Sipping at the honeyed wine in my hand, I pondered the topic of my former aspirations.
Once, I had dreamed of my ideal wedding.
They were fleeting dreams—things for a child of just five or six, a peaceful and secure dweller in the house with the red door. They were not dreams for a refugee princess, fleeing from city to city at the behest of her paranoid brother.
But nonetheless, as I sat beside my almost-husband garbed in a bridal dress, gazing upon the savagery of my wedding… I remembered those dreams.
Once, I had designed my husband in my mind. He would be a great warrior, a great ruler—a man of honor and civility, from whom love and affection would course like a river.
Once, I had yearned for a dress of Yitish silk, Myrish lace, and Tyroshi dyes. It would be beautiful, yet stately—a truly royal garment, made for the Princess I had known myself to be.
Once, I had imagined a wedding party of great lords and ladies would witness my love. They would see our marriage, see the power and affection our conjoinment brought us—and they would find joy in their hearts.
But as I had learned not that long after those dreams, when formerly loyal servants stole all we had and barred that red door to us… our dreams were seldom fulfilled.
So instead, my gown was a Lysene, borrowed thing—a silken thing, yes, but one picked by my brother and the Magister rather than by me, designed to ease the promise of this marriage's consummation. Instead, the audience to my wedding was an atavistic horde—built of horses and savages, with their barbaric commanders put in places of honor.
And though the man I would be wed to was certainly a great warrior, a powerful man, a ruler of many… I'd found myself to be terrified of him, instead of caring for him.
Nonetheless, I did my duty—but not for Viserys. I would do it for me, because I had a new dream. I would return home to Westeros, and I would claim that which the fire in my blood hungered for.
And this marriage was where it all began.
So as the wedding began, I sat beside Percy on a great earthen dais as a horde of sixty thousand Dothraki warriors, their women, and their slaves cavorted around me—each displaying their prowess as they dressed in the wealthy garments they had torn from their victims. Off to the side, on a lower step of the dais, were those supposedly closest to me: Viserys, Illyrio, and the exiled knight Jorah.
Jorah, you see, had sworn himself to Viserys (or, rather, to the House of Targaryen) but a day after the news of my betrothal arrived. I'm not sure why Viserys assented—perhaps a mix of his deep-seated longing for Westeros, and some strange respect for a fellow opportunist. Nonetheless, Jorah was there—sitting a tier below on the great mound, but nonetheless close enough to translate the proceedings for me as they occurred.
Before the wedding began, Viserys had commanded me to disguise my distaste for the proceedings. 'We need these savages, after all!' he had said portentously, lilac eyes all-but-begging to flare with helpless rage.
But now the wedding had begun—and as I watched, I saw that he could not follow his own advice.
I'll admit, at the beginning, my brother was not discomfited. Quite the opposite, in fact—for at the beginning there had been a great display of raucous female dancing, which my brother's eyes could not help but drink in.
But when the dance ended, and those skillful women of the khalasar knelt before us, with exhaustion weighing upon their limbs and a clear pride in their eyes… a crowd of warriors poured around them.
Of course, it was not the attempted rape which disturbed my brother. He had threatened (and intended) worse in times past, after all.
No, what discomforted him was the way in which Percy interceded. For when Percy saw his warriors begin to fight over the unwilling women of his khalasar—perhaps, even, when he saw the terror on my face as I witnessed it—I could feel the very earth beneath us begin to shake.
I watched as, wroth with rage, the Dothraki's great 'Stallion who Mounts the World' stood. Without looking, I knew that the power in his eyes was swirling with fury. "Nakho jinak ajjin!" he bellowed, eyes glaring down at the riotous warriors beneath him. "Hash anna, che anha nakho yeri atthirares!"
Jorah translated, whispering up towards me as I watched with wide eyes. "He has commanded that they stop this at once, my lady. On pain of death."
And as I watched, I could see many warriors already fleeing the shaking earth before our wedding dais.
I was… conflicted. I had been told by Illyrio and Viserys both to prepare for many deaths and rapes, for a Dothraki wedding with neither of those was said by them to be a marriage without passion. Yet… it was undeniable that Perseus had taken action to prevent such things.
Already, so many of the attempted rapists had fled from the slowly-fissuring earth before our wedding dais—and even in the brief seconds I was swallowed in thought, I could see the growing gratitude of the women still-kneeling before their khal.
"Why would he do this, Ser Jorah?" I could not help but ask, meeting his eyes as I whispered down towards him. "What advantage does this grant him?"
"So far as I can tell… none." Jorah replied, brow furrowing in confusion." This command of his flies in the face of all Dothraki ways—it will win him no favor with the fighters of the khalasar."
Then, he flicked his eyes at the clearing before our dais once more. "Whatever the case, I suspect we will soon see the extent of the khal's commitment."
With a hint of dread in my gut, I followed his gaze.
Most of the warriors had fled at this point, abandoning the women at their feet for fear of death at their khal's hands. But a half-dozen of the assembled warriors had disobeyed—the mightiest among them, those with the longest braids and the most numerous bells. These warriors still fought for the woman who knelt at their feet, carving into each other with razor-sharp arakhs despite the command of their khal.
After perhaps a minute of this fighting—to the point where it was clear they would not stop—I chanced a look at the person beside me. I noted the tight mouth, the narrowed eyes, the tensed muscles and even the terrifying tremors occurring at our feet.
At last, I could come to but one conclusion: Percy was absolutely furious.
For perhaps another ten seconds, Percy waited with visible effort—a clear restraint in every line of his face—for the remaining fighters to disperse. But they did not.
At this point, fissures were forming in the ground beneath those half-dozen Dothraki screamers. The warriors were near-tripping with every shift of stance—such that they must have been aware of the supernatural force that was their leader's anger. But clearly, they would not back down on this custom of theirs, no matter who stood against them.
But just as Percy looked ready to descend the dais and murder them himself, a great neigh echoed through the great tent-city of our wedding party—and though it would have been inaudible to any listener besides me from this distance, Percy whispered back.
I knew not the words' meaning, but I knew that tone—a tone of approval, of unabashed pride.
Then Percy yelled. "Yeri ki qothi. Ha jinak, yeri drivole!"
And suddenly, as the quake redoubled itself once more, as the fissures and shaking grew to the point that those half-dozen warriors did in fact fall to the ground—a gorgeous silver mare streaked out from among the khalasar's great camp.
For a moment, I was simply in awe. She was beautiful. Truly, she was a perfect specimen, with a flowing mane and effortless movement and a strangely intelligent light in her eyes.
And then, hoofbeats pounding, the mare reached the half-dozen warriors still sprawled and rolling about on the trembling, cracked ground.
In seconds, she galloped over them—and when she had gotten clear, I saw the two crushed skulls of those who had died beneath her hooves. Then the horse wheeled about, galloping into a second pass—and in perhaps ten seconds, another two heads were naught but gory pulp on fractured earth.
"What did he say?" I discreetly whispered to Jorah as the horse wheeled about a second time.
Clearly distracted by the spectacle before us, the knight nonetheless answered me. "It was a simple sentiment," he responded sombrely. "'You are not loyal. For this, you will die.'"
Ah.
I redirected my attention to the silver mare—just in time for disaster to occur.
I'm not sure what went wrong on the final pass. The mare's movements remained smooth, her gallop apace—but somehow, just as the fifth skull was cracking beneath her hoof, that last disobedient warrior managed to raise his arakh.
The mare didn't notice. But once she passed over that warrior—once he, too, was naught but a motionless body and a pulped skull—the horse certainly noticed the wound that weapon had made.
With a vague sense of loss, I watched the blood pour from the horse onto the shattered earth beneath her.
But just as I'd resigned myself to the beautiful mare's death, Percy at last leapt from our wedding dais—landing beside the quickly-dying mare.
As soon as he touched the ground, the earthquake subsided. Then, kneeling beside the horse, I watched as a blue glow softly radiated from beneath him.
I couldn't truly see what was happening—Percy's body concealed the wound, and whatever he did to it, from all onlookers. But once he stood, the result was clear: the mare was once more uninjured.
For but a second, I glanced towards my brother. And that—that was the true moment when I could see Viserys' face change from scorn to terror. That was when Viserys realized something I had known since the night I met Percy: my brother had made a compact with something beyond his ken.
My brother liked to pretend strength. He liked to pretend that he was in control, as if he had already claimed the throne that was his birthright. More than anything, he liked to pretend that his blood—regardless of the squalor he lived in—made him intrinsically special.
But the strength of the Valyrians, clearly, had not bred true in Viserys. There was no fire in his blood to ignite in response to an ocean, nothing which flared in him but a burning sense of inadequacy.
I think that was the moment I lost my fear of him—the moment when I realized my tormentor was nothing but a fearful, powerless boy, inflicting pain on the one thing within his reach.
That's when I turned my attention back to the person who mattered.
While I'd thought, Percy had been quietly standing over the mare's crouching body. But soon enough, Percy spoke—no longer shouting, but certainly with a voice full of lingering anger. "Anha tire ki jinak. Asshilis jin azhos ajjin! Irge ki, jinak annakhoe."
I looked at Ser Jorah, a questioning look on my face. "He is hurrying the ceremony," the knight responded to my silent inquiry. "You will receive your bride gifts, and then it will be done."
This, at least, made sense. The less time his people had to question Percy's authority, the better it would be for him.
And soon enough, the ceremony indeed began to proceed once more, as the kos of the khalasar slowly ascended the dais' steps with their traditional three gifts. As they proceeded, I stole a glance at my once-more-sitting fiancé.
Percy's face was impassive. Nonetheless, his tapping fingers gave him away—he clearly did not have much patience at all for even this shortened ceremony.
I redirected my attention to the proceedings.
Once the kos had reached our tier of the dais, I said the words, passing the gold-chased arakh, goldenheart bow, and silver-handled whip on to Percy. Rather than arming himself with them, though, Percy simply set the three weapons at his feet—lingering only on the arakh, and that only for a moment before an inscrutable bronze light began to shimmer.
When Percy set the arakh down, the light vanished.
I did my best to ignore the strange occurrence, moving on to the gifts I would be allowed to keep as khaleesi.
From my brother, I received a set of three slaves as handmaidens: Irri, Jhiqui, and Doreah. Two were Dothraki, given so I could learn their tongue and horsemanship. One was Lysene—given for me to learn the arts of pleasure.
It was a gift that cost my brother nothing—nothing but three less mouths to force onto his cock. Needless to say, my thanks was cursory.
There were many more gifts, then, given by the great warriors of the khalasar—intricately woven robes and beautifully painted riding leathers, fine jewels and subtle perfumes, and even a few rare medallion belts and daggers.
No free person in the khalasar, after all, was ever meant to be wholly defenseless.
But although the rich gifts piled up behind her, such that a team of wagoneers would be required to haul it all about, I could not muster up true excitement at them—not when they were merely the price to purchase my hand.
It was only upon the final three gifts that, at last, emotion began to break through.
First, Ser Jorah bowed before me, and presented his offering—a small pile of books.
"I took them with me when I fled Bear Island," he said, speaking sombrely. "I hope they will remind you of your home, just as they did for me."
I scanned my eyes over the titles. A book of fables, a book chronicling the Noble Houses of Westeros, a book on the Dance of Dragons, and more besides… my, was this a gift rich with memory.
I inclined my head in thanks, and Jorah departed—allowing Illyrio to take his place.
"A gift in honor of your ancient blood, khaleesi," the fat Magister softly said. At his words, two burly men behind him wrenched open a great oak chest.
Within a moment, I was entranced.
Dragon eggs, I knew as I stared at those three oblong jewels, petrified with age.
And for a moment, I would swear a spark of that heat from a week ago flared once more.
Then the sensation was gone, and I redirected my attention to the Magister. He had stayed quiet as I stared, aware of where my attention had gone.
Say what you will about Illyrio, but he was no foolish windbag like my brother. From his close position, kneeling before me as this ceremony required, he would have read the entrancement in my eyes.
"Thank you, good Magister," I said with a lilt to my voice and a light smile upon my face. "Truly, this is a rich gift. You are indeed a true friend to House Targaryen."
Let him think I was entranced by the wealth, and not the flame. After all, it would not do to let the Usurper label me mad, as that traitor had so deftly done with my father.
Illyrio left, then—and with that, there was but one gift left.
Gently, Percy took me by the hand, leading us both down the winding path off the dais. Together, we stepped onto the fracture-ridden ground. After perhaps a minute of walking, I stood with him, just outside the fractured plain he had wrought—and then I heard the two gallops.
They ran side by side, coming forward to us: the silver and the red, the mare and the stallion.
When the two arrived, the stallion knelt before Percy, bowing in his direction—just as I had somehow known to expect from my strange new husband.
But the mare… the mare knelt before me, nickering towards my feet. It bowed before me, honoring the khaleesi, not the khal.
I looked askance in shock. Percy met my gaze, then answered my shock—speaking to me quietly, but in a firm, urgent tone. "She has sworn an oath to you, Daenerys. She will protect you, and honor you, and allow you to reign over her and from her back."
I glanced down, staring into the silver's sky-blue eyes. "Why?" I asked blithely. "Why me, and not you? You are their Stallion, are you not?"
The red stallion and Percy murmured to each other for a moment. Then, Percy answered me—his tone slowly shifting to become somehow apologetic with each word. "I am… you deserve answers about me, Daenerys. I will give them soon, once we can speak freely and unhindered."
Then he knelt beside the silver, stroking her mane softly. "But as to your question… she swears to you because she is a protector, and you are someone that she can trust to value that. She saw the hatred in your face for those men. She shares it, and says she will serve you well. Do you agree?"
I wasn't sure what to say. This… this was not just a gift—it was a thinking being sworn to me, a near-person who had seen a portion of me and loved it rather than abhorred it.
Thinking deeply, I met the horse's blue pools with my own deep violet orbs. My heart clenched.
"Yes," I eventually said. "Yes, I agree."
At once, the two horses stood—and with a smile, Percy leapt onto the red stallion. Reluctant, I nonetheless slung myself over the silver.
And with that, we left the khalasar.
It was not a long ride.
No, after merely an hour of steady trotting, and perhaps five minutes of an early gallop, our horses stopped—hooves clopping on the stony surface that was much of the Essosi coast. Just a few yards further, the Narrow Sea lapped at a brief, sandy beach.
As I dismounted, I stared across those waters. Somewhere out there, beyond where my vision could reach, my sole true home lay waiting.
"You will be Nerni," I declared then, speaking to my silver. "Entrance, in the tongue of my ancestors—for you and yours will bring me into my home."
I did not speak the second, lesser meaning: door. I did not dare.
I could not ever return to that house with the red door, after all.
But… perhaps soon, I would ride with Percy, and find myself in a home with a silver entrance.
Then I walked forward, soon standing upon the sand next to Percy. I steeled myself as he turned towards me, his left hand raising into the air.
Was this how it would happen? Was this how the cost of this marriage would be extracted from my flesh—upon rough sand, with naught but horses and fish as onlookers?
Nerni was not doing anything. She would shield me from everything but him, it was clear—regardless of what had been promised. And even if she did… my mind flashed to that quake, to the fight at the manse.
If Perseus wished it, I would be incapable of resistance.
So, wishing Perseus could see my nerves—wishing my hands would tremble as Viserys' did—I slowly began to unlace the back of Illyrio's whorish dress.
But before I could even pull the first lace from its eyelet, Percy's right hand caught mine.
Strange, I could not help but think as my heart began to pound with anxiety, the sun is suddenly so dim.
And then Percy's left hand came crashing down, and the wave above us fell with it—sweeping us both out to sea.
I panicked. Desperately, I clawed against the current pulling us both down into the deep, frantically kicking as best I could in my gossamer gown. I wanted to scream—yet knowing that would spell my doom, I tried as hard as I could to suppress the urge.
But despite all my efforts, I was still pulled inexorably downward—all the way until my entire surroundings were nothing but fluid, blue-black nothingness. And then… then the current stopped moving.
At that, I redoubled my efforts—suddenly certain that, without the current's interference, I could make my escape.
But no matter how much I paddled and kicked and squirmed, there was still something keeping me in place.
I kept fighting, though, I fought until my lungs burned with the need to take a breath, and a bit beyond—until eventually, a primal instinct forced my gasping mouth open, entirely against my will.
Instead of a salt-tinged flood, though, I felt a rush of air fill my lungs with the cooling relief of breath—and as I twisted my head about with shock, I saw it:
A bronze light.
It was wavering, yes, and soft—but it was also beautiful, an orb of radiating copper-toned luminescence all coming from a single length of sharp-edged metal. And holding it steady, ensuring I was there in the light with him, was Percy—sitting calm as could be on the floor of the Narrow Sea.
Suddenly, I realized that somehow, my dress hadn't gotten even a bit wet since the tide took us away.
This was not my doom—this was just another instance of my inexplicable, prophesied husband, using his inexplicable abilities. And unless I wanted to show him just how weak I was, I needed to calm myself. Now.
Therefore, straining against my racing heart, I forced myself to breathe evenly. I smoothed my panic-wrinkled gown and calmed my demeanor, suppressing my panic and discomfort beneath a thick blanket of necessity. And finally, with my composure restored, I sat down across from Percy upon the rough, stony seabed he'd chosen to bring me to.
As soon as I settled, Percy planted the sword in the stone between us, its light playing off his bronzed features as he did so.
Then, as he rocked back through the water into his sitting position, his mouth moved—and I heard a voice in my mind.
'Sorry about that,' it said, its tones perfectly resembling Percy's. 'I just wanted to take us somewhere we could talk. After all, you really do deserve some answers, Daenerys.'
Answers?
,,,Yes, I would certainly agree with that. I needed some answers. Now.
'How can you do this?' I forced out, overpowering the instincts which insisted that speaking underwater was a quick trip to drowning. 'What gives you the power to do all of this!?'
When Percy sighed, I felt it in my mind like a palpable wave of onrushing sound. 'That's… some of it's a bit complex. All I know, I know from my father—and his oath of fealty keeps him from telling me about anything I've actually lived through.'
He leaned forward on the seafloor, then, as his mental voice suddenly softened. 'But simple answer? I've got power because when my dad met my mom, my mom was a mortal, but dad… wasn't.'
I asked the obvious question, already dreading the answer. 'What was he, then?'
Percy scoffed, but gave me my answer. 'He was Poseidon: God of the Sea and Storms, Father of Horses, and Earthshaker.'
I reeled, eyes widening in terror at the pressure inherent to his words.
There was power in those names—something beyond the ocean in Percy's eyes, beyond the flame in my blood, beyond anything I'd ever experienced in my life.
But as I had resolved, I would remain composed. Narrowing my eyes once more, I looked at my husband intently. 'What's the less-simple answer, Percy?'
'Well, for one, it's a lot harder to explain,'
Percy deadpanned, eyes calm. 'But… look, this is how Dad explained it to me.'
Then, Percy closed his eyes for a second—and when he reopened them, the ocean within was swirling once more. 'My father, you see, is one of the three greatest gods in his pantheon. And once, there was a prophecy about the end of that pantheon—which would be heralded by a half-god child of one of those Three reaching the age of majority.'
Percy chuckled, then. It was a low, bitter sound. 'Each of the Three swore an oath that they would never again impregnate a mortal woman. One of them—Zeus, King of the Gods—broke that law twice. Another—Hades, Lord of the Dead—merely shielded those of his prepubescent children that survived. But my father…"
Percy sighed again. 'My dad, who had always honored his word, broke his oath but once—coupling with Sally Jackson, who was in his eyes the perfect woman. And according to Poseidon, in times like that, there is power in breaking oaths.'
'And that's why, apparently, I'm his favorite child—the most
powerful among them, the one who inherited everything he had to give.' Percy gestured idly, and the water spun around us in a demonstration of said inheritance. 'I'm the power that resulted from his broken oath.'
Whatever I'd been expecting… it hadn't been that. '...Oh.' I managed to croak out.
But this begged another set of questions. Why had a being so powerful decided to marry me?
More importantly, would the favored child of a god-king truly bother with something so petty as conquering the Seven Kingdoms?
I needed to know. 'Why did you marry me, Percy?' I asked.
'Because I need you to get home, and your brother is the worst,' Percy responded simply, without a hint of shame. 'You see this sword?' Percy asked, tugging it free from the sea's floor.
I nodded.
'This is Anaklusmos, and she is a picky blade. She refuses to cut plain mortals—and alone among all the people I've met since getting forced from my home and the people I love, she has deemed you worthy of her edge.'
Percy's eyes seemed to bore into me with their intent gaze, now. 'I need a being of Fire to get home. I'm pretty sure that's you—and even if I didn't need you for that, I've said it before: nobody deserves to be under Viserys' thumb.'
I smiled nervously at that. It wasn't the best news, but… this was workable. He did need me.
But would he give me what I needed from him in return?
With a hint of an anticipatory frown, I asked the key question. 'What are your plans for Westeros, then, Percy?'
For the third time in this conversation, Percy sighed. '...I'm not sure. But I think Dad may have given me an idea of what to look for here.'
Reaching out, Percy slammed Anaklusmos back into the rocky ground. 'You see, once, Daenerys—many ages ago—there was a great city, with a great king, known as Kekropia. In those days, each great city in the land had a god as patron. Yet Kekropia did not, and two deities very much wished to be their patron: Poseidon and Athena.'
Percy flexed his hand, and the water between us shifted into two currents, two distinct shapes of monolithic humanoids—one male, and one female. 'The two bargained, and eventually decided to each offer the Kekropians a gift which reflected their nature. Bargaining with the city's king, it was agreed that the god who was chosen would give their gift to that city alone—and the god denied would spread their gift as far as they wished.'
'
Poseidonwent first,' I heard as the male figure grew by a factor of two. 'He arrived at Kekropia, running his fingers along the seafoam of their grand shores as he walked about. And from his idle shaping of the seafoam, the first horses came about.'
'But then
Athenawent,' Percy spoke simply, with the female figure now growing to match the male. 'She declared to the people of Kekropia that the horse was a weapon and tool—it was a gift that came with strictures of war and labor. Only she, warlady of the Greek pantheon, knew when to declare conflict—and in her eyes, to threaten their neighbors so with such a grand military gift as cavalry would be to spell the doom of Kekropia.So instead, she offered a thing of wealth and trade: a grove of olives, which would last for many years to come.'
Waving his hand, I watched as Percy made the shaped currents disappear. 'Now, Kekropiais no more—there is only Athens. But my father is a spiteful god. The deal allowed him to spread horses as far as he could reach—and once Poseidon bargained with Kronos' son Aether, he found that his reach was far indeed.'
Percy frowned, his tone shifting into a depressed, grim thing.'My father's spite spread horses throughout the universe, and it spread his Horse-Father aspect to every planet Aether allowed those horses to flow to. But Athena… I have my points of contention with her, but none can deny that the city she sheltered has continued to survive under her Aegis.'
Suddenly, then, the grimness was gone. With eyes set so firmly they might as well have been precious gems, Percy leaned forward—his gaze intent upon me. 'So why do you want Westeros, Daenerys? Is it a matter of protection, or a matter of spite?'
I wanted to lean backward from that gaze, then. I didn't.
No weakness.
Instead, breathing deliberately slowly, I composed my thoughts. Then, I told my husband the most dangerous of things: the truth. 'I want Westeros because it's my rightful home, Percy—and until I reclaim it, the Usurper will make sure that I can never claim any other place as home.'
As I spoke, I could feel the emotion rising in me like a flaring bonfire. 'You've told me so many stories tonight—let me give you one. I had something close to a home, once. It was a… a home with a red door, a quiet place in the center of Braavos. Then the knight who protected us there died.'
For some reason, I was blinking quite quickly now. 'After that, the servants kicked us out. We lost everything. I spent a year on the street, and a decade-and-a-half more running from the Usurper's murderous agents.'
Despite all my self-control, I could not help but scoff then. 'Well, Percy? Was it a pleasant tale?'
Percy clenched his left fist, biting his lip with some unknowable emotion. 'No, Daenerys. It wasn't. I'm sorry you had to go through that.'
Then he spun his other hand, and I felt more than I saw as a current began to form around us. 'In return for your help, Daenerys, I'll do as you ask,' Percy said as he conjured our route back to shore, and Anaklusmos dissolved into nothingness. 'But know this—you would be the claimant, not Viserys.'
My husband smiled grimly, then. 'You see, I refuse to use people who trust me for a mission of spite.'
Then he flicked his hand—and as my world dissolved into a spinning view of foaming waters, those last words of our conversation rang through my mind.
When we emerged from the surf, I simply nodded at Percy. I agree to your deal, I thought. I'll get you home, and you'll take back my home.
Then I mounted Nerni, and we returned to the great khalasar.
There was work to do, after all, before my return to Westeros.
Percy II will be in a week.
