JASON MOMOA SAVES WESTEROS

Part 3 - STORMBORN INTO THE HURRICANE

Loud, vehement arguing began the moment Viserys awoke within the wheelhouse. The first bout quickly ending as the frightening, bronze skinned Dothraki guarding them backhanded him with casually brutally across his broken, still bleeding nose. At this, their supposed nephew smiled slightly and silently observed them with keen, dark eyes that occasionally flashed near violet whenever they passed near a well lit establishment.

Pulled out of the cab at the docks, her brother and the false Aegon were manacled and chained; while Daenerys remained unbound. When the other wheelhouse arrived carrying the Magister and the man reputed to be her brother's most loyal friend, they were led over into a sailing ship. She hated ships.

Once more, the trio were kept separate from the elder pair; placed in a cabin where the chains were fiendishly fixed on opposite walls so that the two men could not quite reach each other. As soon as their captors left them alone, the dragon awoke again and commenced spewing fiery venom.

This time, instead of shouting back, the blue dyed with patches of white-gold haired youth, older than Daenerys' own thirteen name days and younger than Viserys own one and twenty, gave a few terse denials then sat down upon a bunk and proceeded to ignore her brother. Which only incensed him more. Froth and drool and spittle erupting from nose and mouth to mix with the blood still oozing from his wounds.

"Listen to me wretch! Listen! LISTEN!"

"The Usurper seeks me. The true blood of Aegon the Conqueror. Not spawned by some pox ridden sellsword's weak seed."

"I am the true King!"

"I'll rip open your belly with my talons and strangle you with your own guts!"

"The Iron Throne is mine. MINE!"

"You reek of the whore who birthed you!"

"MINE! MINE! MINE!"

"You are a pretender! A Blackfyre! A Traitor!"

"I am the DRAGON!"

The rants only paused with the creak of the ship pushing off from the pier and Viserys' eyes started darting about like a wild animal seeking a way to escape.

Gathering her courage, Daenerys left the corner she had crouched down in hiding to approach the small table built into the bulkhead of their prison. It held a small bucket of water, three cups, and a plate of stale bread. She tore a piece of deep plum silk off the bottom of her gown, poured some water, and approached her brother.

"Let me tend your wounds, brother," she meekly offered; eyes downward to avoid provoking him.

"Do it," he hissed.

Gently, Daenerys slowly wiped away the blood, spittle, and mucus; cleaning his split flesh, occasionally causing new rivulets of red to streak down as she broke open a coagulated laceration.

Despite the extreme care, her efforts elicited whines, gasps, and growls. And, as the silk strip in her hand became saturated, she twice more tore off pieces of her dress. But reward only came when she touched too near his broken nose.

"Bitch!" the dragon roared in pain and fear. "How dare YOU hurt ME!" And Viserys thrust his hands into her belly and breasts, throwing her down.

"Ungrateful churl," snapped her pretend nephew, launching himself off his bed to grasp beneath her arms and lift her back up. "Princess are you …"

"Get your filthy hands off," Viserys shouted; and latched on to her as well. "She's mine, body and soul."

"Graceless lout," her would be protector spat back while giving a mighty jerk of his own in return.

"Ahhhhh," she cried in fear and pain as the two struggled over her. Tears erupting; the events of the entire night at last too much for even a proud Targaryen princess to withstand.

CLANG!

The scuffle paused at the slamming of the cabin's door.

The balding, aging Westerosi stood glaring a moment at them, then sprang into action. Shorter than either youth grappling her, he was nevertheless far more muscular and several swift, powerful clouts secured her release.

Or did it?

He picked her up, pulling her face into his bushy black beard, and strode out of the cabin.

An uneasy looking Dothraki immediately challenged them, but the knight snarled something to him in his own guttural language and they continued on. Up stairs he carried her until they came out on the slightly tilted deck, causing several sailors to halt a moment, earning them choice curses in Pentosi.

A fresh breeze of sea air temporarily cleared her head.

"Unhand me, Ser," she commanded, not unkindly.

"I beg your pardon, Princess," the man replied, sounding actually kind; setting her down as they neared a railing. She clutched it for support, afraid to stumble and fall into the swirling dark eddies.

Nearby she saw the narrow entrance to the harbor approaching as the ship picked up speed; sails billowing out with captured wind. And in the distance, illuminated by a half moon and the odd number of soaring bonfires of the Red Priests, the dark outlines of the square brick towers of Pentos. Daenerys hated the sea.

The sea meant assassins were near. And they must leave their latest safe haven, regardless of how poor or rich it was. From Braavos and the house with the red door they had sailed to Myr. Myr to Tyrosh. Tyrosh to Qohor and Qohor to Volantis; at least those journeys had not been mostly by sea, though still all by boat - whether upon the brine or sweet waters of wide rivers and giant lakes. Never for more than a year in any one place. Viserys cannily alwaysing hearing the approach of knives just before they struck.

So they escaped. Again and again and again. Each new destination finding them poorer than the last. From Volantis to Lys and lastly Lys to Pentos. And now … ?

"Ser?"

"Yes, Princess."

"What is your name, Ser?"

"Ser Jorah. Of House Mormont, Princess," he answered respectfully.

"Thank you, Ser," Daenerys replied, not recognizing the house. Then, as emotions gained the better of her, she choked out, "Pray tell. Where are we bound for?"

"Danger, your Grace. But one with a chance at freedom. Or so Khal Drogo promised," came the answer, which somehow sounded to apply as much to the knight as it did to her.

"Where might that be?"

"Westeros."

"Home," she whispered; for that is ever how Viserys called it, though she knew it not. And found herself surprised when the knight also echoed with a whisper …

"Home."

The ship sailed through the harbor entrance and began tossing about more vigorously in the stronger, unsheltered waters of the Narrow Sea. Instantly, her tummy knotted up. Bile clawed at her throat, trying to force its way up.

Only suffering and death awaited her, Daenerys Targaryen. The dragon's daughter. Princess. Stormborn. The Demon of the Trident would not get his revenge upon her. She would not grant him the satisfaction. From the maelstrom she was born. And back into the maelstrom she would die.

Dany leapt.

Cold swirling waters embraced her.

For a second she resisted. Then, finding a modicum of pride, she open lips and nostrils to breath in the …

Swoosh.

Only air passed into her lungs.

THUD.

She found herself back on the deck of her floating execution platform. Held in giant, strong, bronzed arms.

Up Daenerys tilted up her head to see who imprisoned her. Salty tears dripped down into her eyes from a black beard. The black beard of Drogo. He grinned at her. It couldn't be. Death itself defied her. Leaving only suffering.

'Too much. Too much. Too much. Too …'

Darkness swallowed her.


And unmercifully spat her back out again. She felt whatever she lay upon tip slightly. She was back on the boat. She had not mercifully died after all. It had not been a dream as she drowned and sank peacefully into the depths.

Bravely, she opened her eyes to spy wood beams above her, but not far above her. The cabin flickered with light. It was not the same room that held Viserys and the other.

Daenerys felt warm. Very warm.

She shifted.

"Careful," a strong voice called softly. His voice. Her captor's. Her rescuer's. Her Royal Injustice's.

Very close around her sat many baskets, all glowing at the top.

Warily and wearily, Dany arose to her knees and peered into one. Within, red hot coals sat upon a bed of sand. And atop the coals lay a large green egg. An egg near as large as her head.

"Your wedding present from fat Illyrio," Drogo spoke in perfect Common.

"Are we still to be married, mighty Khal?" she asked in a hushed tone. Not sure which answer to fear more.

"No."

'Death then.' "You take me to King's Landing and the Viler Usurper," she declared with as much Targaryen pride as she could muster.

"No, never there," the Dothraki warlord answered oddly with a low chuckle.

The confusion must have shown on her face.

"We go to Dragonstone." And any mirth present vanished instantly. "You must be very brave."