111 AC, VOLANTIS:

VHAELLA:

"Pardon me… er, grand Uncle…?" The High Valyrian rolled off her tongue effortlessly and dryly, sardonically reciting her unfiltered thoughts before continuing, "You just said I would have to change my last name to…" She paused briefly, changing the placement of her tongue before repeating the Common name he had just uttered. "Storm?"

Vhaella snapped the fan she kept strapped around her wrist per Volantine fashion out, and rapidly fluttered it over her face, praying the folds of black Myrrish lace and blue Yi Tish silk would hide the irritation on her face.

What an idiotic surname.

She was seated in the great room of her grandmother's villa, long into the night and after the god awful dinner at the Triarch's pyramid— she was right, the Triarch and her mother were to be married in a month—around a low wooden table surrounded by flat cushions with gilded embroidery, right between her grandmother and her grandmother's nephew— a man somehow young enough to be Vhaella's own father, and due to a bottle of sweet, golden Pentosi wine, it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted off her shoulders.

As much as she hated to admit it, Saera had been right. Daemon was of interest to her. Vhaella had found her grand-uncle mostly charming and handsome, much like a younger male version of her grandmother, but she definitely understood why he was oft referred to as the Rogue Prince. All throughout the night's earlier dinner, Daemon—once a Prince of Westeros, until his most recent banishment, he'd explained, had been making snide, extremely inappropriate comments and jokes about the guests, the food, her mother, the smell, whatever he could— and when called out by anyone, would simply smooth things over with a snakelike smile, a honey laced threat, or by resting a hand on the thin hilt of the sword that lingered seemingly ever present by his side.

Vhaella saw all of it.

She wanted that power. She envied it. She coveted it secretly, even at her young age. The ability to make a whole room quiet just by a simple gesture? That was something she'd only ever seen her grandmother or the Triarch do… never anyone else.

Never her.

"Only temporarily." Daemon stopped, noticing the ice that crept into Vhaella's strikingly purple eyes, before continuing with a smirk on his face. "I am fully aware of how ridiculous that is. But, your mother is a naturalized Targaryen bastard, however her father was also highborn. A Beesbury? Wasn't that so, Saera?"

Her grandmother nodded, gaze fixed on the wall.

"You've got to be… ah, what does it matter, anyway? As of your father, Vhaella, he was a Baratheon, that is true, but him and your mother never wed nor can they ever, as he is long dead, thankfully, and I doubt his brother Borros has the time nor the want to naturalize you. Not with four trueborn daughters of his own, no. As for you… your birth was never recorded since you were born in Essos." He shifted his sharp, deep violet gaze to his aunt almost disapprovingly. "Westerosi culture would require the King, who is a Targaryen— or a Baratheon, a member of a mere great noble house, to naturalize your birth, or you would be treated as a bastard. So you pick what you'd rather be, royalty or nothing?"

"I see." Vhaella said, taking a sip of the wine and relishing in its sweetness, swilling it in her cup, replaying and taking the time to understand her grand-uncle's words before replying. She stared around the room for a minute, chewing his words and swallowing them along with her annoyance before she spoke again. "We have a thousand bastards in Volantis. So, in Westeros, bastardy is shameful and everything is carried through the male line? There are no matriarchies? How absurd."

"Vhaella! Remember yourself!" Saera chastised, shooting her granddaughter a sharp look. Those seemed to run in the family as well. "Daemon, truly you do not think the same king who exiled you, the blood of the same king who did the very same to I, would do so for an Eastern girl he's never met?" Saera herself interjected sharply, shooting her brother a withering look while slowly tapping her fingers on the table. "I have not forgotten the cruelty of Southern politics in Westeros, nephew."

"My brother has a soft heart, and you very well know, your niece Rhaenys' mother was a Baratheon, Saera. I hear your sons keep you well informed." He shot her grandmother another sharp glare before continuing.

Vhaella did not like when adults spoke with their eyes.

She did not like when secrets were being kept from her.

She needed to pay attention.

"They are not the same men. Family is dear to my brother, the terms of my own exile were imposed upon myself. Now, illness has rooted in Viserys, and he weakens slowly but surely over time. His daughter, my… niece— your cousin." Daemon's strained voice was not ignored by Vhaella. His throat tightened before he cut himself off and continued speaking. Whoever he was talking about— she wasn't only his cousin. That much was obvious.

"Rhaenyra stands to take the throne next. If I were to set sail back to Pentos with Vhaella, I would write to Rhaenyra and ask for Vhaella to live in King's Landing amongst her children as her ward. There, she can be naturalized and live with her family. She could even claim a dragon of her own. She would live as royalty."

It's not like it didn't make sense.. but why? Why did he want Vhaella? How did he even know of her existence. She hadn't any contact with her uncles in years. What could possibly be so dire to where someone she had been estranged from for generations would need her by their side? The only things that Vhaella could come up with were a betrothal, or…

Or a war.

"It appears there will soon be another succession crisis, Daemon, and you mean to use my granddaughter as a pawn in your political scheme?" Saera had narrowed her eyes to match Daemon's. "Why her? Why my Vhaella?"

"Better a pawn than a fucking Lyseni pleasure house." Vhaella muttered darkly, in the Common Tongue, brow furrowed, clearly deep in thought. A dragon? Of my own? To bond with a dragon had secretly been one of her deepest desires. War did not seem so daunting with the possibility of a dragon. That, or it would simply just eat her and everything would be over with. Her grandmother had no dragon of her own, but she'd given Vhaella the opportunity to claim one as a child. They were common in Essos for families of the Old Blood. Her mother had forbidden it though, declaring that if her own egg did not hatch, there was no way there would be enough Targaryen blood in her daughter for her to have a dragon.

Realizing her disrespect, she blanched before replying quickly in High Valyrian.

"Forgive me, Grandmother. Uncle."

"A Lyseni Pleasure house?" Daemon sharply questioned, responding to her in kind as he drummed his fingers on the table quickly. Vhaella noticed that he lacked the slight accent that she had when speaking the Common Tongue. "You were going to send her to a fucking Lyseni Pleasure house, Saera? Really? It may have been your duty to whore yourself out across the continent, but to subject a young woman with Targaryen blood—who would easily be naturalized across the sea as a noble, a princess, in fact— to condemn her to a whorehouse would be fucking unforgivable. You have done this girl a disservice." Daemon spat his words, but he carried his anger like the rest of the family. Vhaella could tell it barely simmered below the surface, just waiting for an opportunity to boil over.

Unfortunately, that trait really did seem to run in the family.

"Do not speak to my grandmother like that!" Vhaella slammed her goblet down and was now staring at her great-uncle furiously and without fear, flames blazing in her amethyst eyes. An eleven year old girl standing up to a dragon.

Daemon Targaryen only chuckled in response.

"This is the first I've heard of this…" Saera trailed off, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she gently fingered the silver chain around her neck. There was a frown on her face now, worry only further creasing her softly lined face.

"What's all this about Lys, Vhaella, dear? What has missed my ears?" Saera's tone was dangerous, quiet. Like a snake coiling and preparing to strike. Vhaella couldn't tell if her grandmother was more upset that her only current granddaughter was going to be sent to a pleasure house or if she was more concerned that a plot had been crafted without her knowledge.

"The Triarch… and my mother… I overheard them discussing sending me to Lys by the end of this month… to keep it a secret from me, to have me work in a whorehouse… and have me stolen in the night… 'Defiling a Lady of Westeros,' they called it… I thought you knew. I thought everyone knew." Vhaella found she couldn't meet either of her relatives eyes at this point as she fixed her gaze determinedly on the amber liquid in her cup. Part of it was the shame of what she had just said, the filth of the words alone, or if it was the fact that her grandmother could potentially be seeing her potential fate in her minds eye, having lived it herself, but of a voluntary nature.

"Vhaella, my dear," Saera began, clasping one of her granddaughters small, shaking hands in both of her own. Vhaella faced her grandmother, knowing the terrified look in her violet eyes was not something she could hide at present, but upon seeing her granddaughter's face, there was no disgust to be found there.

"Listen to me and listen well, my little viper. There is a difference between doing what I did of your own volition, and being forced or coerced to. And that decision— that line in it of itself that you, and you alone, get to draw— is crucial in the matter. It preserves your mind, when sometimes you cannot preserve your body. It enables you to turn tragedy into beauty, yes. But there is great risk that comes with it. I was not behind this. I swear to you by fire and blood, granddaughter— this was not me." Her grandmother was wide-eyed, almost desperate, if Vhaella had not known better. It was clear she was telling the truth. That only made Vhaella wonder why she had been so keen on her meeting Daemon. Perhaps it had simply been a stroke of luck indeed. Saera had known the inner and outer workings of a pleasure house for decades, but Saera was not Vhaella. Vhaella lost herself in her thoughts. Saera put them into boxes. Vhaella thought her grandmother may have caught a glimpse of fear, undoubtedly she had been a scared little girl just like Vhaella at some point in her life. Why would she want the same for her own blood? It made no sense.

If her grandmother did not want this for her, then why did her mother?

At this, Vhaella began to cry.

Crying did not come easily or often to Vhaella Targaryen.

Vhaella Storm would be no different.

Her tears stemmed not from sadness, but from anger. Rage that even at eleven years old had been stifled for so long it still would not allow itself to express itself the way it needed to.

She wiped at her tears before fanning her face again.

Why did all of this have to happen in the first place?

Vhaella did not trust the man in front of her, nor anyone in her own home.

Only her grandmother had proved herself worthy of trust, and here she was sending her away.

Her throat was getting tight again.

No.

Stupid, selfish girl. Look what you caused.

Her inner monologue was brutal.

"Do something, grandmother." The words were barely a fearful whisper on Vhaella's lips, as that was all the sound she could muster. She did not want to go to Pentos, let alone Westeros. She wanted to stay in Volantis with Amarra, and wait for another ship, one bound for somewhere even further to take them away. Amarra, her best friend, who was now sure to suffer after Vhaella's departure. Losing her composure completely, she cried once more at that, wiping at her eyes furiously with the back of her hands, and a frown marring her features.

She snapped her fan closed and smoothed at her skirts.

"What would you suggest I do? If it is within my power, I shall make it happen." Her grandmother was speaking in earnest. She did not want to see her only granddaughter subjected to a traumatic, miserable fate. If Saera could save Vhaella, she would.

"Make them stop." More desperation. Her cheeks reddened. This was pathetic.

"He is the Triarch, granddaughter. My power when it comes to him is only limited."

Such was not a lie.

"Grandmother… please…. why?" Vhaella could not make eye contact with anyone. Her voice was a mere squeak.

"Sometimes there is no answer… sometimes the gods are cruel, Vhaella."

"Fuck the gods." Cruel words spat in the Common Tongue. A further curse upon herself, she was sure.

At this, Daemon had laughed. She was too upset to notice, but her tears had dried long ago, replaced by eyes of stone, cut from amethysts themselves. Daemon had told Vhaella that she was a bastard daughter of royal blood. The ruling family on the opposite continent. She felt quite sick and her posture had definitely slacked. Her own mother, the woman who carried her across the Narrow Sea, who, while hardened through the events of her life had seemingly risked everything for Vhaella, appeared to truly have only thought of her as a thorn in her pretty side.

"I want to bring my handmaiden. She's my best friend. I do not want to travel without her." Vhaella's mind spun as she thought about Amarra. She couldn't just leave her there— it would be beyond cruel. Amarra would never understand.

"Who is your handmaiden?"

"Amarra of Lys."

"Absolutely not."

Her temper flared.

"Excuse me? Why not?"

"Surely my granddaughter, your great niece, should be allowed some comfort as you tear her from everything and everyone she has ever known?" Yes. This was within Saera's power. Saera could make this happen. She owed Vhaella that much.

"From what she's saying, it sounds like her cunt of a mother has been doing a fine enough job of that already. In Pentos, she will have aunts and cousins. She will also have me. She will have cousins her age and older in King's Landing. My brother's bitch of a wife is the most pious creature you'll meet from here to Leng. A Lyseni girl, no matter what profession— she'd make sure your friend would end up taking your spot in an even worse whorehouse. I apologize, niece."

He was not entirely sorry.

Vhaella wondered if he had any true friends. If so, he would understand her sentiments.

"What if she's not Lyseni? What if she's Myrrish? Or Tyroshi or Volantine? That queen knows nothing. I need her. I cannot do this alone." Vhaella would not leave Amarra. They had sworn to each other many moons ago that if they could hop on a ship of their own volition and get out of Volantis, they would.

No.

She was not leaving her friend.

No more pleas.

"I will not do this without her." Vhaella was adamant.

"A viper, indeed. But you could be a dragon." Daemon said, his gaze never leaving his great- neice, observing her curiously.

"Vhaella Targaryen." Her grandmother speaking the Common Tongue was rare, and snapped her granddaughter out of the jumbled, dark thoughts she was prone to.

"You are a beautiful girl, who will surely flower and grow into a beautiful woman." Saera spoke as if her words were prophecy or fact, still intensely holding onto Vhaella's hands. Vhaella thought she might have seen a glimmer of a tear in one of her grandmother's eyes, but she was too busy holding back her own as well as listening to Saera's words to confirm them.

"You have a sharp mind, and a keen ear, my viper. I will see to it that Amarra is given Myrrish documents of passage by morning." Saera suddenly cupped Vhaella's face, her grip was strong and there were no tears in her eyes.

Vhaella could tell Saera was not lying when she uttered the words that came next.

"You will do well in Westeros."

By the light of daybreak next morning, still buzzing with her grandmother's blessing, Vhaella had her things packed in a trunk and was flanked by her— well, she still didn't know what to call him— Daemon, and Amarra, whose eyes had almost bugged in disbelief when Saera had unlocked her golden collar and slipped her those promised, undeniably well faked, Myrrish documents.

Vhaella had told Amarra the choice was hers.

That her life was hers, that she could do whatever she wanted.

Amarra, old enough to be married but young enough to still be a girl would not leave Vhaella's side.

Now, the two girls were boarding a ship, one grander than they had ever seen in their lives, decorated with images of seahorses, on the sails, the mast— everywhere Vhaella looked it seemed there was a damned seahorse— to Pentos, sailing towards the beginning of new lives.

They did not look back. Not once.

notes/

ty for reading! i'm doing all this from mobile so formatting is a bitch. my apologies. this story is on wattpad as well under the username, @/justcocoxo you can find my lame tiktok edits of the 2 of them @/trashpandawrites