Sister's Keeper

Edited by xXFallenSakuraXx52

Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones

Chapter 59: Dragonstone

The Citadel

Samwell Tarly felt like he was in purgatory. A never-ending cycle of the same thing over and over again. Each day after kissing Gilly on the lips and a hug from little Sam, it would be hell. After breakfast, he is putting things back in their organized shelf. Next cleaning out chamber pots from the sick or elderly Archmaesters before dumping it in the privy that doesn't have the proper plumbing. Not like Horn Hill or Highgarden. Hell, Samwell would say Castle Black has been tending to the latrine pit better than here as he gagged. Then he is putting more books away. Once mid-meal arrives, he is serving stew to the official Maester. Back to putting books away before his assigned mentor Archmaester Ebrose teaches him.

Again, and again, it was the same thing. Books put away, cleaning shit, feeding the Maesters, and rare lessons. Books put away, cleaning shit, books put away, cleaning shit. He felt like that's all he ever does is putting books away and cleaning shit. When Maester Aemon was still alive, he taught Samwell many things. Even when the elderly man was blind, Aemon knew every word verbatim on every page. How to do a raven scroll properly and learning the basics in ointments. Here at the Citadel where knowledge is kept…he learns nothing.

One section that caught Samwell's interest was the restricted section, only Archmaesters and Maesters who have Valyrian steel links for magic were allowed access. He tried to get Archmaester Ebrose's permission to read the books. Books that may have knowledge that could defeat White Walker and the army of the dead. Asking again, during Maester Weylands autopsy. Sadly, he learned how isolated the Maesters of the Citadel were, they would rather preserve history instead of preventing it from repeating itself. Having no choice, Samwell borrows a key from one of the sleeping Maesters and had stolen a few books from the restricted section. Gilly helped him by reading some of the books he has stolen. It was then they discover a large quantity of dragon glass was in Dragonstone.

So far, there are three ways that can defeat a wight, dragon glass, fire, and Valyrian steel. Valyrian steel is hard to come by, and a fire takes time to burn a wight. However, dragon glass makes an instant kill to both wight and white walker. Based on this discovery, Samwell wrote a raven scroll to Jon.

The following day, there was a change in his schedule, no longer did he have to retrieve and clean the chamber pots. Although when assigned to meal service in the infectious hall, all the color left his cheek. The infectious hall was where all the people who were infected with highly contagious diseases resided. Mainly noble or wealthy patrons, with the occasional volunteer who have given up on their life but willing to be researched so the Maesters can find a cure.

So, putting on the first layer of gloves, then a massively long leather sleeve apron, and then another pair of gloves made his first round of collecting the bowls. He pushed the cart, nervous, as he passed each door. Caution is vital in this sector. One must try to prevent being touched by the infected, and not to touch themselves while in sterilized garb. Quickly Samwell would grab the bowl and lift the lid.

The Crow made to one door grabbing the bowl. Just as he pulled back, a scaly arm burst out, grabbing the other side of the metal bowl. Samwell gasped, stumbling backwards almost tripping over the cart. The young pupil panted as the bowl fell to the ground. He stared at the arm, seeing its condition of greys and blacks, calcified that made the skin cracked while expose blisters and lesions. Samwell recognize this from a book. Greyscale.

"Have they come yet?" the patient asked.

"Who?" Samwell replied.

"The Dragon Sisters, Alysanne Targaryen, and Daenerys Stormborn." The patient clarified.

"Haven't heard anything," Samwell answered.

The infected arm slid back inside the quarantine room. Samwell rushed over to close the lid, though he had a glimpse of a disappointed man. Not realizing the patient was Ser Jorah Mormont. It has been many months since he had left the Orange Shores to Oldtown. A long journey, when finding a ship that went directly from Orange Shore to Oldtown, and paying almost everything to acquire a private quarter. Months he kept himself isolated, as the potion Quaithe gave him prevented the spread from rapidly consuming his entire body, the disease has claimed his whole arm, and the majority of his back, chest, and torso. The Greyscale hardened his skin yet was still sensitive at the same time. Any movement would crack the skin rupturing sores and rashes that almost bleed.

By the time he arrived at Oldtown, the Maester had brought him in except they did not know what to do. Out of all the Maesters and Archmaesters, many do not want to study his condition, they kept passing his case around. A few Archmaesters and Maesters have come in, probing him taking notes yet they have done nothing except for providing a bowl filled with vinegar. Jorah has grown tired of the smell of vinegar, or the treatment he was given. Weeks since he has been here and no progress. He started to wonder if Quaithe was mistaken by her vision.

Let alone not receiving any news on what is going on in the world. So far, when he arrived in Oldtown word came that the Targaryens were sailing to Westeros. However, it could be three to five months before they arrived, depending on the current and weather. If only he were there to stand by Alysanne's side as she sailed off. The first time in over two decades, the true Queen was coming home.

Jorah sighed as he took off his shirt for the fabric was rubbing against the sores. He sat down on the bed, staring at the once yellow shirt. He remembers how he got it, a replica to his previous one. However, Alysanne being generous had sewn him a new one. He adjusted the fabric and stared at the small embroidery of AT on the collar. A sad smile lifted his lips, recalling memories of his paramour sitting by the fire or window and mending the fabrics. How she would hum or softly sing a song, not realizing she was doing it.

Then the thought about the dream distracted him. Seeing her healthy while playing with Joren. The life without seeking the Iron Throne. He sighed, knowing that can never be. At this point, death was inevitable. At least for him at the rate the Maesters are treating his case. It would probably be too late when they finally give the diagnoses and say, "There's nothing we can do." His worse fear is losing his humanity.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced at his sword that was in a black scabbard. The original scabbard with the peacock feather was still in the custody of Alysanne. She was the sheath to his sword. Not in a sexual way as others would put it. He closed his eyes, imagining what Alysanne was doing now.

.o0o.

Alysanne's POV

"Land Ho!" One of the sailors in the crows-nest called out.

Out of impulse, I rushed to the prow looking upon the horizon to see Dragonstone. A castle of Valyrian arcane architecture. In dreams, I roamed this Castle with Visenya. The last time I was here, I was merely four years old. The Castle where the heir resigns until his or her time comes to reclaim the Iron Throne. The place where the Targaryens took refuge before the Doom of Valyria.

So many emotions were stirring in my veins.

"I will have scouts inspect the fortress before you enter," Ser Barristan announced. "Make sure the coast is clear and there are no traps."

"Would Cersei set up traps?" Daenerys asked Tyrion.

"No, she would have evacuated the island though and burned off any of the crops," Tyrion answered.

"It's wise to send scouts, either way, ensuring no assassins are lurking in the shadows or soldiers at the ready," I said.

Ser Barristan nodded in approval.

It won't be until tomorrow morning that Daenerys and I set foot on the shores. We walked ahead until Daenerys knelt down, placing her hand in the sand. I followed suit, pressing my hand in the dark sand. Digging my nails into the wet volcanic grains. Completely different from the dreams, for this was real. I stared up ahead, gazing at the cliffs and rocks, resembling like scales. Through age and time, the weather chipped from the lands of the volcano called Dragonmont. Five hundred years Targaryen descendants ruled over this island, twelve years before the Doom. From the Targaryens to the short period of the seed descendants of Baratheons. All in all, the Valyrian bloodline still reigned.

Although my memories as a child of running through the beaches were gone. I knew Viserys and I had our moment of happiness to be children here. But there is more to this island than an ancestral home. This is where Daenerys was born and where our Queen Mother died. Her vessel laid to rest on this island. A blessing, since the Great Sept of Baelor was destroyed with all our family members since Baelor the Blessed. My eyes water, as I took a deep breath and looked at my sister as she held the same. This was our home.

We stood up as I lead the way to the gates. There we were greeted by two statues of dragon heads. Carved in the Valyrian arcane. Weatherworn, though in the dream they were sharped and detailed as red glass were in the eyes. Even then, time and age do not bother me. As I stepped forward with two Unsullied and pushed the door aside revealing the path to the Castle that is led by a narrow path of stairs. Onward we went walking up the steps and into the Castle for the first time in over two decades.

The Castle seemed barren, all the fineries gone, abandoned of life. However, the walls kept its history. Carved from rock, and the intricate patterns of scales, claws, and dragons all around. Reminding everyone how great the Valyrian were. Dragonstone and the remaining temple all around the world are what is left of a great civilization. As we enter the grand hall, a banner hung. A crowned black stag, inside a flaming heart on a white field. Daenerys came over and grabbed the banner and yank it down. I nodded, then went to the door where the Unsullied open it, before entering the throne room. A large chamber with a vaulted ceiling. All around the chamber it was carved from stone, as the sunshine bright through the clouds and into the room. Up ahead, was the Dragon Throne, a seat carved from the volcanic earth and engraved with scales. I kneel before the throne, drawing my sword doing prayer in Valyrian and Common Tongue to my ancestor's gods and the Seven. Here Lord Aenar Targaryen, the Exiled Dragonlord, leader of the last remaining Valyrians who believed in Daenys the Dream survived and reigned over Dragonstone.

Once done with my prayer, I sheathed my blade and noticed a door on my left. Standing up, I entered the room to discover the Chamber of the Painted Table. The table that dominated the room, carved in the shape of Westeros and engraved with its major cities and landmarks. It was considered to be the most accurate map three hundred years ago commissioned by Aegon Targaryen. Here is where he planned his conquest with Visenya and Rhaenys, along with his best friend, Orys Baratheon. Here is when the Targaryen dynasty began. In this chamber facing east towards Valyria while the carved dragon on the wall, turned his head facing west.

Daenerys touched the table tracing along with the details. Her eyes filled with wonder. This was her birthplace. When the war is won, as my heir Dragonstone will be her home if she ever decided to leave the Red Keep. I took the other side, as we walked along with the table from the North then down south to Dorne facing our Small Council. Ser Barristan stood there proudly. Grey Worm and Missandei marvel at the architecture, Varys stood there pleased, as Quentyn and his cousin Tyene Sand watched with the Greyjoy siblings. Lord Tyrion came over standing by my left and Daenerys on my right.

Many emotions stirred, feeling the faded magic from the volcanic island. The life it brought to my ancestors and the repopulation of the dragons before the second extinction.

"Shall we begin?" Daenerys asked.

"Tomorrow," I answered. "There is something we must do first."

This caught the Westerosi off guard.

"It's time we put our brother to rest," I explained, before leaving the room.

Daenerys followed along with our guards. During our transport over, I had a trunk brought to the island. The Unsullied who carried the trunk followed, as we made our way to the tombs where our ancestors were laid to rest. It was a long corridor where statues stood of the Targaryens standing over their pedestal. From Aenar's bloodline, twenty generations were laid to rest who did not rule the Seven Kingdoms. At the very end was the last Targaryen who was put to rest. For this first time since Daenerys birth, I faced my mother.

Instead of stone, her statue was made of marble. The sculptor carved every detail as if she was actually here. Ever since my resurrection, her face, voice, and perfume were gone. Now, I see her again in monotone color, a statuesque angel.

"Who is she?" Daenerys asked.

"Our Mother," I answered, cradling the statue's cheek. "Queen Rhaella Targaryen,"

Daenerys eyes widen as she gazed at the statue. "I wish I knew her."

"She was mindful of her duty," Ser Barristan said. "Even from her duty, she loved her children. Sacrificing everything for the safety of children."

"Even though I killed her," Daenerys mumbled.

I looked at her, resting a hand on her shoulder, "You did not kill our mother. The war, the stress, and the suffering of Father's abuse killed her. She made Viserys, and I promised to protect you. She loved you before she even met you. She named you when Father named the rest of us. What you can do is live and keep her legacy alive."

Daenerys nodded, looking back to Rhaella's statue. As she was lost in thought, I went over to the trunk and pulled out a large decorated urn. Inside were the remains of Viserys. Ever since his death, I have carried his remains throughout Essos, promising he shall be put to rest in Westeros. Unfortunately, I could not lay him to rest next to Father since the Sept of Baelor was destroyed. But I can put him to rest next to his mother. Until I can commission his statue, I set the urn by Mother's feet on the gravestone.

Viserys was my brother, rapist, husband, and abuser. Since his coming of age, he made my life a living hell. I hated the man he had become, the Beggar King, a shadow of a snake. Although I mourned the brother I grew up with as a child. His memory of the Red Keep was gone, the faint images of our short year in Dragonstone lingers. But our life in Braavos was still fresh. Viserys craved home, yet as a boy he was happy as we played in the garden, climbing lemon trees, pulling pranks, and acting as our knight against an invisible monster.

May he rest in peace.

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