Chapter 24: A Vision of Essos

POV Daenerys, 27th day, 1st moon

Rheago, from his place bundled in her arms, playfully swatted at Viserion's head, earning a miserable whine from the gentlest of her children. The cream and gold dragon quickly retreated from her shoulder, wrapping himself just above her hips instead. All while her babe giggled at him. Their play brought her a small smile, even as she starred out at the bleak Red Wastes from the edge of her Khalasar's camp.

To her near left, Doreah carefully fed Rheallor charred meat on skewers. Dany's feisty little dragonette snapped her little jaws on the horseflesh as though it were struggling prey, tearing small chunks as she prowled in her shallow straw basket.

Her smile faltered as she spotted the remnants of the pyre she gave her sun and stars to, when all seemed so wrong. So... finished.

It truly was the most terrible time, even compared to her days in the streets with Viserys. Dany's free hand moved from her hair to Rhaego's head, stroking the fine silver-gold hairs that were finally growing back. Her babe was so very weak then, his skin rough with cracks and flaking all over. He ate so little from her that much of her milk simply went to waste. When all told her he wouldn't last a fortnight she had thought of giving him mercy like his father, if only to shorten his suffering.

Instead, she walked into the pyre with him in her arms. Nothing had felt as... as soft and warming. The flames only licked at her like hundreds of the gentlest breezes all while warming her only as much a Drogo's embrace had. Such warm feelings, combined with Mirri Maz Dur's fading screams singing in her ears. A truly wonderful way to die, with what was left of her family around her.

Drogon crashing to the sandy earth ripped her from her melancholy memories, and brought her back to her wonderous present. Where her Rhaego was strong and lusty with life-filled eyes, and her other, decidedly more scaled yet just as loved, children frolicked around her. Yes, her sun and stars' Khalasar had shattered, but many had remained to her. Young, or very old, though they may be.

The quickly growing dragon, that had just as quickly taken the dominant position from among his winged siblings, angrily shook himself out and sprayed sand all around him. Then quickly went back to his attempts at flight. He made it almost as far as Ser Jorah was tall before he fell again.

Speaking of a certain Northern Knight. Dany spotted Ser Jorah and Jhogo, fiddling with the whip that marked his service, walking her way. When they finally reached her, her knight was the first to speak.

"Khaleesi, many in the camp, myself included, have been asking one another. Where are we to go?" he said, Jhogo's gaze silently asking the very same.

As her knight looked to her for instruction, Dany gazed up to the bleeding star that cut across the sky. By the distance it had traveled since the Pyre, the new mother could see it was traveling south-east farther into the Red Wastes. Leading towards what in that wretched place she did not know.

But where did it come from? She simply had to wonder. The star's long ruby tail pointed very clearly towards its origin in the north-west where, if her memory served her well, there were the sandstone mountains that rose along their path long ago. Where her sun and stars decided to, instead of traveling through the Khyzai mountain paths, continue south to eventually reach Quarth

So, she thought it over. Would she take her khalasar to go south-east into what she was told to be the largest desert in the world, or north-west to the plains and mountains? But, more importantly, what would be best for Rhaego?

Looking out into the distance, to the parched and near lifeless red land before her, the decision was easy.

_Weeks Later_

The Khyzai pass gapped before them, but deep into its dry depths Dany could see a rising cloud of dust. A sure sign of a Khalasar, especially in these parts. It was just as she had been warned, when she informed Jorah of the path they would take.

But it was a small one, not nearly as thick and tall as it would be if they had run afoul of one of the traitor Kos.

As the cloud grew closer and closer Jorah finally spoke, "Khaleesi, we must prepare for battle." he said, glancing towards all their horseless people

Dany knew, as loth as she was to admit it, that she wasn't a warrior. She was no Visenya, far from it. But she still felt warmed by shame as she nodded to the knight and wheeled her horse around.

She rode to the children and womenfolk, assuring the warriors she passed of their swift victory as she did. All saluted her, then quickly heeded the commands of Ser Jorah.

The rest of her children flew down to join her and Rhaego on her silver. Viserion took his usual place atop her shoulders, his weight reassuring even as it was swiftly getting to be too much for her, with Drogon latching onto the horse's mane near the shoulders and Rheallor settling on the filly's rump. Once, her silver would have panicked, but now she simply bore it with mild skittishness.

Together with the pack horse and the horseless, Dany retreated from the preparing warriors until she reached the crest of a small hill. Where she had all her people with her halt and turn to face the fighting men.

In the near enough distance, Jorah and her bloodriders formed the fighting men, mostly young boys and older men, into the rough shape of a wedge. All while Dany kept herself with all those who couldn't fight. In her silver's saddle, she carefully kept her face and form calmly relaxed, but, unfortunately, her children could sense her anxiety. Thankfully only two of them were acting out, Rhaego and Viserion drawing into themselves while Rhaellor and Drogon were getting snappy and fidgeted in place.

Even farther away than her own warriors, she could see the other group of mounted men jeering at her own from half-a-thousand paces distant, as was usual for smaller Khalasars she was told. The enemy group had similarly separated from their own women, elderly, and children. And looking at them, Dany could see that there were fewer warriors than in her Khalasar, but more of them were in their prime.

Suddenly, she heard Ser Jorah roar out a command and half her riders quickly loosed arrows at the enemy. Then another command sounded and they shouted and screamed their steeds onward, racing to the enemy.

The arrows sent by her riders flew strong and true, most arching slightly through the air to find their mark in their bare-chested foes. While one, most likely Aggo's, flew as straight as a crossbow bolt and ripped through two men. Both falling from their horses seconds after.

Her warriors were on the enemy before they had a chance to send their own volley. So, with a fully armoured Jorah as the steely head of their spear, her riders plunged deep into the smaller Khalasar and tore through them like a lion does a foal. Jorah, who even from this distance was easily seen with his shining plate and flashing sword, was carving through the enemy with seeming ease.

In mere moments Jorah broke through the other side of the enemy khalasar, all but two of her riders following behind, and rode away to create distance.

Her knight and her bloodriders then quickly wheeled around and charged the enemy once again, this charge proving to be even more effective than the first as they tore through the horde.

They charged a third time, and then it was done. All but a few of the enemy riders had fallen from their horses, and those that hadn't had all dropped their weapons.

So, with the battle done, Dany and her few mercy men separated from the rest of the non-combatants.

As she approached the bloody field, Dany was noticed by two of her burlier riders, who quickly took hold of one of the injured men and brought him before her. She halted as they reached her and watched impassively as they forced the man to his knees.

"This one was Khal, Khaleesi." her rider on the left, Maggo, informed her.

Daenerys looked down to meet the man's gaze, as Drogon screeched at him. "Will you join me, or will you die?" she asked, her hardened voice making his option quite clear.

He scowled at her, then spot a glob of phlegm at her silver's hooves. "No true man would follow under Khaleesi." he said, and Dany nodded to her riders.

Both followed her command, quickly retreating from the soon-to-be dead man.

Confused, he blinked and slowly started to stand. All he could do was gasp before Drogon's black and scarlet flames burst forth from his maws and engulfed the man. Daenerys kept herself from looking away, she had to be strong and watch. It was the least she could do for a Khal. No matter the size of his khalasar.

When the screams guttered out and the Khal's struggling ceased, she turned to her riders. "Tell the others that they may have the same choice." she said, both nodding respectfully before carrying out her orders. When they re-entered the battlefield, Dany rode away and swallowed her bile.

As she left the once-Khal's corpse, Dany was approached by Aggo, his dragonbone bow drinking in the heavy sunlight. "Khalessi." he said, "The walkers have been gathered."

She nodded somberly, she expected little regarding the state of the small Khalasar's slaves, "Lead me to them." she said, spurring her silver on to follow him.

They soon reached them, and Dany found that it was worse than she could have imagined.

In the whole large group, none were unmarred. Not the men, the women, not even the youngest child. A dark-skinned girl just out of infancy with a missing ear and raw and bloody bite marks on her bare shoulder. That sight alone nearly made her weep.

Some were missing fingers, others an eye or ear, one giant of a man was missing his entire nose, and almost half had varying designs of tattoos or brands. None had so much of a rag bound over their still bleeding wounds.

She approached the bleeding crowd and looked closer, they were all wildly different in appearance, but had the very same eyes. Dull and lifeless they were, as though they were long dead and their bodies simply hadn't realised it yet. Even as her few makeshift healers, old women experienced with sewing saddles and cloths, went among them and tended to what they could.

Dany knew not if she could truly help them, but she would give them the same opportunity she had given the others and support them no matter their decision. The same chance she herself was given, when she walked herself and her babe into the flames.

"Good people!" she cried, first speaking in Dothraki to the group, but upon seeing some of the younger flinch at the words she switched to High Valyrian. To this tongue she saw those same children ease themselves and, though she knew some words would escape them it would catch more than any specific dialect.

"Fine people, I have no knowledge of what horrors have befallen you. But that ends today!" at that, a terribly young girl with a Valyrian look to her perked up. A painful expression of fragile hope creeping its way onto her scarred and bruised face. "From this day onward, you are all free! Slaver chains shall no longer bind you!"

At her words each and every one of the former slaves fell to their knees, yet one struggled forward. He was an old man, his skin withered and tight like old leather had been pulled over his sinewy muscles. Dany kept Jorah from defending her, and waited.

With the noon sun shining off his hairless scalp, he fell just before her feet. "Truly?" he asked in Myrish dialect Valyrian, his voice just barely wheezing through his broken lips.

Dany, following a sudden flash of instinct, carefully dismounted and knelt down to the old man's level. "No more chains, no more collars." she promised.

And the man wept.

_Weeks Later_

Dany rode at the head of her Khalasar, breathing in the crisp mountain with deep breaths and watching her dragons wheel about in the sky with banking turns. Rheallor, at the moment, happily chasing Viserion in a game of tail-bite.

Drogon, the imperious little thing, flew on his own. Never deigning to play with his siblings nor allowing them to play with him, snapping at them when they came too close. But he never went far from her, and returned regularly to cling to her silver's mane like a bat on a wall.

They had long left the Khyzai Pass, and when they did Dany had thought of going to Meereen to resupply and hire true healers to work their craft on her people. But Jorah and her bloodriders had quickly, if politely, disavowed her of that notion. Her dragons were quite young, only slightly larger than cats with only Drogon capable of any proper flames, and her people few and weak. They would only be taken as slaves or have the gates closed to them.

So, they passed it by, slowly making their way through the rolling hills and around the occasional jutting sandstone mountain. Now they were here, only hours west of a ruined city that Jorah told her was once named 'Borash' and was destroyed in the century of blood by those who despised the Freehold.

One could tell it had once been a great city, even with the vast majority of it completely ruined. She could still see the outlines of the wide canals that cut through the center of the main streets, the foundations of mances, barracks and bathhouses. Some of the city's wall still stood, it clearly used to be a thick thing, with sections of strange smooth rock. Smashed into and through one part of it were the remains of a great tower that had fallen to its side.

The largest thing that struck her as odd, however, was the fact that it was abandoned. She had sent one of her warriors, one who had joined her after the battle, into the ancient city. He had reported that the ruins had been made into the homes of various animals, and what was left of the dock was only broken stone and 'coloured sea stones' which Jorah informed her was actually coral. Whatever that was.

Regardless, Dany had chosen to continue on away from Borash. There was nought for her there, not even shelter, and though some of her new people may have been masons or builders they were far too injured to be of any use.

Perhaps she could return one day, when the situation allowed. One could argue the city was her responsibility as the last of the Dragonlords, after all.

Her musings were cut off all of a sudden when Drogon started flying away southward with, though she didn't know how she knew, great purpose. As if he had sensed something and desperately wanted to know what it was.

Although the direction he went was slightly steep, and the bleak stones seemed more than a little hazardous, Daenarys chose to follow him. He must have smelt a great bounty. She assured herself, as she turned her silver to the south and up the beginning of the mountain. All while ignoring Ser Jorah's questioning gaze.

The ascent was more difficult than she first suspected, some of the new additions tripping over stones and many of their horses, old or young as they were, had trouble with the terrain. So much so that Dany nearly had to dismount her silver and take her by the lead.

But both her steed and her people proved strong enough, and they eventually crested a rise that Drogon had disappeared over.

At the peak of the climb Dany saw something she never expected to find in these bleak mountains of basalt and granite: a lush valley. A great big depression in one of the peaks, with the mountainous walls sharply surrounding it.

The valley floor was mostly grassland, the knee-high grasses thick and greener than any she had seen before, with a large copse of oaks near the wall opposite them. A sizable herd of sheep and goats grazed near the sheer rock wall to their left

And, in the very center of the valley, was a village. Although in terms of size it was closer to a town. Most of the buildings were made from oak planks, with flat slate singles covering their roofs. Whereas one, built in the very center, was built completely of dark stone, the very same that they had climbed over to arrive in this place.

"This... isn't supposed to be here, your Grace." Jorah said, his gaze following the edge of the valley's walls.

Dany, on the other hand, was simply looking on in wonder. The village was just so... picturesque. Especially with Drogon wheeling about over the roofs, his siblings were sadly too cautious to join him.

As she admired the view, Dany noticed movement in the village. It seemed that the entire population had been stirred to action upon her Khalasar's arrival, some thousand people all rushing into their homes then throwing open some windows.

"My Queen, it seems we are unwelcome. Perhaps we should leave them be?" her knight said, looking towards the cowering villagers.

She was about to reply, when three cloaked and hooded figures emerged from one of the houses.

Dany watched for a moment as the three approached at a rather brisk pace, before deciding to meet them halfway and ignore Ser Jorah's odd disaffection with this place.

With a wave of her hand and a squeeze of her legs they rode forward down the gentle hill of the valley wall, the coming figures slowing slightly in response. It didn't take very long for them to reach one another.

She eased to a stop as the three halted before her.

"Honourable riders." the center figure started, his words all perfect High Valyrian, reaching for their hood as they did, "We are a peaceful people and have little to offer, but should you-" their words chocked to a halt as their hood fell, revealing that the center figure was a man of Valyrian descent. With pale skin and sharp features, accentuated by his short yet full beard.

Even as his indigo eyes remained wide in shock, the man seemed to regain his composure. Slowly, the man went to his knees and bowed his head.

"Promised One." he whispered, the word seeming to jolt his still hooded comrades. They quickly followed him to their knees. "This humble one is known as Taenyr." he said, his voice unsteady, "Pray forgive my impertinence, but this one begs the Promised One follow him to the temple."

"Very well, Taenyr." she said, accepting before Ser Jorah could get a word in, "Lead the way."

Taenyr rose smoothly and bowed deeply, his two fellows doing the same, then turned back to the village.

Shortly after Dany started following the three, riding slowly, Jorah rode closer at her side. "Are you certain of this, Khaleesi? This could be a trap." he said, his Northman's accent colouring his Common, as he squinted suspiciously at Taenyr.

"This is a village of shepherds, Jorah. I'm sure we have little to fear." she replied.

The knight leaned away, clearly unsatisfied, but she had made her will known. He wouldn't go against it.

Soon their party reached the village, and Dany just managed to hear a gasp, followed by the excited voice of a child.

Mere moments later, as they entered the village proper, people came streaming out of their homes and into the main street to gawk at their passing. Then Drogon flew down and sharply glided over them, earning more gasps and even one shout of 'Meraxes bless me!' from the growing crowd.

This continued until the village's center came into view, and Viserion, tired from the day's flight, swooped down and deposited himself on her shoulders. Keeping herself from stooping, Dany acted as though nothing had happened, but the people watching her did the opposite.

All along their path through the village, people of silver-gold hair and varying shades of violet eyes fell to their knees. Some even shaking with emotion as Dany passed, or when Drogon or Rheallor flew especially low.

"We have long awaited you, Promised One." Taenyr explained, "The Holy ones are also livelier than we expected."

They went on for some time longer, until they entered a small courtyard and stood before the stone building that she had spotted earlier. Taenyr helpfully informed her that it was the temple he had been leading her to.

The village's only stone building, and temple, was larger than she first thought, the walls reaching three times Jorah's height, its face as wide as two of the wooden houses combined, and long enough to equal the carrack she and Viserys had once stowed away in.

Taenyr had them stop a short distance from the large oak door, "This one begs that only the Promised One enter. The Priestess is quite old, this one fears for her if too many enter at one time." the shepherd said.

"Wait for me here, all of you." she told her knight and bloodriders, but mostly meant it for Jorah. Dany then called Irri over and quickly, yet carefully as always, entrusted the deeply sleeping Rhaego to her.

Taenyr then pulled open the heavy wooden door, and Dany entered the temple. The shepherd slipping in soon after.

Inside, the stone temple was homelier than she had expected. With chilly stone floors and wooden planks on the walls, along which long wooden benches were stacked atop one another.

"This way, Promised One. The Priestess's rooms are behind the altar." Taenyr said, gesturing towards a door to the right of an empty altar.

It's hinged proved to be poorly oiled, and Dany nearly winced at the sound.

"Ah, Taenyr, you've returned. Tell me, what did our visitors want of us?" a truly ancient voice asked, sounding out from another room.

"She has arrived, Priestess." he replied gently.

There was a clatter, and then a door swiftly opened to reveal a young girl that could have easily passed as Daenery's younger sister. Her violet eyes went wide and she dashed back into the room.

Seconds later a stoop-backed, parchment-skinned, and thin-haired old woman in white robes shuffled out from the door with a solid oak cane supporting her. She had to be the oldest person Dany had ever seen, but when she locked eyes with her Dany could see they were just as clear as a woman a quarter her age. Bright purple without the slightest cloud to be found.

The woman smiled softly, then gestured to a pair of cushions lying on the stone floor. "Please, sit with me." she said, slowly making her way towards them.

Dany, not one to refuse the ask of such an ancient person, quickly complied and sat upon the seat cross-legged. Just as she had since childhood.

Opposite her, the priestess first let her knees down onto her cushion, then sat upon her heels. Her back even straightened somewhat in that position.

Just as she sat the girl returned and set down on the floor two well-made earth cups and a teapot laced with small cracks yet still held itself together. "Peppermint, grown by Shaena, and her mother before her." the priestess informed, nodding to the girl and pouring the tea into both their cups with practised movements.

The old woman just as easily set the teapot down and took up her cup. She then took a deep breath of the tea's steam and sighed, before taking a long sip.

Dany looked down into the tea, remembering the wine back in the market so long ago. The peppermint tea was clear and tinged with a gentle green much like what little tea she had had before, and she didn't see anything floating about within. Nor did the cup seem suspicious, perfectly dry around the rim as it was.

"Go on, dear. No need to be shy." she said, pulling her from her thoughts.

Dany sniffed at the tea, finding it had a sharp and chilling, if curious smell. She then tested it, and tasted the sharp flavour the smell promised, but also a sweet and settling aftertaste. She felt nothing odd, and her mild suspicions died. Dany felt a bit silly then, why would these people wish her harm? Locked away in the mountains as they were, somewhere her well-traveled knight did not even know existed?

"It took some years, but Gaema eventually found the perfect blend. At least to us."

"The tea is excellent." she agreed, holding it around with one hand and below with the other as she lowered the cup.

The two of them sat there in silence for a moment, then the priestess gently dismissed Shaena and Dany waited for the girl to leave before finally speaking.

"Why did the man that led me here call me 'Promised One'?" Daenarys asked, formally ending their small talk.

"When I was a girl, I dreamt of a young woman of pale skin, silver-gold hair and burning violet eyes riding through the morning mist with a babe in her arms and dragons at her back." the antient woman sipped at her peppermint tea, "My people needed something to keep us together, something that promised salvation from what Dothraki hordes would find them and do to them just as they do all others. Take the women and girls while they kill the men for sport." Dany could see the old woman's hands clench then, the withered skin around her knuckles turning white. But even still, her voice was perfectly even without a hint of emotion.

"So, I told them of my dream, of the promised one who will bring the honoured ancestors' strength with her." the woman's bright violet eyes then locked with hers, "That she would save us from those that struck down the Valyrian colonies only months after the Doom and killed every man, woman and child they could. And that we could be more than the shepherds we have been reduced to once again." then she looked away, down to her cup. "I do admit, however, you are here much earlier than my dream told me."

"What do you mean 'early'?"

"It's simple, dear. In my dream your dragons were fully grown and bloodied by combat, the black one large enough to swallow half the village in darkness."

"Then your dream could have been just that. A dream."

"Yes, it could have." she said, as easily as one would say that the sky was blue, "But even if it was, my purpose was fulfilled. My people, our people, are here on this mountain safe and together. The last bastion of Valyria perched on these age-old cliffs. We have not been attacked even once here. Yes, we do not flourish as we could have down in old Borash, but nor have we withered."

"So, you preached about a promised saviour to keep them all here? To keep them safe?"

"Indeed, for nearly fifty years I told any that cared to listen that a young Dragonlord would come." she smiled, showing that she had retained all her teeth, "And here you are, Stormborn."

Before Dany could say anything more, the woman set down her cup of tea, and bowed deeply. She put her hands on the well-swept stone and pressed her forehead against it just above them. "I, Daenessa of the fourth church of Meraxes, humbly relinquish my temporary leadership of the remnants of the third colony to you, my Lord. We are yours."

_Hours Later_

The fire crackled in its pit, uncaring of all but the wood and dung it feasted upon, including the stare Dany was boring into it with. Joining her on the small cushions around her tent's hearth-fire was Ser Jorah. Irri and Doreah were also in the tent, the former playing with Rhaego in hope of tiring him enough for sleep while the latter fed Viserion and made poorly disguised eyes at Ser Jorah.

"My Queen, these people, they are a burden." he said, finally breaking the silence that had held them since she had told him of what Daenessa had told her. "They are safe enough here, for the sake of your goals they should be left here."

"You would have me abandon people who've knelt to me?" Dany asked, incredulous.

"They are shepherds and farmers, not a single warrior among them. Taking them along your quest for you father's throne would only place them in more danger. This place will keep them safe." he said, in his assuring tone.

"These people are my responsibility, Ser."

"The Iron Throne is your family's seat, Khaleesi. The people of Westeros need you more." he urged.

"The Usurper's Rebellion made it quite clear that the people of the Sunset lands have no wish for my family's overlordship." she said, "Besides, I also know that House Targaryen was one of the forty Dragonlords first, commanding over the people of Valyria with the Valyrian people's full support." The Iron Throne was always Viserys's dream anyway. "It is my duty as the last Targaryen, as the last of all the true Dragonlords, and the Mother of Dragons to rebuild the Freehold. But this time truly free, without slavery. No matter how small it shall be."

In her mind's eye she saw Borash, not as the ruin it was but as the thriving city it could be once again. Strong walls to protect the people, a busy port filled to the brim with merchant cogs and fishing vessels, while the collapsed tower stood tall and proud as it overlooked it all. While far in the countryside, along a sizable river and surrounded by an orchard or lemon trees, was a goodly sized home built of white stone with its front door painted cherry-red.

"We will stay, and build something for our children to thrive in." she finished, looking over to where Rhaego sat against Rhaellor and played happily with Viserion. And she hardened in her decision.

Yes, she and her people would build a free city in this bay of slaver. Their very own home.

And she would defend it to her last breath.

POV Serra, 30th day, 1st moon

Ser Rolly was easily one of the more chiseled men she'd seen in her life, such a fact made plain to her once she had properly looked at the man while he sparred with Young Griff years ago. Shirtless and sweating, she found she couldn't look away from the knight. Not even to the sleepy little dock the Shy Maid had taken residence in for the night. Hardly mattered, she could look it over all she wanted later.

Serra had to keep herself from getting bitter over not getting to see anything other than the dockside face of all the buildings. The years had simultaneously made that easier and more difficult to achieve.

That he was the most... eye-catching of the men she'd seen had long been clear to her even though most of all she had ever seen were dockworkers and sailors. Most of them thin and wiry from their work and small meals. Although they were no less defined in their musculature than the knight, the sailors lacked the sheer mass his frame boasted.

Serra, once she had put a stranglehold on her embarrassment, had once asked Lemore her opinion of Duck's build, if the septa had found him to be as imposing and eye-catching as she did. The answer came with a small and sad smile, "I have known a burlier man, in my youth. More handsome besides." Lemore told her. The small comment was so vague that she had to all but begged more from the older woman. Infuriatingly, all she received was that his face was long and his eyes kind.

What was that supposed to tell her of his qualities! In what way did long-ness of face and kindly eyes make him more handsome? What of the build of his nose, shape of mouth and structure of his bones?

Looking at Duck now, as he did his usual exertion on the deck nearby, Serra couldn't imagine Lemore being right. Ser Rolly was a large man, with well-defined cheekbones and brows. He had to be more attractive than the septa's old... whatever. She could, however, do with him having a much shorter beard.

"A lady mustn't ogle so carelessly, Serra." Septa Lemore said quietly, her steps almost gliding over the deck as the older woman came up next to her on the river facing, portside railing.

"Who would see me doing so, no one ever comes here. Other than a courier, but what do they know. I could simply be lost in thought, or inspecting his technique." Serra replied, a smile easily finding its way onto her face.

"Not with eyes like that, young lady." she said with a playful little smile. The septa was different with Serra than she was with all the others. More... more familiar. With Griff she deferred, with Duck she was apart, Ysilla received polite yet few words, as did her husband Yandry. Haldon was a debate partner, mostly over religious matters and, at times, the existence and prevalence of magic. All arguments neither side has yet to win. The younger Griff, well, he seemed more a student than anything. No matter Lemore occasional attempts at reaching out to him.

But Serra, with Serra she was warm and playful, caring and protective. All in, dare she say, a motherly way. Thinking of that always let out a burst of warmth in her chest, even if her foolish questioning got her a solid answer on that. One that stopped her from making her own answers.

"Years ago, I hoped for a daughter like you." Lemore suddenly said "But you know what Griff says, men plan and the Gods laugh." she paused, then only half explaining herself at her questioning look, "Life can be difficult for sons."

"Pardon?" Serra asked, for, surely, she must be jesting. Young Griff could go where he pleased, learn any manner of subjects, go with his father on his short travels into town. He got whatever he wanted, when he wanted.

The septa nodded sadly, "Boys, noble or otherwise, are often bound to duty and expectation. Many break under the weight, or fruitlessly throw their lives away to live up to them. Others fight their whole lives to prove themselves. Some conform, no matter what they truly desire." as she spoke, Lemore's eyes turned away and developed that faraway look they sometimes did. As though she was seeing something see only she could.

Before Serra could ask more, a small and tightly-bound bundled was thrown over the railing, landing with a thud a little way away from them. Soon after a short, bald child, of the age where it was difficult to tell their gender, hefted themself up and over after the parcel.

Once the child got their bearings on the deck, they promptly rushed the bundle over to Ser Rolly, who took it without question, and then left to whence they came. With only a splash to announce their passing

Serra turned from the scene to look at Lemore, the smile the septa dubbed 'That which promised mischief' when Serra was but a girl. Knobbly kneed and thin as a deer as she was then.

All the older woman did was sigh, and wave her off.

So, Serra went off and followed Ser Rolly with her usual light footfalls, purposefully timed and sized to keep step with the knight.

As she expected, Duck went straight for Griff's cabin. Going down the sheer steps to get below decks, then to the very end of the hall. The girl herself waited at the very top of the steps for Ser Rolly to enter, before rushing down the hall, springing on the balls of her feet.

She managed to reach the door just as it thumped closed.

Taking care not to touch it, Serra brought her ear up to the solidly built wooden door and strained her ears to listen.

"Griff, parcel for you, from him." Duck said, his deep voice pleasantly resonating through the door.

Serra just barely heard Griff's sound of acknowledgement.

After that there was only silence, for a long time. It stretched so far that she thought that was all she was going to get and that she might just have to leave with nothing but vagaries.

Then Griff spoke, "Fetch the boy, Duck. It is time."

Hurriedly, without waiting for Ser Rolly's reply, Serra spun away from the door and snuck to the nearest door. She didn't even process where it led until she was safely behind it.

Finding herself in the cargo room, she pressed her slim figure against the planks of the door and eased her breathing into something deep and slow.

Soon she could hear Duck's steps coming closer, then thankfully pass her by.

Serra waited for the knight's thumping steps to recede, then for the creaking of the steps to the deck, but those sounds never came. Instead, Ser Rolly's steps returned. Accompanied by a pair of lighter and quicker beats upon the wood, by the rhythm it had to be Young Griff. The self-righteous brat.

The two of them soon passed her hiding spot, a door then squeaking open and thumping closed.

This time Serra didn't bother to even attempt leaving the cabin. No, she would simply wait for them to finish, and hope that they all left the room together long enough for her to satiate herself.

Time trickled by slowly, painfully so, but her hopes were eventually fulfilled when she heard the nearby cabin door's hinges announce its opening.

Three pair of steps sounded out, the slowest of them being Griff's, and as they approached Serra heard none of the typical chatter the menfolk shared. They all walked in relative silence, it struck her as odd, yes, but she hardly cared.

Once the three had passed her by and creaked up the steps to the deck, Serra quickly opened the door and slipped back into the hall.

After a snappy glance down either end of the short hall, she lightly made her way to Griff's door.

Without a second thought, Serra grasped the carved wooden handle and all but flung the barrier open in her haste.

She breezed into the familiar cabin and went straight to the overlarge desk set in the corner. Why the man had one of that size in a room as small as this one, which he shared with Young Griff no less, baffled her at first. Then she learned to finally fenagle her way into its locked drawers with her thin eating knife and found all of the desk's wonders.

Doing the same as she did back then, though with more grace from her practise, Serra got into the fresh correspondence.

The olive-skinned young woman then shifted through the letters, careful not to crease any of the parchment or rub her fingers over the delicately inked letters. Many were reports about this or that free company, some told of various gossip about the richer magisters or Braavosi, one was simply a sketch of a girl a few years Serra's junior with a Lyseni look about her.

Then, finally, she found something having to do with Westeros, easily found thanks to the helpful label it had. These letters were her favourite to "check over" as it were, there was just something terribly interesting about the Sunset Kingdoms. From the colourful, and at times outrageous, clothing she had seen from those nobles visiting the same docks the Shy Maid was. To the tourneys that Septa Lemore had told her so much about; full of clashing knights, aspiring bowmen, people from all over that diverse land, and the courting couples!

She had been waiting for this. What would this letter tell her of the happenings of that land? Last she had heard the honorable and austere Lord Paramount of the North had not only become Lord Hand, but also deemed to bring his bastard to court! Serra also heard that said bastard looked more beast than man, with a furred body and clawed hands! Although all that was from dockside rumour, but it was still good for something!

Could it be that someone was mauled, or that the beast proved knightly and defended some maiden's honour? Perhaps something completely unrelated to the capitol, and a lord with more ambition than sense had rebelled against the Demon of the Trident himself in a bid for the Iron Throne!

But she was getting ahead of herself, Serra would simply read it and not rile herself up and chance getting caught.

Serra breathed deep, in, then out, and opened the small letter.

"My lord, events are unfolding at a quicker pace than expected. The King is dead and Lord Stark has been arrested sooner than accounted, his children have unfortunately escaped." she stopped there a moment, reeling slightly from her surprise. How had this happened? What she knew of the Starks was decisive strength, like Lord Cregan. It seemed unlikely such a man would be arrested, especially since he is such famous friends with the king. Unless they were both plotted against.

D-does Griff have a hand in things happening in Westeros?

She shook her head free of musings, Serra could think on it after she had read the letter in its entirety and left without getting caught.

"Worry not, I have spirited him away from the Black Cells, in a safe place for when our egg will have need of him. However, many strings have slipped from my grasp, and certain things best left in the past have started rising again. I am less sure of the future than would be best. So, my lord, I beseech you, tell the children."

At those words Serra felt dread creep up her spine, though she knew not quite why.

"You must tell them of their true parents, my lord. Of their duty to the realm. You must let the eggs hatch unto the world."

The letter was unsigned, but that did nothing to lessen the impact.

As Serra left Griff's, if that truly was his name, cabin she knew. She knew that everything was going to change. And she didn't know whether to be excited or terrified.

POV Euron, 4th day, 2nd moon

He could smell it on the westerly winds, the stench of magic. It was at once both like that of Valyria's, and completely different. Where the ruins of the Dragonlords smelt of pungent brimstone and charred flesh, this one was more... varied. Coating the buzzing quality of the air was a myriad of smells and tastes, there was of course the always present smokiness, along with a musky smell of wet fur. Followed by that of mushrooms, for some strange reason.

But what struck Euron was that it was also crisper than any he'd experienced before. Fresh, in a way, like a new patch in a hull or the first time back to sea after too long on shore.

That smell, it was more enthralling than he could describe. Almost as much as feeling the eyes looking upon him once again felt. Like the very Gods themselves were watching him, or was it God singular? Regardless of the numeracy of the watchers, he simultaneously reveled in and ignored their gaze. For he had business to take care of.

What he had to do was the tedious task of negotiation, the type that, sadly, would not end in his opponent's painful or humiliating death. It was something to which he was accustomed, perhaps too much so.

Euron turned away from the far-away source of the exquisite stench, and faced the horrendously fat Pentoshi Magister. Truly, the crow's eye was shocked the man could even stand on his own blubbery feet. "Tis a pleasure, truly, Master Illyrio." he said politely, his man's eye the one uncovered for this, "Yet I wonder at your purpose in coming abord my Silence."

The gone-to-seed bravo stroked his fool's gold beard with a smile, the many rings on his sausage fingers glinting in the sunlight. Euron found he rather likes the one set with Tiger's eye, and pondered taking it. "As always, I share that pleasure, Lord Greyjoy." he said, his merchant voice as sweetened as ever, "As to my purpose, I seek the promise of safe passage and a sizable armed escort to Sunspear."

And that was all Euron needed to know the basics of what the merchant wanted, for the man only ever used the word promise when in relation to future plans. A rather telling habit Euron had noticed during their dealings. Illyrio wanted him along with other captains, and mayhaps even the Iron Fleet itself, to play as the landing party for one of his little power plots. Perhaps he wanted a certain market of spice or fruit crashed? Or simply some mostly Rhoynar slaves to sell to the Old Blood fetishists in Volantis.

"And who would be in need of escort? Myrish pirates, same as the last?" he asked joyfully, it was great fun impersonating nations while attacking. Even if it did little to contribute to his public legend.

"Not this time." the magister hummed, "No, this will be a passage of return. Of the political variety you see."

Now that was interesting, to need such a large escort as the one he suspected for a political move. It reeked of royal inclinations. It simply had to be Targaryens or, then again, Blackfyres. Mayhaps both. It... could be interesting to play out, or destroy from within?

"As to what I would gain from this." Euron said, getting on with it. The Magister would never dream of telling him any details without his full and "binding" acceptance. As if a man's word was anything more than wind.

"Other than any changes in status that might be gained from it I wager." again Illyrio went to stroking his beard. It almost impressed Euron that he'd never taken all the oil from it to his hand. And just like every time the merchant came abord he kept a careful watch on those hands for them touching to the railing. Oil burned like little else and he'd rather not have such staining his Silence.

"Position, title and such social notions are untrustworthy at best. I would rather something that depended not on others." he said, few truer words had ever left his lips.

"Well, in that case, I happen to have more than a few dragon's eggs in my stores."

"Which amount to colourful rocks without the right treatment and time. As you know, I've had one before. I grew bored of it quickly."

"Ah, but recently my informants have been telling me of a grand violet-scaled beast ravaging Dragonstone. They tell me the people are calling it Taranis." he said lowly, as though they were walking through a crowd.

Euron had heard of the Terrible Taranis before, small things about the Free City ports. He doubted he would hear the same in Westeros. Even though sailors were more believing than most, nearly all folk in that land would laugh at the talk of dragons flying about. It was almost as if they forgot that they were up and about in King's Landing a little more than a century ago. The Greenlander lords were worse than the rest, speaking ill of magic as though their scorn would keep them safe. As if their so-called "gods" were any different.

He even thought about testing his horn on the beast, but all the rumours came only from Dragonstone. If the dragon was so small minded, then it would not be worthy of him. "A fluke." he said, "Something tangible would be more satisfactory." the mercantile speech pained him, truly it did, but needs must. As always. But if the feeling in the air continued growing as it had? He might not be forced to suffer this for very much longer.

"Then perhaps a batch of warlocks to start. Although two are novices, I have purchased them recently and they seem hale and hearty enough."

"A fine beginning, Illyrio, then we shall discuss the rest of my payment closer to my part in this plot of yours." Euron said, accepting for now, but making certain the merchant knew it wasn't done.

"Excellent, my Old. Then I shall send them to you, along with all three of my casks of Shade of the Evening, in celebration of our accord!"

Euron doubted those three were all the Magister had, but smiled and nodded all the same to the merchant's vigorously jiggling body. "I shall await them eagerly, Magister."

The fat man twirled and quite nearly danced away towards his small boat. Illyrio was then helped into the dingy, then he and his slaves, or as he called them "Indentured Servants", were lowered into the sea. Once the splashing of paddles reached his ears, he turned back westward and breathed in the smell of that magic both new and old carried on the sea breeze,

If it weren't for his curiosity, and a small part of his lust, stirring to the odour, he might have tarried for a while. Essos was an excellent place to reave after all. But he couldn't wait to find the source of it all.

So, Euron turned his eye and mind to his mutes, and started giving orders.

They would sail for Westeros.