Mid April, 301 AC
"Finally, Your Grace, Admiral Groleo reports a small fleet of swan ships docked a sennight past."
"Here to trade?" Dany asked. Aegon's handsome brow furrowed, the man who served as both her husband and Hand combing long fingers through his fine silver hair.
"So they say. Their holds are filled with gems and spices from the Summer Isles, emeralds, rubies, and pearls, nutmeg and cinnamon and pepper, as well as orange and lemon wines from Dorne."
"Very fine vintages, Your Grace," said Ser Jon Connington, casting a glance at his foster son. His red-grey hair shone in the torchlight; it suited him much better than the blue Tyroshi dye he had worn while hiding her nephew. "I would be honored to gift Your Graces a tun to toast your happy news."
Daenerys smoothed a hand over her stozar, stroking the shimmering crimson damask that covered the small swell of her belly. She liked to think that she had conceived the first night they lay together, their silver hair mingling on the pillows, Aegon bending down to kiss her even as he planted his seed. Mirri Maz Duur had sworn Dany's womb would never quicken again; how foolish she had been to believe the maegi's spiteful words.
"What do these wines taste like?" She inquired.
"Like summer sunshine," Aegon said wistfully. "I had a glass, once, when we were near Pentos. The first sip was sweet, the second smooth, the third tart." He switched from High Valyrian to the Common Tongue. "A gift from Magister Illyrio, in honor of my mother."
His face fell, and Dany's heart ached for her nephew. Aegon had grown up without any of his blood; he could not even write to his mother lest the Usurper find him. The poor princess thought her child dead, and all Aegon knew of Elia of Dorne was the little Jon Connington or Ser Barristan Selmy could tell him. She did not know if he had dared asked the Kingslayer about his mother; Dany could not bear to ask him of her own. At least she had Ser Barristan, who had served Rhaella for over twenty years.
"Was there aught else I should know of the swan ships?" Dany asked.
"They bore passengers, Your Grace." Groleo shifted in his chair, her master of ships clearly eager to return to the docks. "Unusual, with so little cabin space aboard."
Aegon nodded, indigo eyes serious. "I asked Moqorro to look into his fires, lest these passengers pose some risk to Your Grace."
As one the council turned to the red priest. Embroidered flames of orange silk shimmered upon his scarlet robes, the color vibrant against dark skin the color of jet.
"I looked into the flames." Moqorro's voice was a deep rumble, like the echo of thunder. "The Lord of Light showed me a black adder baring its fangs, a green dragon biting its own tail, a shrub of pink starflowers with two babes hidden amongst her petals, a red wolf crowned with leaves, a knight whose shield bore a mailed fist, another knight bearing suns with crescent stars, and last a blazing sun with great wings that hid the rest in shadow."
"Adders and wolves die as easily as men," Strong Belwas boomed. "Strong Belwas will bring back snakeskin sandals and a wolfskin cloak for the little queen, if she likes." Moqorro said nothing, his face as stern and unyielding as stone; it fell to Dany to give her Queensguard a disapproving look. The eunuch held his tongue, a broad grin stretching across his smooth cheeks.
Ser Jon frowned. "The black adder is the sigil of House Wyl; the dragon biting its own tail is the sigil of House Toland. I venture the Summer Islanders brought Dornishmen along with their Dornish wines."
"Ser Barristan?" The faithful Lord Commander of her Queensguard stepped forward at Dany's call, his hair as snowy white as his armor. "A week these Westerosi are in my city, halfway across the world from Dorne, yet they remain strangers. Bring them before me so I might know their purpose."
"Yes, Your Grace. I shall take my best squires," the old knight said. Dany frowned. His squires were youths chosen from among her freedmen. They were dedicated, but with only a scant year of training under their belts they were not especially competent as of yet.
"Take a guard of Unsullied too," she commanded.
Across the table Grey Worm nodded, the light catching his spiked bronze cap. "He shall have the best of my men, save those guarding the Great Pyramid."
With no other business left, she dismissed her council. Ser Barristan and Grey Worm departed first, both knight and eunuch bowing before taking their leave. She wondered if the Westerosi would attempt to resist their escort; she hoped not.
Her three bloodriders escorted Irri and Jhiqui out of the chambers, Rakharo shyly glancing at Irri when her back was turned. Ossalen and Missandei were next, Missandei chattering happily in Naathi. Her brother Marselen, captain of the Mother's Men, followed closely behind, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. Someone needed to guard the army of scribes Dany had set to restoring order in Meereen, and Marselen had volunteered the Mother's Men for the task with a forcefulness she had never seen from an Unsullied before.
Symon Stripeback of the Free Brothers and Mollono Yos Dob of the Stalwart Shields departed together, arguing over training methods for their companies of freedmen. The Shavepate, leader of the few surviving Ghiscari nobles, departed alone, silently glowering at everything and nothing. Although she had rewarded Skahaz mo Kandaq and his followers for their loyalty with lands and titles, he resented that she refused to permit any pyramids but for her own. The Pyramid of Kandaq would be pulled down just like the others, although House Kandaq would be permitted to build a palace on the same ground.
Nor did the Shavepate approve of the other new lords she had created from amongst the leaders of the Unsullied and the freedmen by dividing the titles and incomes of the Great Masters. Grey Worm and his highest captains now held the titles and incomes of Houses Loraq and Reznak; Irri and Jhiqui shared those formerly belonging to House Galare; Marselen, Mollono Yos Dob, and Symon Stripeback held those of House Dhazak; and so on. Missandei's eyes had nearly popped out of her head when Dany handed her the scroll which made the little scribe heir to the properties of House Pahl.
Creating her own nobility was another one of Aegon's useful suggestions, though neither of them noticed the issue of inheritance until the Kingslayer mocked them for making lords out of eunuchs, an oversight quickly remedied by a law regarding the adoption of orphans. After half of year of good behavior they had seen fit to grant him freedom of the Great Pyramid, though he could not ride into the city without an escort. Despite this generosity, the Kingslayer remained as impertinent as ever, showing only a bare minimum of courtesy to Dany. He was slightly more courteous to Aegon, perhaps because of their near daily sparring matches. Perhaps if Dany could hit Jaime Lannister with a sword he would keep a civil tongue in his head, but alas, she lacked Visenya's height and strength.
Whatever strength of arms she lacked, she was no weakling when it came to ruling Meereen. Many of the freeborn had protested her new laws and new nobility; one would have slit Grey Worm's throat in the street, if not for the eunuch's training and reflexes. He had escaped with a thin scar rather than a gaping wound. In response Dany had stripped the freeborn of most of their remaining privileges, and put bounties on the heads of those who preached against her in the streets. A few public trials and executions quickly quelled dissent; without Drogon's flames, she had given Moqorro charge of roasting those her justiciars sentenced to death.
Moqorro undertook the task with as much zeal as was his wont. Much as the Shavepate misliked the red priests, the followers of R'hllor had proved staunch allies indeed. When a fleet prepared to set sail from New Ghis three moons past, it was Moqorro's disciples who had rowed fire ships into the harbor, their boards soaked with oil and their holds filled with wildfire. Within an hour the blazing inferno consumed nearly all the war galleys, the flames' ravenous mouths devouring timber, sails, sailors, and over a thousand legionaries who had the misfortune to be aboard the ships. Permitting Moqorro the funds to expand his temple was payment richly earned, though his talk of sorcery and prophecy still unsettled her.
If only the Braavosi proved as amenable as the red priests. Though her envoys had sailed for Braavos at the end of tenth moon, they had yet to send word of the hoped for alliance. Despite Volantis's expulsion of all Braavosi and Dany's war against the masters of Slaver's Bay, the new Sealord, Tormo Fregar, still regarded her with suspicion. Tomarro Otharys, the Sealord who permitted Ser Willem Darry to settle in Braavos, was long dead; his successor, Ferrego Antaryon, had died in the sixth moon of the last year. For all Aegon's talk of the city founded by escaped slaves, her envoys's letters reported that the Braavosi feared and hated dragons, even those wielded by the Breaker of Chains. She wondered what the Braavosi would say if they knew that Rhaegal was stolen, Viserion imprisoned, and Drogon far afield.
"You look worried, my love," Aegon murmured in her ear, pressing a kiss to her hair. A hand stroked the back of her neck; her stomach tightened as he kissed her lips, her mouth opening for his tongue. It was Dany who pulled away first, ignoring the heat between her thighs.
"The Shipbuilders' Guild awaits," she reminded her consort. Meereen required a fleet. Already she had set half the city's weavers to the arduous task of weaving sails, but ships required timber, and persuading men to harvest wood from the Isle of Cedars was proving much more difficult than anticipated.
"Come, admiral," Aegon said, summoning Groleo from his seat. The Pentoshi obeyed, a smile rising beneath his salt-streaked beard. He had mourned his ships since she commanded them broken up to build the siege engines that took Meereen; the very thought of new ships made Groleo cheerful, though he still longed to return home to Pentos.
After another deep kiss Aegon left, the torchlight catching the silver circlet that glimmered against his silver hair. An onyx dragon adorned the crown; its ruby eye blazed when he turned to grace her with a last smile. Drogon might yet refuse to return, but she saw his likeness every day, despite vague protests from both Ser Jon and Ser Barristan. Each had privately urged her to have the black dragon replaced with one made of ruby, though neither would explain why.
"Balerion was the greatest dragon of House Targaryen, and Drogon is the Black Dread come again," she told each knight in turn. "It is meet that his likeness be seen upon my consort's brow."
Dany was growing quite fond of her new husband. Though he was much younger than Drogo, he was much more skilled at giving her pleasure. Aegon took great pride in making her peak at least once each time they coupled, grinning smugly when she writhed and whimpered beneath his hands or tongue. Surely a man who showed such concern for her happiness in the bedchamber would show the same concern for her happiness outside the bedchamber. Jaehaerys and Good Queen Alysanne had ruled together; why should they not do the same?
Her council chambers were empty at last, but for Ser Jon Connington and for Strong Belwas, her guard until Ser Barristan returned. She did not speak to Ser Jon often, though he spent hours each day with Aegon. The knight was rising from the table when Dany finally thought of an excuse to speak to him.
"Tell me of House Toland," she commanded, shifting in her seat. Her buttocks had fallen asleep, as they always did during council meetings. For a copper honor Dany would gladly let her Hand deal with the endless monotony of running her city, but she dared not set such precedent, not when his claim to the Iron Throne was better than her own. It was Daenerys Stormborn who had taken Meereen by right of conquest, not Aegon the Unexpected, and she would not give up her hard-won crown.
"They are one of the younger Dornish houses, founded by an Andal, if I recall my maester's lessons aright." Ser Jon Connington sat back down, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword he always wore. "Sworn directly to House Martell, and one of their principal bannermen. The Tolands were some of the first to support Nymeria in her war, and intermarried frequently with the Rhoynar."
"Why is their sigil a green dragon?" Dany asked. "Did they support Aegon the Conqueror?"
Ser Jon winced. "No, Your Grace. When the Conqueror descended upon Dorne, Lord Toland sent out a champion to face Aegon in single combat. Only when the Dornishman lay dead upon the ground did Aegon discover that his foe was no knight but a mad fool; Lord Toland and his family had already escaped unharmed. The dragon biting its own tail is meant to mock the Conqueror."
Dany liked that not at all. She was about to say so when a fit of nausea twisted her stomach in knots, forcing her to choke back the bile rising in her throat. With admirable swiftness Ser Jon snatched an empty flagon from the table and placed it before her, tactfully looking away as Dany heaved into the golden vessel.
"Shall I send for Haldon Halfmaester?" Ser Jon might not watch as she emptied her belly, but he still hovered like a concerned grandfather, his callused hands carefully holding back the silvery hair that fell past her shoulders.
"It is only mother's stomach," Dany said when she could speak again. "Send a servant to Irri for the soothing potion." Much as Dany had come to rely upon Aegon and his strange companions, she trusted her handmaidens above all others.
Although... Dany eyed Jon Connington thoughtfully as he summoned the servant. Even Ser Barristan did not speak of Rhaegar with such devotion. If Ser Barristan had a hundred tales, Ser Jon had a thousand. He spoke of boyish exploits, of days sparring in the yard, of nights listening to Rhaegar compose songs upon his harp.
"His voice made women weep," Ser Jon had told her, looking as if he wished to weep himself. "Sweet and clear it was, yet there was iron beneath the honey."
"What did he sing of?" She asked. "Of his bride, the Princess Elia?"
Something in Ser Jon's eyes hardened at that. "No. Theirs was a match for duty, not love. He sang of Aemon and Naerys, of Duncan and Jenny of Oldstones, of fate and prophecy and sorrows beyond measure."
Ser Jon could neither sing nor play, but he held Rhaegar's music in his heart. Over the years he had taught Aegon every word and every note of his father's melancholy songs, just as he taught Aegon of his father. The Lord of Griffin's Roost had raised the child from the age of six, when Illyrio Mopatis had entrusted the boy to his tender care. For thirteen years he had been both father and mother to her nephew, as devoted to Rhaegar's son as a priest to his god. Proud Ser Jon might be, arrogant and quick to take offense, but there could be no doubt of his loyalty to his charge.
"My thanks, Ser Jon," Dany said graciously when he handed her the bottle of potion, his blue eyes filled with concern as he gazed at her stomach. The knight's world might revolve around Aegon, but it was Daenerys who carried Aegon's babe, the future of House Targaryen.
"What shall the babe be called, do you think?" She asked lightly, sipping at the mint-scented potion. "Another Aegon?"
"We have one Aegon, we do not need a second. Perhaps..." Ser Jon's eyes turned wistful. "Rhaegar, if the babe is a boy."
"A strong name," she agreed. "And what if the babe is a girl?"
The knight hesitated for a moment, a faint frown upon his lips. "Rhaella, for his grandmother the queen, or Rhaenys, for his poor sister."
His grandmother, not my mother. His sister, not my niece. Dany did not like that. Her blood was as royal as Aegon's; purer, even, as both her parents were Targaryens. She would not have Ser Jon forget. A notion occurred to her. "Why not Jonna, for his foster father?"
Ser Jon stared at her. He could not have looked more stunned if she'd driven a sword through his heart. At last he stammered agreement, and she departed, well pleased. Aegon would agree to her idea, Dany did not doubt, but Ser Jon would not forget that the notion was hers. She could still picture the look on his face when she returned to her chambers; the image made her giggle as she settled on a reclining couch.
"What is it, khaleesi?" Irri asked from her seat across the room. She was nearly hidden by the Dothraki scrolls piled high upon her table, documents regarding Dany's current and hoped-for alliances with various khals.
"Nothing, Irri," Dany said, tucking her weary feet underneath the hem of her stozar. She was considering sending for a plate of flatbreads and soft cheese when a ginger cat leapt up beside her, mewling for attention.
"Ivi! Ivi?" The wind blew Jhiqui's dark hair into her face as she came in from the terrace, a flower tucked behind her ear.
"He's with me," Dany called, scratching the tomcat's chin as he curled up beside her chest. Dozens of cats roamed the Great Pyramid to keep the rats and mice at bay, but for the past few days this one had been a constant companion, mewling and begging for attention. Jhiqui was very fond of cats, and had named him Ivisat, for the way he melted into a lap whenever one was available.
The cat's purr soon lulled Dany into a state of soft contentment. It was so pleasant, to lay upon soft cushions and stroke an agreeable cat. Such a relief, after the tumultuous business of planning her weddings. She and Aegon had wed upon the last day of the old year, and upon each of the next four days, their hearts and souls irrevocably bound under the auspices of the many gods her people followed.
Their first wedding was in the former Temple of the Graces, now dedicated to the Faith of the Seven. Few of her subjects worshipped the Seven, but Aegon had insisted, having prayed to the Seven every day since he could remember. The freedmen did not object, not when the fountains in the Plaza of Prayer ran red with wine. Their second wedding was performed by Moqorro before thousands of cheering freedmen, the scent of roasted meat heavy upon the air. Flames in the shape of dragons danced in the sky as Aegon kissed her, his skin as hot as dragon's breath.
The third wedding was held outside the city in an open field, the Dothraki ceremony much, much longer than she remembered. It seemed that before her wedding in Pentos Khal Drogo had slain his holy man for preaching against the khal, and commanded one of the holy man's young disciples to perform the ceremony in his stead. When the ceremony finally ended there were great cauldrons of sweetgrass stew and endless casks of pepper beer. Irri and Jhiqui contrived to get so drunk that they completely forgot how to speak the Common Tongue, and spent the rest of the evening giggling at Rakharo in Dothraki, Irri blushing the entire time. Dany would have been annoyed, if not for the skill of Aegon's long fingers as his hand delved beneath the folds of her stozar.
The fourth wedding was a dull affair by comparison. Irri and Jhiqui were too hungover to appreciate the booming drums and sweet palm wine that accompanied any wedding before the many gods of the Summer Isles. Dany drank several flutes of the fruity, aromatic wine, her hands wandering over Aegon's broad shoulders and the lean muscles of his arms while they watched dancers in feathered skirts and cloaks swirl to the rhythm of the drums.
The fifth wedding bound them in the eyes of the Lord of Harmony. Missandei fairly beamed with joy, having been chosen to serve as the first of the butterfly girls who escorted the bride and groom to the altar, silk wings stretched taut over wire frames fluttering from their backs. As the people of Naath scorned meat, her people dined upon soft sourdough flatcakes filled with a dozen different kinds of savory vegetable stews, fried balls made from ground chickpeas, and all the fresh fruit that could be had.
Her meal today was far simpler, figs, goat's cheese, and fried bread. Dany nibbled away happily, one hand brushing her belly. The Lord of Harmony himself could not be more contented. The freedmen sang her praises, her husband was fairer than any butterfly woman, and she was with child. If only Drogon would return! She did not dare permit Aegon to attempt to tame Viserion, not yet, not when her husband might be burnt to a cinder. Viserion grew wilder with every day, his claws digging into the walls of the makeshift dragonpit beneath the pyramid. Nor did she like the idea of Aegon riding a dragon before she did, though Viserion was still far too small to carry such weight.
She could have ridden Viserion, if she wished. If a rider could bond to more than one dragon. Where Aegon stood six feet, she barely cleared five, and even with her pregnant belly she doubted she weighed more than eight stone. But Viserion was not hers, not as Drogon was. Drogon might already be large enough for Dany to ride. It was hard to judge his size, when she caught only rare glimpses of his flight above Meereen. Her dragon preferred to gorge on the flocks of sheep outside the city; surely he was growing large enough to bear her little weight.
A little weight... unwillingly she thought of Hazzea, and her sense of contentment dimmed.
A dragon large enough to hunt sheep was large enough to hunt other, more innocent prey. Dany had not wanted to believe it when the herder spilled the sack of burned bones at her feet, the tiny skull delicate as spun glass, the leg and arm bones cracked half to splinters and picked clean of their marrow. As her counselors stared the herder had picked up the charred skull, cradling it in his arms as silent tears dripped down his craggy face.
That was over a year past. No other herders had appeared with such heavy burdens, only with charred sheep bones and demands for payment. Dany paid them gladly, but her relief was short-lived. Rumors flew of a winged shadow who roasted children in his flames and feasted upon them even as they died, meat and bones vanishing down his gullet. Perhaps the rumors were false, lies spread by the freeborn. Hazzea's father was the only man to ever seek Dany out. But how would others prove their loss, if Drogon ate their child in a single bite?
True or false, the rumors disturbed her. At her command sheep were driven into the Daznak's Pit in hopes of luring the black dragon back to Meereen, but he no longer trusted such an easy meal. Not after three failed attempts to capture him so he might be chained beneath the pyramid with Viserion. Drogon might fly high above the city, riding currents of warm air like a hawk, but he did not descend further.
Except for the last time she saw him. Daenerys was bathing in her terrace pool when Missandei pointed to a dark outline against the clouds, the shape growing larger as it dived. Dany rose from her pool, water streaming off her naked body as she rushed to the edge of the terrace for a better view. Later, she wished she had not. To her horror Drogon alighted on the Pyramid of Loraq, snatching up a slim figure from the busy mound of ants.
Not until the next day did she learn that his prey was Jezhene zo Loraq, a girl of thirteen, cousin to her former betrothed Hizdahr and once one of Dany's cupbearers. She had decreed that every Ghiscari noble of thirteen or older be put to work demolishing the pyramids, while those twelve or younger went to the Red Temple. She had not known any of her cupbearers were too old to go to the red priests; Jezhene looked no more than ten or eleven...
"Your Grace," Irri called from the door. Lost in her reverie, Dany had not realized the pounding in her head was the sound of someone knocking. Ivi's purring ceased; the cat leapt down with a quiet chirp and padded out the door as soon as Irri opened it.
Ser Barristan entered her chambers, an air of vague unease hanging about him like a cloak. "I have brought the Westerosi, Your Grace. They came gladly; it seems they intended to request an private audience but were unsure as to how that might be done. Grey Worm has taken them to the audience hall."
It was the work of a few minutes for Irri and Jhiqui to tidy Dany's crumpled stozar and neaten her hair. With a sigh she placed her crown with its three dragons atop her head, the weight unwelcome after an already long day.
Dany's neck already ached by the time Missandei announced her. Aegon was not yet back from the Shipbuilders' Guild; she would have to begin this meeting without him. The Westerosi waited silently as she climbed the short set of steps to her new throne, a gift from Aegon carved of ebony and inlaid with ruby flames and whorls of silver in the shape of dragons' wings. A plump cushion cradled her cheeks, but she still preferred her couch.
For a moment all was quiet as Daenerys examined the Westerosi and they examined her in turn. There were five men and three women, their skins ranging from as pale as her own to nearly as dark as a Summer Islander.
The men looked to be knights, judging by the surcoats they wore over their mail. The youngest was a copper-skinned youth whose surcoat was the color of sand, embroidered with a massive ten-headed golden serpent; a scarlet turban covered his hair. The two knights beside him were a few years older, one six feet, the other at least six and a half and built like a bull. The shorter knight had gleaming dark-skin and a curly beard; his purple surcoat was covered in lemons. The taller knight was pale, with straw-blonde that fell to his shoulders; his surcoat was quartered pink and blue, with suns on the pink and crescent moons on the blue. The last two knights were greybeards in red surcoats, one a bright scarlet blazoned with a mailed fist, the other a deep red set with three black scorpions.
All three of the women wore clothes unfamiliar to Dany. She was used to the layered skirts of Braavos, to the many types of off-the-shoulder gowns favored across the Free Cities, even to the draped gowns of Qarth that exposed one breast, but Westerosi fashion was foreign to her. Two of the women wore silk robes, with jeweled belts and flowing sleeves. The eldest of the women was a plump grey-haired matron whose golden robes were blazoned with a green dragon devouring its own tail. Next was an olive-skinned beauty in her twenties, who wore her lilac robes with a belt of silver and sparkling diamonds. The youngest woman was a tall red-haired maid; instead of robes she wore a white silk gown trimmed with cloth-of-silver.
"Well met, Your Grace," said the copper-skinned youth. He bowed, the rest of the Dornishmen following his lead. The knight looked to be near Aegon's age, perhaps slightly younger given the blemishes on his nose. He stood three inches over six feet, with the gangly look of a man not yet used to such height. The awkwardness of his body posed a strange contrast to the solemn, almost murderous look upon his face.
"You may rise," she said. "Dornishmen will always be welcome at my court." So long as you step lightly. Dany did not intend to repeat her mistake with Euron Greyjoy. "Sunspear stayed loyal to my father when the Usurper stole his throne."
The knight blinked, confused, as did the rest. The knight of the mailed fist made a noise halfway between a snort and a laugh, his grey-brown beard shaking. He fell silent only after the red-haired maid softly cleared her throat.
"We are honored to meet Your Grace," the red-haired maid said, stepping slightly forward, her ice-white gown's modest neckline failing to conceal her ample bosom. Her voice was elegant, refined, yet as she drew closer Dany noted the baby fat clinging to her cheeks. She cannot be more than sixteen, if that.
"Your name, my lady?" The girl made to speak, but Ser Barristan spoke first.
"My queen, before you stands Sansa Stark of Winterfell."
The red-haired maid turned pink, but showed no other sign of surprise as she dipped a graceful curtsy at the old knight. "I had not thought my face worthy of remembrance by Ser Barristan the Bold."
"Stark," Dany said sharply. "Of the line of Lord Eddard Stark?"
"I am his daughter," the Stark girl said, a hint of pride in her soft voice. Dany looked over the girl again. Often had her brother Viserys railed against the Usurper's dogs, the great lords Stark and Lannister, Tully and Arryn. The Starks were northmen, grey-eyed and dark of hair, yet this girl's hair was bright as flame, her eyes a deep blue.
"If it please Your Grace," the young knight said, stepping in front of the Stark girl. Ser Barristan stared at the youth, his brow wrinkled with thought. Dany was not sure what had drawn his attention; mayhaps it was the wicked looking scar slashing through one of the youth's dark eyebrows. "We are not here to discuss my wife's lineage. Princess Sansa is not her father, no more than you are Mad King Aerys come again."
"Oh?" Dany asked, displeased by the sharp rejoinder. "Then why are you here, pray tell? To swear me your swords? To feign friendship and betray me in the night?"
The young knight hesitated, glancing not at the old knights but at his even younger wife. After a moment he turned his gaze upon Dany. "Whatever else you may think of us, Your Grace, we are honest." He spoke in measured tones, each word carefully weighed. The sign of deep thought, or of a practiced liar? "We wished to meet you because we share a common enemy. The Lannisters have usurped the Iron Throne, Westeros bleeds—"
The door behind her throne creaked, and the copper-skinned youth fell silent. How odd, his eyes look almost purple in the light.
"This is my husband," Dany informed the Westerosi, thanking the gods for Aegon's good timing as he strode into the room, taking up his usual position to the right of her throne. A thought occurred to her, and she smiled, unable to resist. "I give you Aegon Targaryen, firstborn son of Rhaegar, Prince of Dragonstone, by Princess Elia of Dorne."
The Dornish gaped. The Stark girl stared, a look of perplexed horror upon her pretty face as she glanced from Aegon to the swell of Dany's belly; her husband's eyes were wide and white, his eyebrows climbing into his scalp.
"When the sack of King's Landing began Princess Elia was weak and weary," Dany said, enjoying the Dornishmen's astonishment. "Fearing what Tywin Lannister might do, Lord Varys stole into the nursery and left a tanner's son in the royal cradle before carrying Prince Aegon away—"
"Begging Your Grace's pardon, but no, he didn't."
The olive-skinned beauty turned pale, one hand clutching the matron's arm as the copper-skinned youth began unwinding his turban. "Oly—"
"Hush, Nym," the Stark girl whispered, her eyes fixed on her husband.
Nonplussed, Dany watched the youth unwind the many spirals of the scarlet turban. What is he playing at? Does he think to show me some terrible scar? She glanced at Aegon, sharing a look of bemused annoyance. When she turned back the turban was gone, revealing short locks of steel-grey hair.
Daenerys opened and closed her mouth, which was suddenly dry as sand. Ser Barristan stiffened, his spine rigid as a blade. The knight of the mailed fist swore under his breath before casting a sharp glance at the Stark girl, who had drawn closer to her husband, a pale hand resting on his arm as though giving him strength.
"What is the meaning of this?" Daenerys demanded, one hand reaching out to grasp Aegon's fingers. He returned her tight grip; she could feel his pulse fluttering even as he stood, frozen, as still as if he were a statue carved from marble.
The copper-skinned knight drew a deep breath. "Your husband is not Aegon, son of Elia. I am."
Aegon gripped her fingers so hard that she cried out. Half the Dornish retinue turned to stare at the copper-skinned knight. The knight of the mailed fist spoke rapidly into the Stark girl's ear, gesturing wildly; the knight of lemons stepped away from his companions, a hurt look upon his face. The knight of suns and moons followed, tentatively laying a hand on the other's shoulder. He must be lying, if even his own companions show such doubt. He must.
The next half hour passed in a miserable blur. The world spun, whether from dizziness brought on by her mother's stomach or from shock she could not say. Aegon still gripped her hand, but not a word passed his lips, not even when she commanded her Unsullied to fetch Ser Jon Connington and Ser Jaime Lannister, the only other Westerosi among her people.
While they awaited the two knights, the young Dornishman explained how Princess Elia had sent her children away before leaving Dragonstone, entrusting them to her brother's care across the Narrow Sea. The matron of the green dragon, one of the only Dornish who did not look shocked, was Lady Nymella Toland, formerly one of Princess Elia's ladies, and one of those entrusted to deliver Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon to Prince Oberyn Martell's household in Braavos.
"We stayed there for a few years, before he brought us back," Olyvar Sand— Aegon?— explained. "Prince Oberyn already had several bastards; two more did not draw unwanted attention. Aunt Elia helped raise Meria and I; we did not know Aunt Elia was our mother until she told us upon my sixteenth nameday."
The knight of lemons stared at Olyvar as if he were a stranger. "Two years? Three?" He murmured, betrayal written on his face.
"My mother commanded us to tell no one," Olyvar said, half to Dany and half to the lemon knight.
"She knew." The lemon knight snapped, pointing at the Stark girl.
"That was not his fault," the girl insisted. "Ser Deziel, please—"
"Why should we believe this nonsense?" Aegon— Young Griff?— her husband snapped, having finally found his tongue.
Olyvar stared at him, incredulous. "Nonsense? Lord Varys claims to have swapped a babe without his mother noticing, and you speak of nonsense? My mother is sickly, not stupid. Even if such a swap occurred, it was six months after Princess Elia sent us to Braavos! And who would be so stupid, so suicidal, as to come to the Mother of Dragons and tell her such a tale unless it were true?"
"If neither of you died, then who were the children the Lannisters slew?" Her question cut through the room like a knife through butter.
"Jonquil and Gawaen," Olyvar said, his voice heavy with guilt. "A maid's daughter and a bastard born to Lady Ashara Dayne." Ser Barristan made an awful sound in his throat. "My mother meant to hide them, but Jonquil ran and she could not hide Gawaen before the Mountain broke down the door. To this day she lights candles in the sept for them every night."
A cold chill swept over Dany, and she shivered as Ser Barristan stepped forward, a look of deep misery upon his face.
"Your Grace," he began, looking from Olyvar to Dany. "I fear— I must— I swore to give you honest counsel. When I laid eyes upon this youth I thought he seemed familiar, but I could not say how or why. Now I know. Just as Sansa Stark is the very image of her mother, so this boy is the echo of Elia of Dorne."
Daenerys shook her head, the muscles in her neck tight with strain. No. No. It cannot be. Jon Connington swore he was Rhaegar come again, he has the sword Blackfyre, Illyrio Mopatis would not deceive me so, not after giving me my dragon eggs and sending me Ser Barristan.
"My mother wrote a letter for you, Your Grace, as did Prince Doran and his heir Princess Arianne." Olyvar drew three folded parchments from beneath his surcoat, handing them to Ser Barristan.
Dany accepted the parchments with trembling fingers. All three were written in the Common Tongue, each sealed with orange wax stamped with a blazing sun with a spear through its back. Prince Doran's letter was brief, writ in a wobbly hand that spoke to the gout which he claimed would shortly take his life. Princess Arianne's letter was writ in a strong, elegant hand, and filled her with such confusion that Dany set it aside to read again later.
Princess Elia's letter was the last she opened, her heart pounding in her ears as she broke the seal. The hall was so silent she could hear her own breath as she read the letter once, twice, thrice. Finally she looked up again, at the copper-skinned youth with the steel-grey hair and purple eyes ringed with amber.
"What sort of dragon are you?" She murmured. Her husband tapped at her shoulder; she handed him Princess Elia's letter, her gaze still fixed on Olyvar. He could not be the old dragon Moqorro had seen. Was he the young dragon? That did not seem right; he was three years her elder. Was he the bright dragon, because his mother's arms were the sun? Was he the dark dragon because of the color of his skin? Or was he the true dragon and her husband the false?
"Illyrio," her husband hissed under his breath. He read quickly. "Why would he lie to me?"
"Am I interrupting something?"
Ser Jaime Lannister's voice echoed across the silent hall, everyone turning to look as the Kingslayer swaggered into the room. The knight of suns and moons turned a vivid pink; Olyvar Sand's cheeks turned dark with anger.
"You." Olyvar strode across the audience hall, his hands balled into fists.
"Why yes, me—"
Whatever else the Kingslayer meant to say, she would never know, for it was at that point that Olyvar punched him in his smirking face. The Kingslayer fell to the ground, blood spurting from his nose. If she had thought Olyvar's face murderous before, it was nothing to the violence of his glare as Jaime Lannister gasped and wheezed.
"Are these my thanks for saving your princess from Lord Tywin?" The Kingslayer groaned, his smile red from the blood dripping into his mouth.
"Saving me?" The Stark girl demanded.
"Saving her?" Olyvar echoed, outraged. "You— you—" he spluttered with rage. "You are no knight! The queen meant to poison her!"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," the Kingslayer drawled, wiping blood off his face with his one good hand.
"Of course you don't," Olyvar replied, scathing. "Mother Elia always said you left your thinking to your sword hand, if you hadn't then Aerys would have had a trial and Ser Arthur Dayne would still be alive."
The Kingslayer's eyes narrowed. "What—" he paused, as if someone had suddenly hit him over the head with a club. "No," he whispered, staring at Olyvar in stunned disbelief. "But when did she—" his brow creased. "Dragonstone?"
Olyvar nodded.
And the Kingslayer laughed. The sound was loud and bitter, a mad, hysterical laugh so sour it could curdle milk. It echoed off the walls, bouncing and growing until she thought her teeth might rattle. He was still laughing when Ser Jon Connington strode into the hall, steps faltering as he took in the scene within.
"What is going on, Your Grace?" The knight asked, dumbfounded.
"Feast your eyes, Connington!" The Kingslayer said grandly, waving a blood smeared hand. "What fools we are, to let a eunuch and a cheesemonger deceive us so. Behold!" He pointed at Olyvar, blood dripping from his finger. "Aegon Targaryen, the dragon's heir."
"Impossible," Connington whispered. "That is not Rhaegar's son."
Dany ground her teeth together, wishing she could share Connington's certainty. "This letter from Elia of Dorne says otherwise." She plucked the letter from Young Griff's hand, holding it out for Connington to take.
Ser Jon read slowly, his face as rigid as stone but for the movement of his eyes. Deprived of the letter, Young Griff returned to gripping her hand. Dany allowed it; nephew or not, he was her husband still, and she could not bear to speak of the distress roiling beneath her queenly poise. How many times would she be played for a fool? To think she had almost entrusted Young Griff with the taming of Viserion...
"He looks more like Elia than Rhaegar, doesn't he?" The Kingslayer called from the floor. "Even the eyes... there's amber in the purple." He laughed again as he turned to Olyvar. "At last, the world makes sense again. You slew the Mountain for Princess Elia, not for the Stark girl."
"I slew him for Sansa and for my mother," Olyvar replied coldly. "And for Gawaen, and Jonquil, and all the others raped and murdered by a knight unworthy of the name."
"A knight dubbed by Rhaegar himself." The Kingslayer laughed at the irony, heedless of the anger on Olyvar's face.
"Rhaegar was a fool," the youth said quietly. "A fool, and a raper, and no true knight."
"No," Jon Connington said, so soft she could barely hear. He crumpled the parchment still clutched in his hand, letting it drop to the floor. Dany frowned at the sudden discourtesy.
"Ser Jon—"
Connington drew his sword, a hollow look upon his face as he turned away from Daenerys and Young Griff.
"Liar!" He roared, crossing the hall in an instant as he lunged for the copper-skinned youth.
Olyvar blocked the downward slash that would have cleaved his head in half, a frightful clang echoing through the room as the blades met. The Stark girl gave a little scream; the Dornish knights drew their swords.
"Put up your blades!" Dany shouted over the ringing of steel. No one seemed to hear; the Dornish knights moved toward Connington, who slashed and cut at the Dornish boy with implacable ferocity.
"Do as she says!" Olyvar ordered his knights, dancing backwards as he fended off Connington.
"Griff, stop!" Young Griff cried. Connington ignored him as easily as he had ignored Dany, sword flashing as Olyvar retreated before the brutal onslaught. He had neither shield nor helm, only the sword which he used to parry each furious thrust.
"Ser Barristan!" Her Queensguard strode forward, naked steel in hand. He will make Connington stop, he must.
"Griff!" Young Griff cried again, her fingers turning numb from the strength of his grip.
Ser Jon did not seem to hear; his blows were coming faster now, his sword a blur as he sought a gap, any gap in Olyvar's guard. Left he went, then right, hacking and slashing so hard that sparks flew, faster and faster and faster— a sharp twist, a yell of triumph, and Olyvar's sword went flying.
"That's enough, Connington!" Ser Barristan shouted, coming between the knight and his prey, his sword raised. "Your queen gave you an order!"
"I'll put up my sword when the pretender is dead," Connington snarled, his features distorted by rage and despair. He slashed at Ser Barristan, desperate to reach the Dornish youth, his cuts sloppy and wild compared to Ser Barristan's elegant strokes. "I failed Rhaegar, I will not fail his son."
"Father, no—" A heavy slash, a clumsy parry, and Ser Barristan's blade ran Connington through.
Connington slumped to the floor, Young Griff releasing her hand as he ran toward his foster father's limp body. When he reached it he fell to his knees on the hard stone floor, pulling Connington up so that his head rested in Young Griff's lap. Connington's face was a mask of despair, his eyes glassy and unseeing as Young Griff pressed a kiss to his brow.
Silence reigned. Young Griff wept without a sound, his grief beyond words. The Dornish stared as Olyvar picked up his fallen sword, sheathing it before returning to the Stark girl's side. Ser Barristan wiped the blood from his blade, weariness etched into every line upon his face. Even the Kingslayer was quiet as he rose from the floor, dried blood marring his pretty face.
On and on the silence went, heads slowly turning to the queen upon her throne. Daenerys wanted to scream, to have these Dornish cast into some dark cell so she could forget their words and their parchments and the dead man cradled in her husband's arms. Whoever my husband is, whoever this knight is, I am still a dragon, she reminded herself. The fire is in my blood.
"I believe it is past time for Illyrio Mopatis to grace us with his presence," she said. "He has much and more to answer for."
She turned to Olyvar, the man who dared defame Rhaegar while claiming to be his son. Carefully, carefully. Dany forced herself to smile. He may speak truly, but that does not mean I should trust him. Let him prove himself or die in the attempt.
"Nephew," she said, the word sour upon her lips. "I have walked through fire and flame to hatch the only living dragons in the world. Their heads grace my crown, Drogon the black, Rhaegal the green, and Viserion the white." Every eye was upon her as she stood, her crown as heavy as her dread.
"Drogon and Rhaegal are hunting, but Viserion sleeps in a pit beneath this pyramid," she said, forcing herself to speak lightly. "Perhaps it is a sign from the gods, a sign that he was meant for you." Olyvar swallowed, panic dancing in his purple eyes.
"If, of course, you have the courage to tame him," Dany finished, and her smile cut sharp as a knife.
Well, I promised a clusterfuck! Yikes. I cannot wait to read your guys' thoughts in the comments!
Seriously, please give me long comments, I'm super busy with IRL stuff and I forced myself to get this chapter done despite not being in the mood to write. Mostly because I'm worried that if I go too long between updates I'll get distracted from the fic.
I am happy with the chapter but I have no idea how I ended up with almost 8k words.
Up next, Mystery POV I! Hint: we'll be in the Riverlands. The POV is another canon OC like Meri and Bel, except this canon OC comes from a Jaime chapter in AFFC. If anyone successfully guesses her/him I'll eat my hat.
NOTES
1) This fic is now longer than ACOK. Only ASOS and ADWD are longer; both clock in around 414k words.
2) Gilly is named for the gillyflower. Gillyflower is an old name for either carnations, Matthiola incana, or the wallflower. Wild carnations have five petals in a star shape, hence Moqorro referring to a starflower shrub.
3) Though often associated with the Napoleonic Wars (I got the idea from the Horatio Hornblower books/AE mini series, baby redwolf had a massive crush on Ioan Gruffudd), fire ships have been used off and on in both Asia and Europe since the 3rd century. In earlier eras they were old or shoddy ships filled with oil and kindling; in the early modern era they were often filled with gunpowder. Not a good thing to float into your fleet at anchor!
4) The name of the Sealord who witnessed the pact between Ser Willem Darry and Prince Oberyn Martell is unknown; I named him Tomarro Otharys, combining Braavosi names from canon. He's the same Sealord who Syrio Forel served. The next(?) sealord, Ferrego Antaryon, is noted to be sick in AFFC; I killed him off.
5) There are zero mentions of Blackfyres in Dany's canon chapters. Zero! She mentions that five Aegons have ruled, but it's unclear what, if anything, she knows about Aegon the Unworthy and the Blackfyre rebellions that followed the legitimization of his bastards. Dany also has an unrealistic notion of how much power Alysanne had versus how often Jaeherys made decisions without or against her input.
6) The Dothraki dictionary for the show is my source for any Dothraki words. Ivisat means to melt. Look at Buttons, with his secret identity xD
7) GRRM says the people of Naath eat only fruit. That's flat out impossible; they'd die of malnutrition or diarrhea. I mostly based Naathi cuisine on the traditional food of Ethiopia. Stews, both meat and vegetarian, are usually served on enormous flat pancakes called injera. See if there's an Ethiopian restaurant in your area, the food is delicious. The fried balls of chickpeas are falafel, which is not Ethiopian but which is also delicious.
8) Olyvar's "wicked looking" eyebrow scar is the result of Olyvar tripping and falling in his cabin. Sansa couldn't look at him without giggling for two days.
9) Jon Connington's refusal to accept the revelation of Faegon comes from the fact that if he accepts it, then he admits he was played for a sap and spent the last 13 years of his life raising a random kid while Rhaegar's true son was hidden elsewhere. Just as Arys Oakheart committed suicide by axe-cop, JonCon decided he'd kill the "pretender" Olyvar or die trying.