Lyonel was glad to see the shape of Dragonstone emerging from summer sea mists. The journey across the Narrow Sea had been slow and rough, with several storms delaying them from returning home in as quick a time as Lyonel would have liked. Daenerys had suffered as well, she was clearly used to travel on the roads, but not by sea, she spent more time than he would have preferred up on the deck emptying what little food she ate over the railings. She had not taken his tales of her father well, and she was still in denial over how her father could possibly have been as evil as he was. She would accept it or not, Lyonel knew, it didn't matter to him, he was simply delivering her to his father, he didn't know for what purpose, but he did not need to, all that mattered was delivering her, and that no-one knew he had been the one to take her, apart from those on the ship.
His uncle Rolland came up beside him and rested his arms on the railings next to him. "Your father has been busy," he noted, indicating the harbour, which was becoming more and more visible through the mist. Rolland was right, there were dozens more ships gathered in the harbour, emerging from the mist like dead leviathans, floating aimlessly, sails rolled up and the decks empty, apart from the occasional ghostly figure on the decks that followed them intently. Their figureheads; griffins, naked women, warriors, dragons and other exotics, a sphinx in the motion of charging carved from silver decorated a large trading vessel to the left while a rugged warship with two hundred oars and an iron ram floated to the right.
There were warships, trading vessels, shapes of ships Lyonel recognised as those favoured by pirates. He saw embroidered flags of Lys, Gulltown, Volantis and Myr hanging flaccid from the tops of masts, all dwarfed by the crowned stag of Baratheon, which flew from most vessels there. That could be dangerous father, claiming ships for your own that way. Buthe retained that prerogative as Master of Ships of the Seven Kingdoms, and his father always had a reason for what he did. It was not Lyonel's place to question.
"He has," Lyonel commented, looking over the vessels. Now that they were closer he could see things more clearly. On the nearest ships he saw guardsmen and sailors from Dragonstone swarming over the decks, many trade ships seemed to be being converted into warships, which perplexed Lyonel. Such actions were far from unheard of, in times of war, but there was no war going on, unless something had changed since he had been gone. His father would know and would surely tell him when he arrived. "Bring the Targaryen up on deck," he said, "her hair must be covered, but she should see her birthplace from outside before the inside."
Rolland nodded and pushed off the rails to return to the lower decks and retrieve Daenerys. Alone once more, Lyonel's thoughts turned to his sister. Shireen had been forced to accompany the King to the North, and he feared for her, for in most journeys to other houses, they went together, as one. In the few archery contests they attended, Shireen rarely competed, but they were always there together. Though when she did compete he beat her without fail. It was not her fault, but she had difficulty fitting the training into her schedule, alongside her womanly pursuits, but Lyonel trained, without fail, every single day. He had been several months, maybe even a year, he could not fully remember, faster than her in surpassing their mother to gain their Dragonbone bows back, but he had waited until she had done so as well. His hand went to his ruined right shoulder, black and hard as the Dragonglass beneath Dragonstone. He did not know how he and his sister had contracted the near fatal disease, but they were the only ones on Dragonstone to do so. Their mother had spent most of every day in prayer, and fasted nearly as much as Baelor the Blessed had. But, after seven days of praying and eating barely anything, the gods had heard her prayers, and the infection had ceased it's course.
Lyonel had always felt guilty, irrationally, he knew, but he suspected that he may have been the one to pass the disease to his sister, for he had been told that he had held her left arm tightly, and her infection had only appeared after his own. Shireen held nothing against him though, and she was still alive. She had often joked that, thanks to Greyscale, she needed no bracer when she fired her arrows, which was true enough, but he would rather his sister not bear the marks of such a disease.
"Is this it?" He heard a soft voice ask, and he turned to see a brown haired girl he did not recognise.
"Who are you?" He demanded, his hand drifting towards his knife.
"It is her, nephew," Rolland said, coming up behind her. "Saerra, the woman we brought back from Pentos, dyed it to hide her."
Lyonel then noticed the violet eyes, and realised it was Daenerys Targaryen. "I see," he said, relaxing his arm. "Is this what?" He asked her.
"Where I was born?"
Lyonel nodded. "It is," he said simply. "Dragonstone, the birthplace of Aegon the Conqueror, your birthplace and my own."
She gripped the rails tightly. "It's so… dark," she said.
Lyonel nodded once more. "It is."
"Will we be disembarking soon?" She asked timidly.
He pointed to the next available jetty, then turned and called to Maric. "Land here, half sail!" The main sails were wound up, allowing for greater manoeuvrability, and less speed, more important when trying to anchor a ship. When their speed had cut sufficiently, Lyonel called out. "Cut sail!" and the last sails were rapidly folded up. When finally they were at a halt, Lyonel nodded over to the anchormen, who hefted the iron device over the edge of the ship and dropped it into the bay.
He turned to Daenerys Targaryen. "Are you ready to see the place of your birth?"
She nodded.
The two of them, together with Rolland, Aerion, Saerra and her children, were aboard the first rowing boat making it"s way to the shore of Dragonstone, landing at a fishing village a short distance from the fortress for which the island was named. On Dragonstone there were many such villages, several of whom boasted peasants with Valyrian features, Dragonseeds and their descendants, from when the Targaryens had practiced the tradition of the First Night, many of them long after Jaehaerys the Conciliator had outlawed the act. Another way the Targaryens considered themselves above the law. They had to be removed, and Daenerys would come to terms with that or not. It didn't concern him.
Between the village and the fortress was a small camp that had not been there when Lyonel had left the island for Pentos. There were not a hundred men in the camp, and several of them were in garb that was not common in the Seven Kingdoms, sellswords, if he was to guess, based on their attire and weapons. More were dressed in boiled leather and light mail, drilling with spears, pikes and axes. He led Daenerys by the hand through the camp, not wanting her to feel too threatened and uncomfortable and, more importantly, he did not want to lose her. If she went running off then he was a failure.
They made their way up a steep path to the castle, It was rough stone but had been carved smooth as the Valyrians of old had in their great empire in the east with their roads and sphinxes and carved stone dragons. Where the path rose too steeply to continue steps had been hewn into it until it levelled out again. He glanced up, knowing that there were plenty of overhangs were a force of archers could rain damage and death on this path, wide enough for no more than four men abreast to traverse. Dragonstone was never meant to house an army, as some fortresses were, but to defend against it. A dragon would have been the ultimate defence, raining fire into the pass, but two hundred men could serve just as well, archers above, men at arms on the path, locked shields, a host could be cut to bloody ribbons before it even reached the fortress and had to contend with the walls and defences there.
They passed two sturdy watchtowers built into the stone to protect watchers from the rain and storms that came in from the sea. The men on the towers were not lazy and moved to inspect him, but stopped when they saw who he was and let him pass to the gate without challenge, which swung open on his approach.
"Lord Lyonel!" Lyonel cracked a small smile at the sound of the Master-at-Arms, who had taught him in the use of the sword and his preferred weapon of hand to hand combat, the mace. Ser Gerold Pyle, a tall gruff man with a close trimmed brown beard but no hair on the top of his head at all. It seemed that he had been I the process of training some men, for a force of about twenty were currently sparring together in one corner of the courtyard. "You have been gone a while. Your father has been impatient for your return."
"I understand it," he replied, "but we were delayed by storms on our way back from Pentos."
"Well," Gerold said, looking back to his men. "I'd best not keep these layabouts still too long, like as not they'll slice their own toes off. Your father spends most of his time in the chamber of the painted chamber, with luck your mother might be there too, she has been spending more time there than usual," he explained, which surprised Lyonel. His mother much preferred the environment of Aegon"s Garden, and his parents had never been close, close enough to father three children; his older brother, Orys, had died in infancy before he was born, but other than that, they were more acquaintances than lovers. Lyonel knew they had never shared a bedchamber on a more permanent basis than their father's visits there, and his mother had rarely gone to King's Landing with their father, instead remaining behind. It was not that their relationship was especially cold, but there were closer parents in the world. In their own infancy, he and Shireen had suffered from nightmares like any child, and often snuck of to their mother's bedchamber to curl up with her. There had been little risk of their father coming and finding out even when he was at the castle.
"Come," Lyonel said to Daenerys, not wanting to use her name, in case his father did not want it well known that he had brought, thanks to him the only remaining Targaryen back to the Seven Kingdoms. He only hoped his father did not punish him for killing Viserys Targaryen on the docks of Pentos.
He led Daenerys up through spiralling staircases, taking her soft and cold hand to make sure that she did not dawdle to wander at the dragonesque design features of the fortress of her ancestors. He pushed open the door to the chamber of the painted table, to see that Gerold had indeed been right, his mother and father were both there. His father's black hair and blue eyes that he had inherited from him, and the sharp, eagle like features he had inherited from his mother turned to him as he stepped through the doorway.
"Lyonel," his mother gasped, smiling, rushing over to him and embracing him tightly. "You are safe."
"Safe and well mother," he replied. He and Shireen had been blessed with their mother's sharp features, but she looked more like a hawk than either of them, her brown hair in a widow's peak like an eagle"s hood before falling to her back in a single long tail, and her eyes as sharp as any arrow. There was little that was missed by them.
He turned to his father. "I have brought who you sent me for father."
His father, stern and hard as always, got up and made his own way over to them. Daenerys tried to hide behind him, but Lyonel pushed her to the front. Stannis Baratheon seized her face in one hand, looking into her eyes. He released her chin and grabbed a lock of her hair between thumb and forefinger, rubbing roughly. "Dye?" He asked and Lyonel nodded. His father turned back to Daenerys Targaryen. "Welcome home Daenerys Targaryen," he said and then turned to his wife. "Take her to her chambers, wife, remember, your maids only."
She nodded and took Daenerys by the hand. He smiled at her, hopefully encouragingly, but if not, his mother would assuage her fears before long, he was sure. "The rest of you out," his father continued. "I need to speak to my son, alone." Lyonel turned to Rolland and looked to Saerra. Rolland nodded in understanding, taking them out of the room. Lyonel knew Rolland would set them in here. He turned back to his father. "You did well," his father told him, filling him with pride. "She will prove most useful in the near future."
"How?" Lyonel asked. He knew his father would explain in time, but he would like to know why he had risked his own neck. "I fail to see how one princess from a failed dynasty can be useful to anyone.
"In time I will reveal how," his father explained simply, "but I cannot risk you revealing anything at the moment, so I cannot tell you anything." The lack of trust felt like a blade of ice piercing Lyonel's heart after it had been warmed by his previous comment. His father had never been one to mince words, but that did not mean they never hurt.
But he knew it was not his place to question his father when it came to grand strategies. So instead he replied, "as you say father."
"Your sister should be back in King's Landing before long," his father continued. Lyonel felt a smile cross his face. "You shall be going to meet her in the city." The smile vanished, replaced by a frown.
"Why?" He asked.
He heard his father grind his teeth. "They are throwing another tourney, this one to celebrate Lord Eddard Stark"s appointment as Hand of the King. There shall be an archery contest as part of it."
"But father," Lyonel interrupted him. "There is surely more for me to do here, one archery contest can be missed, I saw the ships, and it is my place to assist you."
"And in attending you will be assisting me," his father replied, looking at him sternly. "You are known for your archery, if you do not attend, people will talk, they will no doubt be talking about my withdrawal already."
Lyonel nodded. "It was sudden, and people will ask about the ships before long. If not already."
His father looked strongly at him. "I will not give the Lannisters more reason to grow suspicious of me, not yet."
"The Lannisters?" Lyonel asked, but his father did not react, so he did not push the issue.
"Go to the capital, win the archery, for I suspect that we will need all the gold we can get before long," his father commanded. "And when there, people will no doubt ask you about me, and what I am doing, pass off a suitable story that throws their attention, you were always better at that than I."
Lyonel nodded, struggling not to smile, his more glib tongue than his father had gotten him into trouble with Lord Stannis more than once. "I shall tell them that you are sour about Lord Eddard being appointed Hand of the King , and not yourself," he said, and he heard his father grind his teeth again, making him suspect that he would be telling a truth to disguise a lie, rather than another lie. But it was warranted, his father had earned that seat from his uncle, just as he had earned Storm's End after the Rebellion. But once more he had been denied.
"That will do," his father finally replied, curtly. "Now go to your mother, spend some time with her, and the Targaryen as well, keep an eye on her whilst you are here."
Lyonel nodded and left the chamber of the Painted Table, with his father seated at the large throne positioned in the position of Dragonstone, looking over the map, brooding, as Aegon the Conqueror had three hundred years previously.
He made his way to Aegon's garden, sitting down on a bench that was, like most things about the castle, shaped with dragon motifs. He had missed the smell of pine that was ever present in the air when he was at sea, although he was not unfond of the sea air either. He had many memories running around the garden with Shireen in his youth, their uncle watching over them when he was not fulfilling his duties as Castellan whilst their father was at King's Landing. He smiled as he remembered those days of happiness, even with their greyscale. "Lyonel," he turned to look at his mother, who had entered the garden, her dress of light green and white flowed about her like the air around an eagle's wing.
He got up and hugged her. "Mother," he whispered back, "how are you?"
"Better for your return," she replied, "I feared the worst when I heard of Pentos, worse still when I heard of the Storms."
"Pentos?" Lyonel asked, she was not supposed to know about that.
She nodded and looked at him. "Your father only told me of where you were going when you were gone, I had complete faith that you would succeed, but I feared you would not have left fast enough."
"Fast enough?" He asked.
Her thin eyebrows raised. "Have you not heard?" She asked. He shook his head. "News from sailors who arrived before you, the Dothraki, angry at their disrupted wedding, sacked the city. Thousands were killed and thousands more taken into slavery. The Prince and the Magisters were torn apart by horses and children were trampled under their hooves."
Lyonel took a breath. "It will be some time before that city recovers to anything like what it was, and it was one of the weakest of the Free Cities."
"Matters in the east do not concern us for now," Lyonel replied softly. "Unless my uncle decides it would be a good excuse for war."
"Or they learn that you are responsible," she added. Sighing, she turned around, "nothing can be done about it now, come, walk with me." Lyonel caught up to her as they made their way down dark corridors, lit only by torches which glowed faintly from the light of torches from brackets in the wall.
"Do you know why father had me do it?" He asked her.
His mother laughed. "I am no more your father's confidant than he is mine," she replied. "He had his reasons I am sure, and I have my suspicions, as I always do."
"What suspicions?" He asked as they found their way to a balcony, looking towards King's Landing.
She sighed and looked around, which Lyonel found odd, surely she could trust the people here, she had known them as long as she had been at Dragonstone, which was only a few years less than them. His father had replaced the entire Targaryen household with men of his own choosing when he was awarded the seat. "Your father ordered you to leave as soon as he arrived back from King's Landing, he… came to my chambers that night."
Lyonel grimaced slightly, he did not want that image in his head, but his mother had a point he was sure, she always did. "Normally it is… dutiful, he comes hoping to conceive." Now Lyonel bit his lip, the life of his parents in the bedchamber was not what he wanted to hear about. "But this time… he was tense, troubled, he came seeking some form of comfort, I could tell, so I gave it to him, as best I could. Something happened in King's Landing, he saw something, or learned something troubling to him."
"Something about her?" Lyonel asked. "You think he brought her hear because something was happening in King's Landing?"
His mother looked at him. "Ever since he returned he has been more critical than usual of the Lannisters, the Kingslayer and the queen in particular. I believe he is plotting against them. As well as your father is able to plot."
"How will Daenerys Targaryen come into this plot?" Lyonel asked. "If he seeks to gain our uncle in the struggle against them, then he should deliver her head to him, or had me bring the body of the Targaryen prince. Keeping her hidden hardly helps us in that regard."
"I do not know," his mother replied. "Just be careful, Lyonel. You're father is sending you to the capital, that hole full of rats who would tear you apart for amusement. Be strong and keep you're wits about you. And come home safely with your sister."
He nodded. "I'll bring Shireen home safe and sound, mother," he said fiercely. "I will never let anything happen to her."
