117 AC, Braavos

Daemon's unease settled over the next two weeks, albeit marginally. His great dissatisfaction – once a burning fire – had dwindled to a smoldering pile of embers and he found it within himself to find a touch of comfort in their new foreign home. But despite his best efforts to appear congenial and contrite, Laena seemed determined to throw oil on his fire. There was no greater evidence of this than the nightly war she waged on him in the privacy of their suite.

First, she tried to make him sleep on the chaise lounge by the window.

Which he refused.

Then, she tried to only sleep when he did not.

Which he sabotaged.

And then finally, she built a wall of pillows between them and threatened him with a butter knife.

Which he only respected out of his own sense of disgust at the alternative.

Laena was a beautiful woman to be sure, but two weeks of playing the part of a loving, happy marriage had all but divested him of the desire to see her as anything but his attractive captor.

Daemon turned over in placed, glancing at the tiny bits of outline he could see of his wife over the pile of thick pillows. It was cold tonight and the wind creeping in from their open balcony chilled him to his very core and kept him from sleep. It had been a luxury that he not thought to find lacking in their new accommodations, but lacking it was, and the longer he went without a restful night, the more his mood soured. Soon, not even the King's welcome they had received would be enough to quiet the worst parts of himself.

He turned over onto his side, glowering at the soft glow.

"I can hear the anger in your thoughts," Laena said, cutting across the silence like fart in an empty room. "Perhaps you could quiet them long enough for me to sleep." Daemon scoffed and turned back on her side, facing the mountain of pillows between them. He felt her move to do the same, the bed dipping as she accidently scooted closer to her demarcation. "What? No quippy response?"

She sounded truly shocked at his continued silence.

Perhaps a little unnerved.

And outwardly as uneasy as he had felt for the better part of the last fortnight.

Daemon turned back to lay on his back, folding his arms across his chest, lips pulling up into a smile despite himself.

Laena let out a groan and threw off the covers, making a big show of shoving them extra hard in his direction. She crouched down in front of the fire, nightdress bunched up around her thighs, and began to poke and prod at the dying flames. Whatever fight she might have had let in her, disappeared as the night twisted on and they found themselves in an uneasy sort of truce. She kept her back to him as he rolled over and got out of bed as well, sleep all but lost for the foreseeable future.

He pulled a thin robe over his bare shoulders and made quick work of pouring two glasses of wine.

She held out her hand without looking up, thin fingers curling around the delicate stem of the glass like spider legs. She sat on the cold stone floor, forgoing the dozens of option of soft surfaces, and pushed her toes and feet as close as they could get to the fire without burning. He sat down next to her.

"You are quiet tonight," She finally said after a long moment, wine staining her lips. Her voice spoke of sincerity and Daemon found himself a little taken aback.

He took a long sip of wine to save himself the ordeal of trying to piece together an answer.

It was bitter medicine. A cure that would only last long enough to get him to the next sip. And for all that he had finally started to feel at ease in Braavos, the taste of it was a constant reminder that he was still now sharing a life without a woman who he could never hope to love.

"Aemond and Ophaella seem to have settled in well," She said, changing the subject to one that might pull something out of him other than stony silence.

"King's Landing is hell. I am not surprised they have found happiness outside its high towers."

"Outside its high towers or outside its Hightowers?"

They shared a look over their wine, each smiling despite their unspoken agreement to live in open hostility for the duration of their marriage. A calm washed over them and they both relaxed, muscles loosening and bodies turning towards each other. In the morning, when the pillow wall was back firmly in place and the wine had run dry, they would go back to waging their war. But for now, Daemon welcomed the momentary peace and poured his wife another glass.

"I am going to take the boy to see the Water Dancers tomorrow." Daemon said, watching her face for some kind of protest. When she offered none, he continued. "Perhaps you might take Ophaella with you."

"Really? You are trusting me alone with her?"

"Should I not? You are her stepmother, after all."

In truth, he did not. He did not trust her cryptic words, nor did he trust her intentions with his daughter. But, as much as it pained him to even fathom, he also knew that he could not trust himself in that same regard.

"I want for nothing but her safety and happiness…"

"And to see to it that her gifts develop in the way you wish."

"What harm is there in that? It is not you who knew her mother. It is not you who knew what Rhea would have taught Ophaella if she had been given the opportunity."

"I knew Rhea Royce more than you care to admit," Daemon said, surprised at the offense he found in her words. They were simple things – whispered truths that most believed – and he was willing to let his own disdain for his deceased wife be well known. But not here, not with Laena and not at the expense of his own daughter's future. "I witnessed her magic first hand. I was there the day she died, I know what she was trying to teach Ophaella."

"And yet you would stand in the way now?"

"I would protect her from you manipulations. She is seven, Laena, and has the same gifts as her mother. Even you should see where my concern would come from." He set his wine glass down and turned towards Laena in full, mouth set in a grim line. "You accused me once of trying to strip the Royce from her blo-"

"I stand by that belief."

"You are welcome to stand by all you wish, but you are wrong. I seek nothing more for my daughter than a longer life than the one her mother had."

"Then let me help her. You were amenable on Driftmark, yet here you falter. Why? What has changed in mere weeks?"

"Nothing. I still hold firm to my belief that there will be no peace for her with these poisonous abilities. How can there be? You may teach her and guide her and mold her, but how can she find peace when she reaches her full potential? A man killed at seven is only likely to turn into a dozen at seventeen. I can scarcely imagine what that number will be when her time comes to rest."

"You, of all people?"

"Yes, me of all people, because I understand what it does to you to kill someone. How many have you killed from the back of Vhagar? You cannot even know. The dragon has always done that messy work for you and spared you from that pain."

Daemon struggled to keep his calm, but he knew he must.

For himself and for Ophaella.

"Teach her what you wish. Fill her head with noble stories of her mother and lies about how powerful she was. I will remind her that it was those same gifts that killed her."

"Two years she has been dead and you still hold such hatred for Rhea." Laena spit the words out with disgust, scooting ever so slightly back from him. "You brought her nothing but misery and still you cannot let her rest without spewing your bile."

"She brought me nothing but misery in return. Why are you so convinced that I was in the wrong? We were both forced into that marriage. We were both treated like family chattel."

"You are a man. You will never understand that kind of pain."

"Don't I? I am a second born son. What benefits I bring my family are limited to the relationships I form. What fortunes I have in this world, I have to make for myself. What legacy I leave, is the one I shape for myself."

"And what of Ophaella? How will you shape her? She is gifted and she needs you to support that wholly and fully and with everything that you are. Wiffling back and forth out of nothing but a selfish desire to wrest some sort of control serves nothing," Laena said, voice brimming with emotion. "I loved Rhea and I would never do anything that would harm her daughter. You have to believe that, Daemon. Please, trust me on this."

Daemon did not.

But he also knew he had no other choice.

In the morning, when their unsteady truce melted away with the rising sun, he would watch Laena walk away with his daughter and know that he was powerless for the first time in his life.

And he would continue to swallow his bitter medicine until it was all he could taste.


Ophaella was quiet. It took Laena only a few moments to notice when she collected her that morning, but the reality was inescapable in the oppressive silence of the library. So early in the morning the only people littered amongst the stacks were the pages and scribes poring over their work from the night before. It was awkward and Laena would have much preferred the alternative, but she tried to make the best of it as she pulled Ophaella towards the closest stack and started the long work of getting the girl to open up.

Ophaella sat down at the table and folded her pale hands together on top, peering up at the shelves that climbed all the way up to the ceiling. She was dressed simply, in a crème dress and braided leather sandals, with her short hair pulled back from her face.

In the dim light, if Laena squinted, she could almost imagine she was looking at Rhea's ghost.

"Do you like to read?" Laena asked, realizing only after she had said it that she should have thought about that before dragging the girl out of bed well before dawn and bringing her here.

"I do," Ophaella said, squeezing her fingers together just a little bit tighter. She glanced down the line of shelves, amber eyes wide. "Do you?"

It was the polite question, the one that all wellbred children were taught from the time they could think to ask, but Laena thought there was a thread of sincerity there and so she grabbed hold and gave it a mighty tug.

She sank down in the seat next to Ophaella and nodded, smiling.

"I love to read! Your mother never enjoyed it very much, but she liked to be read to." Ophaella's brown furrowed and Laena answered the question before it could be asked. "She was my greatest friend, for a time."

"She never mentioned you."

An unintended knife between her ribs, if there ever was one.

But Laena understood.

Whatever their relationship might have been – whatever their relationship was – died long before Rhea did. She had grasped the corpse for years, waiting to die right alongside it. A part of her felt guilty for straying from that now, for latching on Ophaella as something to give her new life.

"No, no she wouldn't have. It was a childhood thing. Immature and unnecessary once she married your father." That only caused Ophaella's brow to furrow even more. "But, I was always happy to hear news of you and I cherished the little information I got. At the time, I could scarcely fathom finding myself in this position now."

"Married to my father, you mean."

"Yes," Laena admitted, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. "And being here in Braavos with you."

"Will you tell me about her?" Ophaella seemed almost embarrassed to ask and Laena's heart clenched deep in her chest.

Her anger at Daemon, which threatened to simmer into nothing, burst forward once again.

His outright disdain.

His bitterness.

His hatred.

Ophaella had seen all of that and thought there was something correct about it, that loving and missing her mother was something to be ashamed of.

"Absolutely," Laena said, moving her hand to brush against the curls that brushed Ophaella's nape. "But first, we need to find a few books."

"Fun books?"

"What do you consider a fun book?" Laena stood up and pushed back her chair.

"Books about warriors and swords," Ophaella said, rushing to keep up with her as Laena began to walk down the long row of books. Ophaella grabbed her hand to make it easier to keep up, swinging their hands

"Tragically, the first ones we need to get are books about grammar and math."

"What?"

"I cannot very well let you and Aemond end up illiterate."

"You could try," Ophaella said, pouting.

Laena smirked and gave her hand a little squeeze. "One for one. You read a book about grammar and then you can read a book about blood and guts and men with swords."

"Fine."

"Now, your mother and I met as teenagers, in a bar fight, with dozens and dozens and dozens of scoundrels…"


Aemond trailed after Daemon like a duckling, hand gripping the back of his jerkin to avoid getting lost in the crowd. It took every ounce of self-restraint Daemon possessed to not turn around and snatch his clothing away. And really, why shouldn't he? The boy was meant to be learning from him, not cowering like a maid at the sight of sea of people. He was meant to be a fighter – of what sort Daemon still hadn't the foggiest – not a little wisp that hides behind greater men.

But then again, he was only seven.

Daemon tightened his jaw and ignored the hands holding tight.

He would allow the boy this little comfort.

And then he would beat it out of him by way of the sword and the shield and the axe.

The weeks they had spent in the Sealord's house had afforded them certain luxuries. Fresh fruit, exotic meat, and an endless stream of watery wine and tinny ale had lulled them all into a certain haze of inaction. Morning spent sleeping in, afternoons spent laid out in the sun, and nights plied with all the grandeur befitting their station. It had all been too much and the restless that had settled over Daemon had begun to wear on his nerves.

He needed to hit something.

He needed to run his sword through something, even if it was nothing more than a straw dummy.

He needed to get away from Laena.

Training Aemond seemed to be all the excuse he needed.

So he gathered the boy without preamble well before dawn, barking orders too quick to follow, and made his way out of the Sealord's house without any real sense of direction except steering for the sea. He heard tell of the might of swordsmanship – Water Dancers, they were called- in Braavos and doubtful though he may, his curiosity would not be sated until he saw them for himself.

They danced under the watchful eye of the Titan, shielded from the rest of the world by the surrounding islands. They took care to hide their training, to keep their secrets from the rest of the world. Outsiders – with bright white hair and deep purple eyes - were unlikely to be a welcome sight. They covered their hair, huddled together as they approached the boat that would take them to their destination.

Daemon shoved Aemond in first, rolling his eyes at the way the boy squeaked like a rodent at the sudden force.

He was seven.

Daemon would have to remind himself of that fact over and over again throughout the day. If he had been a boy twice his age, he would have tossed him over the edge of the docks long ago.

At the very least, it would save him from having to watch him moon after his daughter all day.

He was seven.

He had to remind himself of that again, lest he really did toss him into the water and leave him there.

Daemon turned his back to the boy and stared at the open water.

They had been holed up the Sealord's house since they arrived, growing soft and weak and tired, and he reveled in the feel of the wind and saltwater on his face. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine he was on dragonback. Instead, when he opened them he was confronted with the dirty rotten reality – with the stink and the muck and the humanity. His lip curled and he gripped his hands together at his sides, pointedly ignoring Aemond shifting around in the boat behind him.

"Where are we going?" Aemond finally asked, voice soft- always so soft - over the sound of the boat slapping against the water. Daemon continued to stare forward for moment, eyes narrowing as their coxswain turned them closer.

"Training," Daemon said, rolling his eyes when the boy shoved himself into the seat next to him. Daemon shifted to the left. Aemond followed. "Yes?"

"I did not bring anything to train with."

Daemon did not believe him.

He could see, if he bothered to pay enough attention to him, that he favored one foot over the other when he walked. The surest sign of a knife hidden poorly between sock and boot. He tried not to think better of the boy just a little bit more for that, but he could not help the tiny spark that almost resembled respect.

"You have hands, do you not?" Daemon looked at him sidelong, pleased at the way his skin turned ashen at the very idea. "And feet and elbows and teeth?"

"I thou…"

"Your father neglected your training," Daemon said, taking pity on the boy before he could stress himself out further. "A boy your half your age should already have gone through a few training swords. You will have to work even harder to catch up."

"I will."

Daemon was a little taken aback by the sudden fierceness in his voice, reminded a little too much of himself at that age. He knew Aemond and himself bore startling similarities – as he had told Viserys – but this new evidence seemed almost unavoidable. Unavoidable and deeply disquieting. Familial shared features aside, there was an eerie quality to looking at the face of the boy and seeing the reflection that he had long since forgotten about. He stared at him for a moment, stared at all the features alike and different, and continued to stare until he could no longer stand it.

"Good lad. Now, today you will not be doing anything but watching." Aemond nodded, folding his short little arms across his chest as he hunkered down and stared forward.

The boat tapped against the rocky dock and Aemond was up and out of his seat before it stopped completely.

"Stay close and do not make a sound. If you do not embarrass me, tomorrow we might use wooden swords."

Aemond nodded.

"And do not get in the way."

Aemond nodded.

"And make sure you stay close."

Aemond nodded.

Daemon rolled his eyes. "You can talk to me now, Aemond."

The boy blushed crimson and looked at his feet. "Right. I promise."

Daemon pursed his lips, fighting the slight smile. "Good lad."


Daemon was tired of fish. Braavos, for all its access to the best trade in all of Westeros and Essos, still favored their local catch above all else. Fish turned his stomach on the best of days and after weeks of richness after richness, Daemon found himself scowling down at the food placed in front of him. Laena, far more accommodating of this sort of thing, had left him alone many hours before to tend to the children, and he could not hide his disgust by slipping her food when their host wasn't looking.

Instead, he drowned it all down with watery wine.

"My guards have told me you and the boy have been frequent visitors of the training grounds," The Searlord said, snapping his fingers for more wine.

"Yes, the boy's training needs to start. I thought a week spent watching might be the best place for him to begin."

"I can have my Master at Arms see to it. There is no need for you to waste your time with such things."

Daemon took another long sip.

He would become an alcoholic at some point, he was absolutely certain, if he kept turning to wine to save himself from letting his true feelings show on his face.

"Just as my wife is seeing the education of my daughter, I will see to the training of my nephew."

"You do not trust someone outside your house?"

"I do not trust anyone in my house. I assure you, it is not meant to cause offense. My reasons are my own and I will say no more."

"No matter. We need not waste our time on such trivial things. I had hoped to speak to you plainly."

Daemon pushed his plate of fish away, giving up all pretenses now that it seemed the Sealord was so inclined to do the same. He had assumed this sort of conversation would come. Such niceties never came for free and even if he had bought them their time by virtue of the blade, he knew that the time was soon to come that he would need to pay for their hospitality their dragons, they were nothing more than pale jewels. Precious things to bring out at parties and parade around. Pretty things of little substance, biding their time until someone would need to call on their favor.

And now it seemed they had finally arrived to the meat of it.

Daemon steeled his gut and set his wine to the side, recognizing the need to keep all his wits about him.

"Your family has settled in nicely here."

"Indeed."

"So much so, that some might question if you ever intend to return to Westeros," The Sealord said, running his hands along his inky black beard. He leaned forward and set his own glass of wine down, dark eyes sweeping over Daemon.

"You may question all you wish. We are Westerosi and will return when the time is right."

"But you were not always. There was a time when you would have spit on such characterizations."

Daemon tried not to openly scowl at the man. He clearly intended this conversation to head in a singular direction and Daemon resented him all the more for it. He felt trapped - like a wild animal shoved in too small a cage - and cursed himself for allowing it to happen. "Perhaps. But Aegon the Conqueror welcomed such labels at the end of his life. I am not better than him for that fact. I was born in Westeros, but my blood is that of Old Valyria."

"Does your brother hold to such standards? Does he hold with the conquerors of his past in his rule?"

"My brother rules as he sees fit."

"Your brother rules with apathy," The Sealord said, speaking with such honestly Daemon was taken aback.

On Westeros, he would have had his tongue for such disrespect.

Here, he would let him speak.

And then, he would kill him while he slept, if the need should arise.

This man was new to his role, having only taken it by writ of Daemon's killing blow. A Sealord without a son was not long for his post and the man now sitting across from him saw fit to take the advantage for his own. He welcomed them into his home as a thanks. But now it seemed the time had come again to ask for another payment.

"You do not argue."

"Only because I am waiting to see if I should kill you or not."

The Sealord sighed and shook his head. "You are not in King's Landing. Your King is nor mine. The only disrespect I offer is to your brother, but I do not think you are above such things yourself."

Daemon continued to stare at the other man.

He would let him spin his own noose with his words.

"Your foray into the Stepstones was not an isolated incident. You know that rot will only spread unless the King does something about it. The trading routes have grown treacherous. Soon, they will be all but unusable."

"You are capable of guarding your own waters."

"Not while an absentee King controls the Narrow Sea."

"And so the Free Cities are not really free. Your pirates have found plenty of purchase raiding and pillaging the coasts. The Stepstones was a monster of your own making. I attempted to settle that dispute and all I got for my trouble was conflict with my family and disdain from the Free People who were supposed to guard their own waters."

"You still did something. Something more than Viserys."

"So now we speak plainly."

"We do," The Sealord agreed, relaxing ever so slightly in his seat.

"You are not under the dominion of the King…"

"And yet our lives are impacted by his inaction all the same. All I ask if for is a change."

"What you ask for is treason."

"On your shores. But you are in Braavos, Daemon, where all men are free. You will come to see it for yourself in time."

"Perhaps. For now, my answer is resolute. I am loyal to the King." Daemon stood up, body buzzing. "But, ask me again tomorrow and maybe my answer will change."