111 AC, VOLANTIS:

VHAELLA:

Volantis always glowed red at sunset.

The First Daughter was a port city, made rich with exploitation and trade— humid, and thick with the scents of the goods constantly being shipped in and out of the city. No matter where you went in the city, you couldn't escape its distinguishing smell. The air was permanently flowery, musky, acrid, and spiced, laced with the strong saline smell of the ocean waves that lapped rhythmically against the shores and the sounds of the common folk inhabiting the city down below.

It was vile.

From the height of her bedroom window in her Grandmother's luxurious villa, a pretty young girl— tall for her age and skinny, clad in a midnight blue Ghiscari-style tokkar intricately woven with dragon-like patterns in thread-of-gold— leaned over the balcony, blew a thick ringlet of jet black hair out of her face and rolled her dusky purple eyes in annoyance before turning away and slamming her window shut. Even from one of the highest points in the city, the stench of its streets still coiled in her nostrils and burned the back of her throat.

Vhaella Targaryen had lived in Essos her whole life, even if her name might suggest otherwise. The lass was ten and one years old, and no matter how hard she tried, she could never seem to recall anything even remotely significant about her father's family, nor had she ever met her the man. He was a second son or something of the sort, from a family called Baratheon far across the sea in Westeros, and according to her mother, he was probably long dead by now, and ultimately, of utter insignificance.

However, Elaena Targaryen was prone to lying in general, as well as waxing eloquent about the prestige of her own Targaryen lineage, so for all Vhaella knew, the man could still be alive after all.

Not that it mattered.

Her mother was determined to milk being a Targaryen for all it was worth— therefore she was determined for Vhaella to be one as well— and it appeared that the family vanity and arrogance ran deep, for long ago, before Vhaella was even a thought, her great-grandfather had gone so far as to pass Elaena off as a distant cousin of her own mother's, and given her Vhaella's grandmother, Saera Targaryen's, family name upon her birth as opposed to the bastard surname she allegedly should have received, and Elaena took that to heart, going so far as to allegedly insist during her labors that her own bastard daughter do the same. Vhaella had grown up on whispers and stories of the scandal surrounding her mother's birth— how they both were naturalized and originally supposed to be raised as royalty, but her grandmother's rebelliousness and strong willed personality as well as her mother's identical temperament and shameless behavior had caused Vhaella's great-great grandfather, Saera's father— a man called Jaehaerys who was rarely spoken about in her home— to ultimately lose his patience and goodwill, and had led to them both, mother and daughter, being disinherited and exiled when Elaena, heavily pregnant with a bastard child of her own, fled Westeros with her mother Saera, leading to that branch of the royal family settling in Volantis, had gotten in the way of all those tales and delusions of Westerosi grandeur, in the end.

But at least it had landed them in Essosi splendor, living lavishly in the land across the sea, the land where all that mattered was one's looks and how much gold they had.

Vhaella and the rest of her family were lacking in neither.

Presently, the three women, as well as Vhaella's distant half-uncles—Raemond, Areyon, and Zephyd— made up the Essosi branch of the Targaryen family— long having been exiled from Westeros, having made their fortune in pleasure houses, gambling lodges, taverns, mercenary work, the sale of art and weapons, and now, they had even found their way into the Tiger Triarch's good graces. Perhaps Targaryens were simply destined for royalty and prestige wherever they settled. That was the whole point of tonight, after all.

The Triarch's wife had died suddenly and suspiciously, and he had now, not even a year later, set his sights on Elaena. Inviting her—a graceful, slender woman with fair skin, thick waves of pale golden hair, and violet eyes that were just beginning to crinkle at the corners with age, with a sharp wit, razored tongue, and cruel temper— as well as Saera herself, and Vhaella, along with her uncles, to feast at his pyramid that night, a troublesome and gaudy affair organized during the middle of a cold political war most likely in order to officially claim Elaena's hand and strengthen the Old Blood.

How Vhaella wished she could have been one of her uncles! All three of them had chosen to decline the affair, giving multiple excuses as for their lack of attendance. Vhaella knew why. They had been simpering over each other even before the Triarch's wife had passed, with never a moment between the two of them that lacked a sly shared smile, shameless pout, or someone licking their lips. The Triarch and Elaena were inappropriate and insufferable.

Vhaella hated it.

The Triarch— for the life of her, she couldn't even be bothered to remember his name, Crach… Crazyzk… Cracoh… Crap… it was something like that— was an absolute militant nightmare— a man cut from stone and violence, who seemed to truly believe that if he threatened enough to beat her, that Vhaella would genuinely listen to a word that came out of his mouth. It had been almost seven months of the man playing at being her father, and she had yet to do so— going as far as daring to call the man craven— so the young woman often wondered when he was going to give up, as such things were not in her nature.

Her mother, on the other hand, in response to his actions over the years, had become fond of repeating the phrase, 'You are the seed of Aegon the Conqueror, Vhaella. You are of the Old Blood. You reside within the Black Walls. You come from royalty. Act like it, would you?' as of late, as if that was supposed to have made her any less rebellious, and those very same words were running through her head while she briefly considered if she had enough time to sneak down to the harbor and discreetly buy a vial of The Strangler to slip into her mother's goblet later that night at dinner. Thankfully a loud, sharp knock on her bedroom door snapped her out of her intrusive and unwelcome thoughts.

"Enter." Vhaella replied in the Bastard Valyrian dialect most commonly spoken amongst Volantines. She wrung her hands and smoothed her skirts nervously as the one who knocked stepped through the door, fearing that by the sheer pallor of her face they might be able to read her thoughts, before letting them fall to her sides limply and letting out a sigh of relief as her ramrod straight posture melted into something more relaxed. "Oh, it's only you, Amarra. Did you have any luck?"

Amarra was older than Vhaella by a few years and had been with the girl as long as she could remember. She was short, possessing a strong build for her age, with the milky pale skin common amongst the Lyseni people. She wore a simple brown shift, and her white-blonde hair was wrapped in a matching cloth. A bubble of discomfort welled up in Vhaella as her purple eyes lingered first on the small, hand shaped tattoo on her face, then on Amarra's ever present heavy gold collar studded with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.

The sight of it had always bothered her for as long as she could remember. First, it was a childlike curiosity— wondering why she couldn't take it off, or if it hurt to sleep wearing it. Then, she learned the true answer from Amarra, and her ignorance began to fade and her curious mind began to wonder— if her family had enough money to have their slaves' collar's custom made and laid with gemstones, why would they not just use that money to pay them for their work? Just a few years ago, she had asked her mother that question, and Elaena had simply repeated her favorite phrase before tugging cruelly on a handful of Vhaella's long curls before having Amarra whipped moments later.

Both girls had cried then, both out of anger and one out of pain.

Then, every whip in the villa had gone missing by the next morning.

"Missing something?" Amarra replied, windswept and half breathless with a bright smile on her face as she dangled a pair of strappy golden sandals from her fingertips, knowing well enough Vhaella herself had seemingly lost them last night and had been searching for them for the better part of the afternoon.

Vhaella gasped and clapped her hands together. "You found them! Thank the Gods you found them. A million thanks to you, Amarra. Help me with them, would you?" She hopped up to sit on the edge of her bed and slipped her feet into the sandals as Amarra raised her eyebrows.

"I was the one running around this fucked off city all day trying to find whichever tavern we left them in last night, praying— might I add, that no one had already sold them— while you did what? Sat here and ate cake? Lace them yourself." The Lyseni girl smirked and threw herself onto Vhaella's plush bed next to her as the Targaryen-Baratheon-girl began lacing her sandals up, before she exhaled dramatically and told a story about the man she'd had encountered at one of the taverns they frequented who'd helped her find Vhaella's shoes.

Most nobles would kill their slaves just for daring to look them in the eye, let alone have the audacity speak to them so casually, or outright defy them, or touch their personal property, but her and Amarra had always been different. They were each others dearest friends, they'd had an understanding since they were little girls— Amarra did enough, just enough to keep up appearances, and Vhaella did whatever she could to make Amarra's life easier, whether it be slipping her as much coin as she could get, giving her own jewels to sell and claiming she had lost them in a episode of childish irresponsibility, whatever she could. Amarra was vocal and open about her dislike for overly pampered nobles, and watching Vhaella turn into one was the last thing she'd do.

Vhaella would miss her most when she left.

Well, maybe her grandmother too.

Vhaella, now fully dressed, anxiously dug her fingers into the plush, deep green material that made up her bedspread. Amarra noticed and looked over at the girl quizzically.

"The fucking Lyseni pleasure house." Vhaella muttered in the Common Tongue. Currently, her mother and the Triarch had been toying with the idea of sending Vhaella to Lys— apparently her actions had become so unforgivable that working in a pleasure house would be the only thing to give her atonement— a punishment that had once been Saera's life. Vhaella couldn't be sure of who was to blame. She wondered who'd planted that idea in Elaena's head— the Triarch or her grandmother— for she truly doubted Elaena, cruel as she could be, would truly send her only daughter to such a place of her own volition. Either way, she was resigned to her fate. The people involved had so much power, and she had nothing. The Triarch would kill her, or her grandmother would make her, somehow. She prayed her mother would suddenly change her mind and intervene, and that the Triarch would suddenly drop the idea all together. Vhaella knew little of sex--save for a few unpleasant experiences with one of her mother's past lovers, a foul, lecherous man who always wanted her to sit on his lap--she knew how the deed was done, but she was a child, she still had her maidenhead. She did not bleed. She did not have the experience necessary to be a successful worker in a pleasure house, nor how to climb the ranks of one like her grandmother had. It weighed upon her heavily, and had ever since she overheard the couple talking about it while sneaking back into the villa after a night of fun with Amarra.

"I know what those places are like. I want you to know… I will be truly desolate without you, Vhaella. You truly are my dearest friend." The Lyseni girl replied in her own liquid tongue. She had rolled over and propped herself on her elbows to meet Vhaella's piercing purple gaze with her own deep blue one before the highborn girl leapt up, her deep sapphire blue skirts swishing around her now sandaled feet as she whirled and began to pace around the room.

"Don't speak of it with such finality, Amarra! There could still be a chance I could stay… who knows, maybe I'll find a way to break that collar off your neck and we can stowaway on the next ship to Yi Ti or something…" The mixture of High and Bastard Valyrian rolled off Vhaella's tongue as she threw out foul complaints and crude curses that were not benefitting someone of her station.

Another knock on the door made both girls jump— who else would be entering Vhaella's chambers at this hour? Had someone been eavesdropping? That shouldn't have been the case… Everyone of significance should have been busy getting ready for the feast. Primping, priming, prepping… whatever adults did before these sorts of things.

The surprise in the room hung in the air, palpable and tense, as Saera Targaryen herself stepped through the door without waiting for a response. How fitting, Vhaella thought. Grandmother has never been one for discretion. Both girls leapt up and stiffened, Vhaella's posture snapped into something befitting her station as she bowed her head in respect, pressing her palms flat to her thighs, while Amarra had followed Volantine custom and fallen to both knees, pressing her forehead and palms to the ground in a deep bow.

A display of honor to the lady of the house.

Saera herself had taught Vhaella how to make the herbal poultice she'd used to clean and treat Amarra's whipping wounds, but a slave girl in Volantis could never be too careful.

"Relax, girls." Saera said, with the authority of a woman who had seen everything the world had to offer and more. She placed a finger to her lips. "I won't tell."

Vhaella's grandmother was dressed in regal plum robes embroidered in black that brought out her violet eyes, and were cinched at the waist with a silver belt covered in serpent-like patterns. Her long silver curls had been brushed until they shone and were elegantly twisted behind her head in the half up-half down fashion she preferred, with a small circlet of diamond and amethyst glittering above her brow. A woman of at least five and sixty, perhaps more, maybe less, as she never was known to reveal her true age, and even with the finely lined face and gently stooping stature of an aged woman, Vhaella still found her grandmother beautiful. Beautiful and lethal, as it was known that anyone who had crossed her, man or woman, would soon pay a price very dear to them.

Saera turned to Amarra and dismissed her with a simple wave of her hand before turning her attention towards her granddaughter who, now alone, swallowed nervously, uncomfortable under her grandmother's calculating gaze. Vhaella prayed to any gods that were listening that the silence would break. Thankfully, one of them seemed to be listening.

"You look lovely tonight, Granddaughter." Saera said in flawless High Valyrian with a small smile as she walked slowly towards Vhaella. "The blue of your tokkar makes your complexion look lovely."

Vhaella only smiled allowing Saera to raise a slowly withering hand to her hair and smooth a strand of her dark curls back into their careful arrangement before she responded in kind. "As do you, Grandmother. That plum color is exquisite. But, I must confess my curiosity is getting the better of me," She bit her lip and smoothed her skirts in order to keep from wringing her hands. Vhaella knew her behavior lately had not exactly been ideal in her mother's eyes, what— with her sneaking out of the villa at every chance she got, playing kissing games with the lesser noble boys in the city, tormenting the guards and Triarch at every turn… but her grandmother was rarely one to get involved in any spats between the two, and if half the stories Vhaella had been told about her were true, she had done worse! Why was she concerning herself with her granddaughter's actions? The aging Dragon of Volantis had her own kingdom to run after all. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit? Especially so soon before the feast?" Despite her thoughts, Vhaella's smile never once faltered.

Saera had clasped her granddaughters hands and Vhaella prayed once more to the gods that she could not feel how clammy they were. "Oh, Vhaella, had I not known you better, I would think you were unhappy to see your grandmother." Her grandmother could be kindly when she wanted to be, but any sign of weakness within the family was ruthlessly snuffed out. Perhaps her behavior had been out of control after all… maybe it wasn't too late to ask for forgiveness. She'd lost count of missing cousins and aunts that had married into the family. Vhaella hoped she wouldn't be the next one to go.

"Alas, this is of importance— there is someone I believe you ought to meet before we depart for the evening. He shall be joining us at dinner, after all. I believe he may be of interest to you." The wave of anxiety passed and the young woman groaned inwardly at her grandmother's words. It wouldn't be the first time Saera had tried to set her up with a suitor at an inopportune time.

She had been anxious about her grandmother for nothing.

It was her favorite practical joke to play on her granddaughter.

"Grandmother, I-I appreciate your invitation, I do— but my hair is clearly a mess! I should see that Amarra fixes it before the feast. And I ought not to in—" Her anxious rambling was abruptly cut off, as Saera squeezed her hands sharply, scrutinizing her granddaughter with her deep purple eyes.

"You wouldn't want to meet a member of your own family Vhaella? He's come all the way from across the Narrow Sea." There was warning in her grandmother's tone now, her eyes slightly narrowed. It was clear now that there was no jest, and that Vhaella did not have a choice in the matter.

"Family from abroad..?" The statement had surprised Vhaella enough to where she stopped her protests and could only raise a sharply winged eyebrow at her grandmother.

Manipulative old hag...

The old woman's eyes narrowed, a micro expression that was only visible to those who truly knew her, and the younger girl flushed with embarrassment. Was her grandmother wondering if her own granddaughter was truly that dense? If so, Saera probably feared that Vhaella's road in life would be undoubtedly difficult.

Here she had her golden opportunity out of Volantis, away from her mother, the Triarch… her grandmother could only protect her for so long, after all, and she was denying it! Realizing how much of an idiot she was being, Vhaella met her grandmother's calculating gaze with one of her own. Before she spoke again, the old woman's expression soured slightly.

"My Nephew— The Rogue Prince, brother of the Westerosi King, Daemon Targaryen has come to visit."