since she had spoken in Common, Tyrion only looked thoughtful. It seemed that, instead of giving him an unexpected turn, she had simply handed him the final piece to a puzzle he had been assembling.
"So", he said, after letting her statement settle, "that's their game, is it?"
He looked at her again and Arya, because she was becoming a Stark whether she liked it or not, stared back coolly. She tried not to be unnerved by the strange black eye of his that seemed to see right through deception.
"Wait below decks," he told her, "when the queen returns, we will begin the second part of my plan. You know better than to attempt something so foolish as escape, even though we both know mere bars could never hold you."
He stepped back from her and raised his voice, speaking to the Unsullied in stilted Valyrian. "Take her underground and lock her up, no use for guard, escape and death are one for she."
The Unsullied looked a bit puzzled, but the spearheads dropped and they obeyed.
So here she was, crammed in next to a couple barrels of salted fish and seated atop a half keg of drinking water. The hold had been overstuffed with items. Daenerys' army would need provisions once they reached Westeros in addition to enough food and water to survive the sea voyage. The bank notes of Cressio Menaris that had bought them supplies to begin with, though still valid with the phrase they had given her, might not get supplies from a hostile Westeros, no matter how much gold they represented.
Tyrion had been right, of course, she could break out quite easily, but what use would that be? Where would she go, overboard in the middle of a winter sea? For she believed it was well and truly winter based on the storms and massive waves that hit them every few days. They struck hard and fast, threatening to snatch the very timbers of the ship out from under them before leaving nothing save the final plunge into the icy depths of the ocean.
No, she would not be running.
Raised voices bled through the planks above her, speaking Common. She could make out Tyrion's poised queries and-
Yes, there it was, Daenerys was trying to get some point across, and she was furious by the sound of it.
She had already known the queen had returned, regardless of the argument happening right on top of her. Drogon landing on the deck tipped them so suddenly that it could have only been a dragon. Nothing else felt quite like several dozen aurochs worth of muscle being dropped out of the sky.
Her ears perked at the slow creak of the heavy wooden door atop the stairs. Tyrion had withheld a lamp from her, spouting nonsense about the dangers of a fire in the hold. That had been fine by her, darkness was an old friend by now, and it was this friend that granted her a heightened picture of her new visitor.
She closed her eyes and focused on the soft, unsteady footfalls that found their way down the stairs. They were softer than the stolid tread of the Unsullied, and slower than Tyrion's shuffling gait. A woman's steps, she decided, and they were not quite as soft as Missandei's, since a queen had little reason to tiptoe. She was alone, so perhaps Tyrion had taken the brunt of her rage and the Dragon Queen would not yet demand her life.
Address her now, or wait?
The steps paused, and it left Arya wondering. The Targaryen queen had been nothing but forceful attitude a few minutes prior. She was fairly certain that this visit would end with a slap at the very least, and an order for execution at the worst, but hesitation, that was something she hadn't accounted for.
She took a different tact, carefully sniffing the air for the sharp scent of fear. It wasn't the emotion she was looking for, it was the body's signs of it, which were, unfortunately, much easier to detect on men who hadn't bathed in a few cycles of the moon.
Daenerys was absolutely the furthest thing from a rank, unwashed male. The scent that she did manage to catch, besides the overpowering aroma of salted cockles, was unfamiliar at first. It was something that reminded her of Arya's childhood, of Winterfell. It tickled her nose and she resisted the urge to sneeze.
Ah yes, musty old furs. It was the same smell she encountered every time her mother had made her wear the lined jerkin or her snow cloak. Odd that. They were in the middle of the Narrow Sea, or perhaps the Shivering if they had drifted off course in that last storm. How could Daenerys have gotten furs that smelled of the North? How far had she flown?
Her questions stopped abruptly when she detected another scent, one she was far too experienced with.
It was blood.
Daenerys held the lamp aloft in her left hand, carefully pressing her right shoulder against the wall and trying her best not to jar her recently stitched and bandaged forearm.
She had followed Jon out of the dining area after he had gotten into a shouting match with Bran and Meera about whether or not they should have told him sooner.
Bran had said something about not having all the pieces of the puzzle, and Meera backed him, stating that he wouldn't have cared before he could see the proof in his own looking glass. Both of them were probably right, but Jon was still coasting on exhaustion and the leftover nervous energy they all carried after fighting the wights.
He hadn't wanted to talk, but she, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Stormborn, decided that those preferences didn't apply to her. Dany had followed him out of the latticed network of tunnels and into the frigid cold. She had let out a surprised gasp of shock at the temperature change, terribly thankful for her borrowed clothing. The gasp frosted into a cloud of ice crystals, and Dany watched in horrified fascination as it dissipated into the night air.
Jon had stopped for a moment, seemingly immune to the chill. He was instead looking up into the inky blackness that surrounded them. Her gaze traced his and she could see the faint stars that managed to glint down through the mist and the trees.
"I always thought she had abandoned me." The words were soft, colored with a wretched melancholy. "Never had I dreamt..." He trailed off, uncertain.
"That your mother's disappearance, planned or unwilling, would spark a rebellion that changed the course of history?"
She hadn't known what to think either. Had Lyanna Stark actually run away with her brother and just not told anyone? It seemed incredibly foolhardy in hindsight, but with Meera's story as a backdrop, Dany understood that when it came to practical matters, sometimes young lovers could be idiots.
"Never," he made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, "bastard boys always dream of finding out their missing parent was someone important, but this..." He moved his hands through the air, as though painting the image would excuse him from speaking it aloud.
"Jon, you don't-"
There was a sudden blur of motion and she had only had a moment to put her arms up before it became very cold very quickly and she was knocked bodily into a snowbank. Dany felt like a merchant wagon had just hit her, and struggled to catch her breath. She tried to cope with the sudden attack, and that was when she felt the pain. Searing daggers pierced deep across the length of her arm, and there was a hideous, gut wrenching growl that terrified her to down to her very marrow in a way that even the loudest dragon's roar never could.
She was going to die here, she realized, miles beyond the borders of her birthright, and she would never even know what caused it.
She heard Jon's voice penetrate the din. "Summer! Take her down!"
Wolves. Dany's eyes narrowed as she grimaced against the onslaught. Had this been a trap all along? If it was, she had fallen right into it. Sympathetic auntie was a new role for her, but Jon had played the sad bastard nephew so perfectly that she had actually believed him.
"Ghost, to me!"
There was another thump, and she knew that one small Targaryen queen, fierce though she may be, was no match against two huge dire wolves. She kept still, a monumentally difficult task as she felt the jagged points in her arm grate across bone. If she pretended to be dead long enough, the wolves might lose interest and return to their master.
Suddenly the pain, and the pressure, and the stifling darkness vanished. Dany blinked, her eyes adjusted to the dim light emanating from Jon's drawn sword, he was advancing on-
Wait. He wasn't coming for her, he was instead shouting commands to two wolves, which were grappling and biting a third one that was larger than the both of them combined. It was bigger than a cart horse, more massive than an aurochs, the only creature she had seen that was even close to that size had been her dragons.
"Nymeria, stop!" Jon pleaded, and Dany finally understood.
"Your...Grace...are you hurt?" Called a hesitant voice from the darkness.
"A scratch." She called out the lie with false bravado, loud enough that she hoped to believe it herself, if only for a moment.
The skin was almost flayed to the bone. The bleeding had been uncontrollable and had required some strange applications of fire and hot brands from Melisandre, along with several lengths of gut stitched through before the wound became sluggish and clotted. It throbbed terribly, but at least the ragged skin had not blistered or charred. Sometimes being the Unburnt had its privileges, particularly when dealing with the priesthood of Red R'hllor and their fiery eccentricities.
Dany suddenly understood why the words had been hesitant. Cressio had always referred to her as "my queen," regardless of the language they were using. This new address caused a sharp pang of loss within her for reasons she didn't fully comprehend.
She kept her injured arm far from the wall, instead leaning her shoulder against it for balance while she held the lantern aloft in her good hand. Dany took careful, measured steps until she made it to the bottom of the stairs and looked around her, no wonder Tyrion had warned her against taking a guard compliment with her.
"Summon Grey Worm's captains," she had ordered, "I am going to see the prisoner."
"I have been below decks, your grace, that will be neither necessary nor practical." Tyrion disagreed.
"Has everyone gone mad while I was away?" Dany asked, incredulous that Tyrion was flagrantly disobeying her direct command. "She is a fully trained disciple of the most skilled organization of assassins in the known world, and you haven't even posted a guard?"
"If the aforementioned assassin had wanted to escape," he informed her, "she would have, before proceeding to kill every last inhabitant aboard this ship, taking it for her own and sailing anywhere she pleased."
"But the Unsullied-" Dany argued.
"Every...Last...Inhabitant." He countered. "I had already included the Unsullied."
"Am I right in thinking that you want me to go down into the hold, alone, with one of the deadliest killers Essos has ever created?"
"That is the crux of the matter, yes." Tyrion agreed.
"What if I decide that I want her life as a repayment for the trespasses against me, will she still stand by so meekly when I demand her head?"
"I've no doubt she will do just that," said Tyrion. "I have talked with her and I believe that you, personally, are in no danger whatsoever from our prisoner."
"What is your proof?" Dany asked.
"I saw her shirt, your grace," he said quietly, "I am a worldly enough man to know that those buttons did not decide to fall off of their own accord..."
Dany felt the flushed heat rise up her face and neck. She had forgotten about that.
"But beyond that, do you know the other half of valar dohaeris?" He asked.
"It's valar morghulis," Dany said impatiently, trying to recover from her embarrassment. "What does that have to do with our current situation?"
"It has everything to do with it." Tyrion retorted. "In staying her hand, she has failed her mission and refused to serve the Faceless Men. By their own words, they have only one recourse remaining."
"Death." Dany breathed, beginning to grasp the powers afield.
He nodded. "By your order or their hand, and since I am a betting man, I would have worked the odds the same way she did. You may or may not kill her, with the Faceless Men comes an unequivocal end." Tyrion looked out across the expanse of ocean towards the east. "I have no doubt that once we land and word of your newly well behaved Drogon reaches Essos, we will have much deadlier trouble than your poor, pining Arya Stark waiting down in the hold."
His words held a sense of foreboding, and Dany tried to piece the reasons together. "Why would my dragons be part of the-did you say pining?"
Tyrion smiled at the sudden subject change. "You should ask her yourself, your grace, on both accounts."
So here she was, trying her best not to bump into the dozens upon dozens of casks and barrels that were crammed into every nook and corner of the hold and playing hide and seek me with a caged assassin.
Dany took in their extensive inventory with a feeling of mild amazement. Was her army so vast that it really required this much food to function, or was this simply Tyrion being Lord Nursemaid? She wouldn't begrudge his caution, since they were sailing into the unknown and winter, where grown food would be impossible to come by.
Another strategy arose and she chastised herself for doubting her counselor. If they did end up with a surplus, she would be in a position to feed the starving and neglected populace that had been bled dry by not just one, but numerous wars. Her foreign, Targaryen, soldiers would be the first military of any kind that gave more than they took, maintained order, and refrained from taking their pleasure in the wives and daughters of Westeros. It would be fealty earned without a single drop of blood spilt.
The ship wheeled and tilted around her, and she was swamped by a wave of vertigo. Dany squinted her eyes shut tightly, trying to will the feeling away.
She took a step forward, lightheaded and dizzy, stumbling as her foot caught in a loop of the thick rope the sailors used for rigging.
Dany splayed her arms out quickly, attempting to keep her balance and stop the fall. The ship lurched hard to one side and she was thrown into a cask of preserved food, driving spikes of pain deep into her arm and all the way up to her shoulder.
She flinched, reflexively, and it was then that Daenerys, Queen of the Andals and Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, fell to the floor with a graceless thud.
"Your grace?" Came the concerned question, floating up from the darkness.
She felt the lantern roll from her grasp and realized, in a far off kind of way, that it meant danger. The dimly lit hold darkened around her even further, and Dany tried to remember why it was important to get the lamp. She tried, again and again, each new attempt weaker than the last, until finally she gave up and succumbed to the warm embrace of oblivion.
She felt coolness on her face and tried to open her eyes. There was a light somewhere, floating in her vision as a soft and fuzzy ball. She blinked a few times, waiting for her eyes to adjust.
"Your 'scratch' has certainly lost you a lot of blood, your grace." Stormy grey eyes narrowed. "You should be resting, not traipsing around in the dark looking for captured assassins."
Dany was confused. "But you were..."
"Locked up? Indeed I was, but luckily for everyone else aboard who doesn't happen to be the Unburnt, mere iron bars cannot hold a Faceless Man and I was able to retrieve the lantern before something irreparable occurred."
Dany looked up and saw a fleeting ghost of a smile reflect the lamplight. Strangely, it reminded her of the playful asides she had shared with Cressio.
The familiarity gave her a small measure of peace and she relaxed against the knobbly surface below her. A quick glance and Dany recognized the coil of rope that had caused her fall to begin with. Her brow furrowed in consternation, how had she-
"I took the liberty of moving you someplace where I could better check your wounds." Arya explained, for Dany supposed this person before her was Arya, and no longer hid behind her other, borrowed identities.
"That 'scratch' of yours looks remarkably similar to a wolf bite, your grace. How far away did you need to fly to encounter wolves?"
As far as I needed to fly to forget you.
"Far," she muttered absently, and was reminded of the many, many things she still needed to accomplish in order to keep her goal a reality. "I am reminded," Dany tried to focus, but she was so very tired, "how well do you sail?"
"Sail?" Eyes the color of fog at twilight widened in surprise. "Has the captain somehow...displeased you?"
"No..I need a special...crew of sailors..." Dany was trying her best to communicate her wishes, but her mind felt as fuzzy as the light had first looked. "Jon asked." She said finally. That would explain everything, she was sure of it.
"Daenerys," her voice was warm, concerned, Dany decided that she liked it when she said her name. "You're not making any-"
Arya abruptly stopped speaking. "There, you have it." Dany assured her, before shutting her eyes and smiling into the darkness, "Tyrion said you were clever."
The hands examining her stilled, and she took the opportunity to find the wrists beyond, clasping them gently.
"Jon's alive?" Arya asked, surprise and shock almost galvanizing her into action before she remembered her tender manacles and stilled, dropping her head to look at Dany once more. "You flew all the way to the Wall in the span of a few hours?" There was a note of awe in her voice.
"Further." Dany answered, still being vague. She was not yet ready for the intense, emotional confrontation that would follow a full explanation of her time beyond the Wall.
"If Jon needs sailors, then yes, I sail. I was apprenticed into a master by an ancient organization that dwells on a chain of islands. Barge or ferry or tiny skiff, it makes no difference, I uncovered all their secrets long before I was allowed to even touch a blade. I will depart at once." She was determined, her eyes were stony and resolute. This aspect of her, Dany understood, was the deadly, single minded part that was fully capable of felling any target given and overcoming every obstacle that stood in her way.
She rose to go, but Dany held fast. Every obstacle but one. "How did you intend to leave then," Dany asked, just the tiniest hint of playfulness coming out, "were you going to mount Rhaegal, or swim?" She looked her up and down appraisingly. "You are dressed well," she let her eyes linger, overtly tracing some of her favorite lines, "but it is inappropriate for flight or water travel."
"I..."
"Tyrion is currently perfecting a device he has been working on that allows Drogon to carry six people below him, in an enclosure that harms neither him or my passengers. We will leave tomorrow."
"We're going to fly?" Arya asked, settling down and attempting a studied pose at nonchalance. The pretense failed once Dany saw the spark of excitement that set her eyes alight.
Hopefully her advisor could make do with the time he was allotted. She told Jon she would return in two days' time and she intended to keep her promise. Whatever happened once the Starks were reunited, would happen, but Tyrion thought he had a fairly good idea of where their former banker's loyalties lay, and he had proved to be an excellent judge of character when it came to both Cressio and Arya.
Her fears about an attack from her prisoner had been unfounded. Arya had been given every opportunity to harm her, and instead had been undeniably loyal and attentive. Perhaps, if you counted her previous actions as Cressio, more attentive than was entirely appropriate, but attentive nonetheless.
But if you would prefer I swear upon something that is true, I swear it upon my belief in you, my queen.
Dany pulled her honorable assassin towards her, finding placement by touch alone.
"But your injuries-" Came the stern warning.
Which Dany promptly ignored, "If I am to take your advice in regards to healing, I believe there was also an order about resting, and it is that advice that I am following now."
"Surely you would rather-"
Dany shook her head. "I am fine right where I am." She stated with finality, and continued pulling her erstwhile healer into position until the protesting Stark complied, but not before dutifully dousing the lantern.
Above all else, the person beside her was dutiful. Her devotion was absolute when it came to realizing her ascent to the Iron Throne, but it was not the Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Mother of Dragons nor Queen of the Andals that stood foremost in her heart and inspired such lengths. No, it was simply the woman herself, Daenerys of Pentos, the carefree girl who once lived in a little house with a red door and a lemon tree, and dreamed of finding things as simple as happiness, that wrought such feelings.
Dany nestled closer in absent pleasure, taking good advantage of the buttons she had removed earlier and pressing close to Arya's scarred and tautly muscled chest. The northerner stilled to stone, scarcely daring to breath. Under her ear, Dany detected the faint trip hammer of her heart beat as it sped up ever so slightly.
Dany usually followed Tyrion's advice, but she had to test his theories to be truly certain.
"Were you really pining?" Dany asked softly.
She stuttered slightly and Dany felt a wave of warmth flood the skin she was resting on, and beneath her, the gentle tempo quickened to an eager race.
"Daenerys," Arya said, her voice a bit strained and exasperated before it returned to its customary gruffness. "You should be sleeping."
Dany only smiled in response, knowing her answer regardless.
She breathed in the scent of her incredibly unlikely, but vastly appreciated sleeping partner. It was not so different from what she had become accustomed to. There was the mild base of leather, tinged with steel and sharpening oil from her blades. The weapons were so much a part of her that their traces remained long after they had been taken from her. Beneath that was the scent of the woman herself, which, Dany was relieved to notice, hadn't changed in the slightest. For masters of disguise, the Faceless Men didn't actually alter much about themselves. Other than his face, how much of Cressio had just been sheer illusion and acting?
She would ask, tomorrow. In return she would have to tell, and that would be difficult, but if she had learned anything in this life, it was that the more difficult the battle, the more worthy the prize.
As the gentle rhythms of the ship and Arya's breathing lulled her towards sleep, Dany's last thought was of her advisor.
Tyrion had been right, right about everything, but she would never, ever, tell him so.
A/N: This chapter was almost the death of me, my tablet crashed without syncing and I lost basically everything after "the priesthood of Red R'hllor and their fiery eccentricities." What was going to be "the game of questions" was lost and got rewritten a bit warmer and fuzzier. The harder questions that create the actual foundation of trust, and subsequently a relationship, will follow soon after. I have no intention of anyone just trusting their gut feelings and going from there, but I admit they certainly help bridge the gap made by a direwolf attack...