"Whatever's going on with you," Stannis says three days later, "you need to get under control."
Ostara twists to glare at the blue eyed boy standing beside her usual table in the library of Storm's End.
"I haven't a clue what you're talking about." Ostara remarks testily.
In all actuality she's completely aware of what Stannis is talking about. The problem is Ostara isn't sure how to manage the issues she's having with her magic right now. Which is why she's basically holed up in the library, tearing through any book she can get her hands on that pertains to Durran Godsgrief and his wife Elenei. There's more she's nearly desperate to learn about but frankly, it's just easier to get the mythology on her ancestors then it is to get intimate records from the Targaryen's or any other mythology she might find useful for her current situation.
Sighing, Ostara slams the book shut just as a streak of bright white rips the sky in half.
"You were saying?" Stannis asks, eyebrow halfway up his fucking forehead.
"I was saying, you need to leave it be." Ostara growls before standing up and prowling off into the stacks, leaving Rubeus and Stannis by the table.
When she returns, more books then her arms can comfortably carry, Ostara finds her twin flipping through one of the books.
"Never took you for the overly religious type."
"I'm not."
Stannis levels her with a look and points to the book, "Really?"
"It's interesting is all."
"Yes, well, none of these of so interesting books are going to have whatever it is you're looking for." Stannis comments.
"And you know this because..."
"I'm your brother, for one, and I spend quite a bit of time here."
This time when Stannis ambles off Ostara drops her books onto the table and follows him. If nothing else he'll have some sort of idea as to what Ostara's looking for, which is frankly better then Ostara's doing at the moment. They pursue the stacks for what feels like hours, Stannis plucking random books off of the shelves and handing them back to Ostara until he decides that the pile in her arms is large enough to keep her occupied.
After that he leaves her be, ambling off to find something else to entertain himself with while Ostara does her research.
~X~
It rains in Valyria too.
The windows of the keep rattle under the force of the winds and the rain beating against the glass. It's not so bad in the lower levels where the sound doesn't seem so consuming, in the kitchens or in the treasury she can pretend the rumble of thunder is farther away then it actually is, but when she's up in her laboratory? Or in Renaehra's room.
There, where she's closer to the clouds, it sounds like she's in the center of the storm.
Why she remains there is a mystery to her, but she does. Curling up on the floor next to the fire pit where her dragons are incubating, reading from one of the older tomes she'd taken from Storm's End. Rubeus lays at her side farther from the pit but close enough to bask in the warmth it offers. Ostara slides her fingers through his fur as she reads.
Mother, tiny voices whisper in her mind, you are angry.
Ostara grits her teeth, hums in affirmation, and is not prepared for the onslaught of rage that seems to fill her body.
Without thought Ostara shifts her book to one hand and shoves her other into the fire, thankful that she'd rolled the sleeves of her tunic up to keep them safe from harm. She could always charm them, she's aware of that, but then she'd have to reapply any magic she'd put into the fabric and that's just not something she wants to put her time into at the moment.
Soft skin brushes over rough scales, the Ukrainian Ironbelly protected calms somewhat, just enough for Ostara to get a brief flash of misplaced anger and a need to protect, defend, kill.
"You'll not be killing anyone... I'm angry with myself."
Confusion, a great deal of it, fills her mind.
"I've come across very little first hand knowledge of magic in this world and what I have come across is rather unhelpful to my current predicament." Ostara admits, fingers brushing over her dragon's shell, as she places the tome to the side.
Books, mother?
There's a curiosity now, confusion too.
Ostara shouldn't be surprised. Dragons cling to precious metals such as gold and jewels. They do not value the knowledge of books, they do not have the capacity to do so... Or, at least, they didn't. Ostara's not sure what these dragon would be capable of.
"Paper with words written on them bound between leather covers. People read them for knowledge and entertainment." Ostara supplies as she rolls to face her eggs.
More confusion, her little dragons don't understand. Not yet, but they will. Tomorrow she'll come with something a bit more entertaining and she'll read to them, teach them. If nothing else it'll encourage bonding between Ostara and the dragons in the fire pit.
~X~
Brienne sends her a letter three days later and asks how she's been, how her studies are going, if anything interesting has happened since the tourney. Apparently, Tarth is rather boring and Ostara gnaws on her lips as she drafts a reply that skirts around her personal issues and instead focuses on what she's learning from her tutors and from Master Sand.
As the ink dries Ostara sifts through the books that have found themselves in her bookshelf.
Most are birthday presents from her family or other lords. Her love for literature has slowly gotten out to the Lords and Ladies living in the Stormlands and many of Ostara's presents from them consist of some book or another. It's nice but Ostara wishes she had books on arithmetic and science, something different from the legends and histories of Westeros.
Rhaegar keeps her entertained for the most part. Occasionally he'll send her books that he's read and found interesting. It's nice.
Ostara never gives them back and she doesn't think the Prince actually expects her too. It's like an unspoken agreement between them. Rhaegar provides the book, Ostara keeps it and sends letters containing her thoughts on what she's read, and together the two of them form something of a book club.
Sighing, Ostara plucks a book of Targaryen history off of the shelf and stuffs it into her satchel.
On her bed Rubeus huffs before stretching and leaping off of the bed to make his way closer to her. Ostara scratches the space behind his ear when he's close enough and pointedly ignores the steady rumble beyond her window.
It's getting better, her control. It's no where near perfect but Ostara's certain she can control it enough to make the storms appear more natural to that which the inhabitants of the Stormlands are used to.
"Are you ready for today's lessons, love?" Ostara asks her shadowcat, who yawns and rumbles and makes his way to the door.
Today Daevyn Sand is taking her out to the godswoods to teach her about stealth, this means that Ostara's going to run through the woods and try to hide from not only her Dornish instructor but her familiar as well.
She needs to remember to take him somewhere he can actually hunt without running the risk of killing anyone's livestock.
Sighing Ostara rises from her seat on the floor, moves over to the wardrobe, tosses her bag inside, and turns to follow Rubeus out into the hall where he paces as he waits for her to shut the door to her chambers.
"Little beastie." Ostara mutters fondly as she makes her way down the corridor, following after the excited shadowcat.
~X~
Vanya, it's barely a whisper but Ostara pauses in her reading and frowns down at the eggs in the fire pit.
"I beg your pardon?" She inquires, placing the book off to the side so she can lean closer without running the risk of harming her book.
It is, after all, one of her favorites.
My name, mother, the voice whispers again, it is Vanya.
Curiosity officially peaked Ostara reaches into the flames, fingers skimming over different textures, and stops at a large tarnish-silver shell. She plucks it out of the flame, careful not to drop the precious thing and holds it up. If she squints and holds it into the light coming in through the window Ostara can almost see the outline of a little body curled up tight within the egg.
"Your name? Have you named yourself then?"
No, the voice is vaguely feminine, softer like a whisper but deep all the same, my name is my name.
"I don't understand."
Something like annoyance slips across her brain and Ostara grits her teeth against it, having to remind herself that the emotion is not her own.
We know our names, the voice whispers.
"So it just comes to you? Is that what you're saying"
Yes... This time it's a hesitant answer.
Ostara takes it with a grain of salt and continues with her questioning.
"What about the others? Do they have names?"
In time, yes.
"Are you the oldest then?"
Are you, mother?
"No, I've two older brothers and a younger one as well."
There is silence.
No more whispering, no more emotion, it's like the little dragon has decided all of Ostara's questions aren't worth the energy it takes to answer them and has decided to ignore her instead. With an annoyed huff Ostara places the egg back into the flame, glancing at the other eggs all the while.
She's mildly relieved, not to have to name her dragons. It wouldn't have been difficult necessarily but she thinks that her names would be terribly unoriginal and unfit for a dragon. After all, who names a dragon Ronald? Or Harry? Jean?
Ostara shakes her head.
No, she thinks as she moves away from the pit, best I didn't name them at all.
~X~
Boredom is what drives Ostara away from the Vaelmaereon Keep and into the ash covered land beyond. The bubble-head charm filters the air and another keeps the rain falling around her from soaking through her clothes as she makes her way to the closest keep, wand at the ready should anything unsavory be lingering in the shadows.
Nothing accosts her.
There is nothing left but ruined homes and memories.
Not even ghosts have lingered here.
Ostara pulls her cloak tighter around her and darts up the cracked stairs leading to the grand double doors of another Dragon Lord's home, and she enters without a shred of guilt or apprehension considering the fact that the man or woman who might have stopped her from invading the home is no longer alive. Ostara going through their things is the very least of a dead person's problems in the grand scheme of it all.
Dust and spiderwebs greet her as Ostara slips into the grand entrance hall. Ostara leaves the webs, the spiders are doing more good then harm and it's not like she can't deal with one if it ends up being venomous and gets too close for comfort.
A vague sort of familiarity makes Ostara wonder if Renaehra used to come here often.
It's likely seeing as she was one of the most wealthy daughters in Valyria. If she hadn't been to each of the Dragon Lords' keeps at least once in her life Ostara would have been sorely disappointed in the blonde woman.
Reaching out Ostara curls her fingers around Rubeus' collar and guides him away from the door, one arm raised and a spell lingering at the tip of her tongue. The structural stability of the keep was compromised years ago with the Doom but years of neglect haven't helped it much either. The last thing Ostara wants is to be caught in the middle of a cave in.
Thankfully, there are a few spells that can help reduce the likelihood of that happening and so as she and her familiar make their way first to the library Ostara mutters spells.
She's gotten good at ignoring the bodies she comes across.
She's gotten even better about picking through the books that hold the most value and information. Those books end up in her satchel along with a few others before Ostara decides that a quick search of the keep might prove beneficial. One never knows what they'll find in a treasury or armory.
They're about halfway there when Rubeus spins around and bolts. Disappearing into the shadows of a corridor without so much as a thought to his own safety.
"Rubeus! Wait!" Ostara hisses as she darts into the darkness after him.
The light from her spells casts good enough light that Ostara manages to follow Rubeus' prints in the dirt as they continue down the corridor and around a corner. Ostara grits her teeth, thanking Daevyn for the morning runs as she managed to suck another steady breath in through her nose, and tightens her grip on her wand. By the time she finds Rubeus she's begun to sweat and her breathing is labored but not as bad as she would have thought.
"What do you think you're doing?" Ostara demands as she moves to kneel before Rubeus.
She does not, absolutely does not, acknowledge the fact that he's lead her to a large door made of Valyrian steel which is very obviously locked. Because that would mean she'd have to praise Rubeus for running off and that's something she can't do in good conscious. He might get hurt one day if she just runs off on his own in a place they've never been.
It's different in the Vaelmaereon keep, and at Storm's End, but here? Here Rubeus could end up a shadowcat pancake if he's not careful.
Sighing, Ostara moves to unlock the treasury door.
Just like with the Vaelmaereon treasury the sconces lining the wall burst to life. Gold and jewels and trunks are scattered about and Ostara is careful as she walks through them. She hadn't come to take any of the jewels or gold, she hadn't, but no one else is using them and one day Ostara might have to. So she finds leather pouches near to bursting with gold and silver coin and drops them into her satchel.
Once she's decided there's enough in her satchel to feed a small city Ostara turns on her heel and makes her way toward the door.
~X~
There is so much blood, so much pain, more than Rhaella is used to. It makes her scream, back arching, fingers curling around the sheets covering the birthing bed, eyes clenched tightly shut, teeth gnashing together to keep her whimpers at bay. At the foot of the bed Maestor Pycelle sits between her legs, waiting and ready to catch the babe that will soon be pushed from Rhaella's womb.
Rhaella grinds her teeth, silently praying to the Mother that this babe will be born healthy and strong.
Like Rhaegar.
Sweet, solemn Rhaegar who is her only son and the only thing that has kept her sane during her time as Queen. But Rhaegar is a man grown, soon to be knighted and wed, and he has very little need for her. But this babe? If this babe survives Rhaella will have something else to love, truly love. For she has so much love to give and very few to give that love to.
There is a certain type of fondness for the girl who will one day be her good daughter, she adores Rhaegar and will adore any grandchildren he gives Rhaella, but now she will have another child of her own to adore and love and spoil.
The Gods know Aerys certainly won't.
He's never much cared for Rhaegar. Not like he should anyway. There'd been a sort of fondness, pride even, but there had never been love. Rhaella thinks that to some extent Aerys has always felt a bit threatened by Rhaegar. Because sweet, solemn Rhaegar is loved by the common folk and more than a good few of the Southern Lords, he's quiet and brilliant and he is going to be King one day.
And the fact that Rhaegar will likely be a better king than any before him simply enrages Aerys.
"You're doing well, My Lady," Pycelle's voice rips Rhaella from her thoughts. "Just a bit more I suspect."
A bit more? Rhaella already feel like she's dying. How much longer can she keep this up?
Please, she prays and Pycelle says that the head is crowning, let it live.
Whether or not the Gods hear her is unimportant, what matters is whether or not they will grant her this small mercy. For the Gods are cruel despite the fact that they are meant to protect those that pray to them. It is a simple truth, one Rhaella has no qualms admitting for it is not meant as a slight and the Gods will not take it as such.
Another scream tears itself from her and as it dies another sound fills the room. A high pitched wail and the jubilant cries of Pycelle as he claims that, "It is a boy, your Grace!"
A boy, a boy, it is a boy.
"Let me see him." Rhaella commands, begs, as she pushes up on trembling arms. "Let me see him."
"We must tend to him first, your Grace, allow yourself time to rest." Pycelle replies, eyes trained on the bloody mass of wriggling flesh in his arms.
"No," Rhaella's voice is sharp, "let me see my babe!"
Pycelle levels her with a look, one she has seen many times from the man, it speaks of annoyance and an instinctual need to survive. For any slight to Rhaella could mean his removal from the Red Keep on Aerys command... Not that he would necessarily care about any slight to Rhaella but if he somehow felt that he was being slighted through his wife? Well, Pycelle would never work as a Maester again.
"Mind his head, your grace." Pycelle says at last.
And then he is passing the babe into Rhaella's arms and she cannot breathe for the beauty of this babe is so very, very great that it nearly sucks the life from her.
When was the last time she'd held one of her own babes in her arms? When was the last time one came from her body kicking and screaming and strong? When was the last time she'd been able to hold one of her babes and suffer the feel of still limbs in her arms? Unseeing eyes peering up into her own?
Too long. It has been far too long. But now she has a babe of her own, one that will live beyond his third name's day. One that will live long enough to be knighted. She knows it.
She knows it.
And as Rhaella strokes her son's little chest with the pad of her finger she weeps with the joy of it.
~X~
Melisandre shivers as she stares into the flames of the fire she's built, eyes aching in their desperation to catch a glimpse, just another glimpse, of her Lord's chosen. The girl with the curls and the wild eyes. Her Azor Ahai come again.
Glancing at the horizon Merlizandre can just make out the pinprick of lights in the distance. It's a port city if Melisandre's correct. One that will provide her with a ship that will carry her to Westeros where she can begin searching for her Lord's champion.
Melisandre frowns as she leans closer to the flame, red hair streaming over her shoulders to brush her thighs.
She had never thought to consider that Azor Ahai would come again as a women. It is a mistake Melisandre plans to never make again. Now she knows better, now she knows that she will have to be more careful. Because the girl, the savior, is a pretty little thing and Melisandre knows that men tend to like pretty little things a fair bit more then they have any right to.
If anyone knows this, it is Melisandra.
The sooner she reaches Westeros the better.
Melisandra presses her lips together and closes her eyes when she realizes her Lord has nothing to show her, nothing of importance for her to witness.
Azor Ahai coming in the body of a woman puts a limit to some of the precautions Melisandre can take. There will be no shadow assassins, no creatures born of shadow to destroy those who would harm Azor Ahai. There might be brothers, even a father, that Melisandre could take advantage of but the magic would not be as strong. There would be a possibility of error.
Gritting her teeth Melisandra moves to brush her fingers against the metal covering her neck.
"The night is dark and full of terror." She whispers more to herself then to anyone.
Around her the darkness seems to breath, moving in time to the rhythmic beating of her own hear. Melisandre takes comfort in it. She is not alone, her Lord of Light walks will her, sends his shadows and his visions to guide her. Her Lord of Light will not allow her to fail, she will not allow herself to fail, for the risks are too high and Melisandre has never liked to loose anyway.