The Dragonkeepers had long been a male order, as were all things considered sacred and truly righteous in Westeros. They were bold men, charged with guarding the unkempt and uncouth foul creatures— many were dragonseeds— never to be legitimized sons. Following the king's proclamation of the Realm's Delight's heirship, one of the few, if not the only, changes temporarily considered before being questionably implemented from the darling, dearest, lavenderblush dragon princess was the admittance of women into the Dragonpit. It was a time— years— before the women had established themselves as more than concubines to the dragon riders of the Blackbay— but they became well thought of as dragon healers. Dragon maesters, some would say, as their craft could not be mimicked by the greater sex. It was once said that Caraxes was returned from her long night by an unnamed dragon maester— a woman with full, brown and amber hair— dark gold skin— the rumored bastard of Baelon Targaryen and a princess of the Summer Isles. Her name was never written, nor were the names of any Dragonkeeper— they were merely the men, and then the women, who supported the Targaryen's only claim to dominance, and for their great duty, they were repaid with the shadow.
The girl had been so lucky— a pleasant face, though worn and red from dragon fire— a pleasant face— one that had not been entrusted with the care and upkeep of Sunfyre— all other pleasant faces in the pit knew Aegon well— save the few of inky hair or boyish stature. Malaney had hidden in the shadows for much of her time, and there she held her place well. She had, instead, been entrusted with Tessarion, the dragon of the boy Daeron— who had never ridden her. Her blue wings grew by the fortnight, and in the pit were whispers that it was she, not Vermax, who would succeed Vhagar in not only strength but size. Neither of these gossips were welcome at court, and the whispers remained only as such. And if the she-dragon would grow, in truth, so large— so domitinable— why had she been entrusted to a mere girl, one of foreign birth? The web of lies— secret mistruths— extended farther than Malaney dared to see beyond her quiet, hollow perch— but— when she did look, she looked upon Vhagar— and the look was something near-to lust. She couldn't imagine that something so beautiful— powerful— could be held in the shadows along with her.
She had been only a girl when Aemond walked into the pit, a dark shadow etching an evil print over a newly found scar— his eye had been cut out. The she-dragon Vhagar followed slowly— loudly— behind, and they had all bent the knee. She had peered into the darkness and watched his frown, so forlorn and years old, pervert into a rapid smirk. Vhagar had graced the pit with the Lady Laena and her golden consort, but news of her death had set the pit aflame with questions of who would tame her. To see the boy— the frequently shamed and often nervous pubescent— hold the reins of the greatest dragon in the known world— truly, they all thought. He will one day be king.
Malaney remembered him. A boy of blond hair and quivering blue eyes. He had soiled himself in front of Tyraxes— just a feeble creature— not even a year old. He had seen her, as she had seen him, and he had drawn his dagger with a wavering hand and threatened her life if she ever spoke a word of what she had seen that night.
He may one day be king, she thought— the Seven worked in mysterious ways— but he would always be afraid of being burned, and even as she watched Vhagar follow obediently behind her new lord, Malaney knew the boy would die.
She was still a child when she went to the she-dragon. For her size, Vhagar's temperament was mild. She was the goddess of war, and thereby destruction and all evil things, but she could oft be found quietly sleeping or peering into the dark nothingness of the pit. How similar are we, Malaney thought, and by all accounts, she loved the dragon. She had known nothing but the pit, but with every flight Vhagar took, she lifted Malaney's spirit along with her— some say perhaps this was girlish— perhaps this was fancy— but the girl was but a child and had been burned like no Lannister or Baratheon before her. If she wanted to dream, history would allow it.
"Aōle lykemās,' she whispered to the beast— she had spent months waiting— watching— peering in the shadows as Aemond ran his cautious fingers over the scales of the warrior. She knew that dragon's responded to their master first— then blood. If she came to the beast when Aemond was nowhere to be seen, Vhagar would take her in.
Vhagar opened her eyes and hummed methodically, much like her master— Malaney stepped forward.
"Mizozliwashen a,' she nodded. "I will protect you."
Vhagar bowed her head— as if she understood— Malaney walked slowly forward, tepidly. The pit was empty— and no one else saw them dance.
The she-dragon sighed deeply, and the steam from her nostrils burned the girl's hand— she turned her face to look away— unafraid— she gave all due reverence.
She grew close enough to place her hand on the dragon.
Every prayer was granted.
Vhagar opened her lovely— dreadful— eyes.
Years passed as Malaney frequented Vhagar in the pit. Prince Daeron was sent away to Oldtown to play the cupbearer to a dying lord. Befitting of the boy— his slight frame was dwarfed by the growing Tessarion. The sapphire queen favored Malaney, deeply— they were both delighted to see the boy sent away.
Malaney was the perfect steward, regimented and nimble. Her skin never tanned, and it was said the girl never left the pit before her eighteenth nameday. Hatched from a dragon egg— it was said— but something was always being said.
She watched Aemond with the dragon, and she imagined what Laena looked like atop the back of the queen. Aemond lacked veneration— he had, as it came to be known, taken Vhagar in a state of mourning. She had been weak, and would have denied him at all other times. He did not know what it meant to train and tame a beast. He was perpetually a boy— even as he grew to be a man.
He lengthened, and his hair grew. He refused to look upon Malaney— his shame was great— and she refused to be caught looking upon him as her envy was large. They danced— it seemed— around each other for four and a decade before the sun shone.
Aemond had designated one Dragonkeeper, Joash, to the care of Vhagar— the beast deserved a fleet, but Aemond trusted only the aged man. He had no tongue. When Joash was done cleaning and feeding the dragon, she was kept in the dark until the time came again or Aemond desired to impress his shadow upon the realm. Aemond found himself absent for moons— and Malaney— a simple Dragonkeeper— could not reconcile his distance. There in the pit, Vhagar moaned for companionship, and what was life above the candles and dust of the pit in comparison to the heat— stench— ferocity of one like Vhagar— the only rival to the Black Dread?
She hated him— the hate was vile— the jealousy was emerald— the fury was like dragon fire.
It was his eighteenth nameday, and Malaney could hear the triumph in the city. She would not venture out. Dragonkeepers, unlike all others in King's Landing, save those of the Sept, were exempt from all requisite gatherings. Music played throughout the day, and the Keepers who ran returned under the guise of wine and stronger drink. They played their games and touched her without recognition, but she watched Vhagar coldly.
The night grew still and few torches lit the way to the she-dragon's lair.
There was no word in High Valyrian for personal apologies. She had no desire to apologize on behalf of Aemond or any other on land. She wanted to apologize on her own— for her own inaction— for not mounting Vhagar herself— for her fear.
Malaney cried great tears while kneeling before the dragon— Vhagar hummed her constant song in response.
The room grew still, and when Malaney looked up at Vhagar again, she could see a silhouette in the eyes of the beast. Her wings were flexed— finally the time had come.
"What are you doing,' a voice beckoned from behind— arrogance.
Malaney stood and faced her foe. They had danced for so long— knives to each other's throats— and she knew he had never once considered her.
"I had fear that you would not visit her on this joyous day."
He waited to hear the words— My lord— Prince— Your Grace— and when she would not budge, he edged her— stepping forward.
"I am here,' Aemond said, placing a hand on his dagger.
Malaney did not waver. The boy— the man— had no sword. He would not hurt her, of this, she was sure.
"As am I— as I am all nights. And days."
Aemond looked at the dragon and then again at the girl. "I had assumed you were some common whore."
Malaney dropped her head. "In the pit, my lord? Surely not."
"Money can be made in all places."
"You refer then to our first meeting? As a boy?"
He unsheathed his dagger, but made no move— instead, Aemond inspected it in the dimmest of light. "That very meeting,' he said slowly, his eye moving up to the eyes of the girl— but she was now woman as well.
"You've known I am no such thing."
Aemond walked past Malaney— he went towards Vhagar— he placed a hand on her side.
"I could order her to burn you now, and she would have no second thought. You know this."
Malaney did not turn— she hung her head.
As a girl, she had learned that fear was the only evil to defeat. Her earliest memory was toying with an egg that had hatched a wyrm. The wyrm had initially coiled into the girl, a toddler, nustling her and attempting to nurse from her equally adolescent breast. By morning, the wyrm had begun to feast upon the calf of the child— a scar that stood until that day. An older Maester, Elisabeth, had struck down the firewyrm and nursed the child back to health. They called her the Child that Lived, but there was no one in the pit to write songs or even to sing them. Malaney knew no fear except of what came from above— and to his demise— Aemond had been below.
"Why challenge me?"
Aemond lifted his head to the dreary, webbed ceiling. He hissed: "Why challenge me?"
Malaney finally looked upon the man again— her eyes were dark in the pit's shadows. Vhagar breathed heavily.
"Vhagar knows honor, and so she will acquiesce to you, but her heart would forever be turned against you."
Aemond stepped again towards Malaney— he wore all black and for the first time, she saw the reddened scar of his injury. "Do you know her better than I do?"
She burned— hotter than all dragon fire before her— she burned— all of Baelon and the former within her— whatever was equal in her as her adversary— it was aflame.
"I know her better than the First Men knew the land— than the sun knows the horizon— to die at her hand would be glorious, and so I await you— my lord."
There they stood— silently— for minutes, some would say— Malaney staring into his eye. Aemond broke away eventually, looking back onto the beast— he placed his hand on her hide and sighed.
"All that I am, I owe to the creature… Do not take that from me."
He walked away from them both— as he would come to do for years.
Malaney stood, expecting the steel of a Valyrian dagger at any time— after moments, she turned, and knew that she was alone. Vhagar was silent— her weeping had halted— as if she was absolved of her loneliness.
She even weeped in the presence of the girl— the woman— she even weeped of solitude in the company of Malaney, but it had been assuaged— and for the first time— she understood why the she-dragon loved the prince.
