A/N: Here we are at the start of Part 2. I never thought this silly story would get such traction and a following when I posted that first chapter. Your kind support keeps the muse well fed and energized.

Farwynd & Fire

By Spectre4hire

19: Pentos I

Daenerys' wedding feast overwhelmed the senses.

The air was thick with the appetizing aromas of dozens of foods that wafted between their guests, making their mouths water and their stomachs growl. There was no order to the courses. They supped greens, and soups, cakes, and cheeses. There was beef and chicken, ducks, fish, and crabs were brought out by dozens of thralls letting guests choose which they wanted. They were also given numerous choices of what to drink with Dagon providing casks of ale and barrels of wine from throughout the world: Dornish Red, Arbor Gold, a thick stout from White Harbor, fruit beers from the southern Free Cities and brown and black beers from Braavos and Norvos.

When the first two of many roasted pigs were brought out, one had been given antlers made from twigs while the other had been given a mane of flowers to resemble the stag and lion. The crowd hooted and laughed and even her brother smiled, amusement dancing in his eyes and he happily accepted the first cut of each. At one point, early in the feast, her husband rose and made a toast to his absent liege lords, the Greyjoys. A large cake in the shape of a kraken was then brought out and presented to his guests, who came upon the dessert in a hungry fervor. Within minutes, there was no sign of the great kraken cake, the golden platter that it had been brought out on was bare save for a few sticky crumbs and sugary stains.

It was a storm of revelry, and she was at its center. Lively music played and sweet voices crooned, their melodies bouncing off the walls. She counted more than a dozen singing skalds, scores of musicians, playing lutes and drums, pipes, harps and horns. Though it was never a noisy clatter, it was a rhythm that rose above the din of the guests, who laughed and talked amongst themselves while others stomped their feet and took to dancing, clapping, and cheering, and bellowing requests for the next songs.

The sights of glittering splendor and gleaming opulence could be seen wherever she looked. Stone sphinxes and gilded dragons watched the guests eat and enjoy their feast. Strings of seashells hung over their heads jangling and chiming against each other. Beautiful banners and long streamers of fine silks and velvets adorned with numberless jewels wove throughout the hall as if made and placed by giant spiders. A large banner of her family's three headed dragon was draped behind the host's table, joined by Dagon's personal banner as well as the standard of House Farwynd of Lonely Light.

There was a leviathan carved from marble, a kraken made from a sheet of silver, bronze shark heads and actual shark jaws. They were placed on stands allowing guests to stick their heads in between the sharp jaws and many did. And there was so much more.

It was an ironborn custom that the bride and groom took most of their wedding courses amongst their guests. Daenerys didn't even know what course they were on. She knew that over greens, she ate with Tyroshi sailors who gifted her with dyes for her hair and clothes. Over soups and bread, she and Dagon were with Braavosi guests that included merchants, a shipwright, and even a representative of the Iron Bank. The latter talked mostly to Dagon. The shipwright was an old man with bushy eyebrows, dressed in rich purples, he asked after her ship, The Queen Rhaella. It had been made by him and his men, and when she complemented its beauty and remarked on its clever design, he drank to her health and invited her to tour his shipyards whenever she came to the city.

They shared a brief drink with a Qartheen couple, whose names she didn't catch. The husband was tall and pale; he wore fine silks with a tiger fur trimmed cloak. His wife was pale and beautiful, wearing a light blue gown that left one of her breasts exposed. Some guests had turned for quick, covert glances while others openly stared, but she ignored them. She acted serenely and affectionately towards her husband, who fed her the small pieces of a cake they were sharing. In between bites, they spent their time going on about their own wedding day which included their people's custom of the husband asking for one of her possessions. In his case it had been an ivory figurine. The mere memory of his wife's gesture was enough to make him cry. When it was time to leave them, Dany feared she insulted them since the husband began loudly weeping, but before she could apologize, Dagon thanked them, and promised to visit them on their return from Asshai.

"Don't let his tears fool you," he had whispered to her. "The Qartheen can be as brutal as the Dothraki when they need to be. The only difference is that they'll just apologize and weep as they kill you."

When it had been time for her brother to give Dagon the sword from their family, she and him were back at their table. It was a brief exchange, but she had watched it unfold in nervous anticipation. Afraid, Viserys may do something foolish, but to her relief, he didn't. He gave a somewhat decent speech that had those in the hall cheering when he finished. She wasn't sure if it was her brother's words that spurred their reaction, or their bellies full of ale, but she was just pleased that it had gone smoothly. Dagon had gladly accepted the gift, and thanked her brother. The two had then shook hands, and toasts were made for Houses Targaryen and Farwynd.

At their next course, a Volantene noble insisted that they split a duck that had been dressed and slathered in butter and peppered with a handful of spices.

"You will be sure to visit me when you're in Volantis?"

"Of course, I always enjoy beating you in cyvasse."

There were specks of meat stuck between his pearly white teeth when he smiled, but his mirth faded quickly. "I would be derelict in our friendship, Dagon, if I didn't advise you about your expedition to Asshai."

Dagon's posture made a slow, barely noticeable shift, which she felt since she was leaning against him. "And what is that?"

"You'll find no safe harbor in Slaver's Bay," he said softly. "They haven't forgotten what you did on your return from your last expedition through their waters, nor have they forgiven you."

"Their ships attacked me," Dagon said in between sips of Arbor Gold. "I was simply defending myself."

The noble chuckled. "And that extended to taking his slaves and making them your thralls, taking all his cargo, his ships, that Wise Master's life?" He asked, "You could've ransomed him for a great fortune."

"I already have many great fortunes, Albo."

"That you do," Albo agreed, "but part of my city's fortune is tied to our trade with them."

"And your own."

"Any my own," he agreed, "But right now I'm speaking as your friend. There are murmurs that they'll not stop at Slaver's Bay in their revenge. They'll go beyond their borders. Unsullied, and sellswords are nothing to scoff at."

"Let them come for me," Dagon wasn't worried, "I shall give them a great welcome."

"That you may," Albo wiped his greasy fingers with his silk napkin. "But it might interest you to know that they've found common cause with one of your own."

"And who is that?" His tone conveyed nothing.

"Euron Greyjoy," Albo then looked at Dany, as if just remembering she was with them. "And here I am speaking of such dark tidings on a day intended for celebrations, my apologies, princess."

And there was no more talk of Slaver's Bay or of this Euron Greyjoy.

They were back at their seats. It was time for the second exchange of swords.

Her brother had already gifted Dagon, a family sword to symbolize the transfer of the father's protection of the bride to the husband. Now, it was time for the groom. He would present a sword from his family to his bride, with the intention for it to be passed onto their future sons.

If Viserys can do this, she thought, remembering the crowd's warm reception to his words, then so can I. Daenerys felt a tightness in her belly. She watched as the sword was brought out on an orange samite cushion. There was a small engraving on the blade showing a rising wave. The sword had an ivory hilt. Its crossguard fashioned into ships sailing away from each other. The pommel of the sword looked new. It was in the shape of a dragon's head with amethysts for its eyes.

Dagon held it, and when he raised it, the guests cheered and stomped their feet. It was a great wave of noise that made her stomach clench. In her head, she struggled with what she was going to say. She never had to do such a thing before. Her heart gave a nervous flutter at the thought of speaking in front of so many people. She tried to dispel her nerves with a slow breath. Reminding herself once more that her brother had done this with success, so she could too.

I will be the Lady of the Iron Islands, Dany told herself, I am the blood of the dragon. And then it was her turn.

She rose when she was supposed to, smiling, trying to focus on Dagon and only him. My husband, and those words proved a safe harbor for her from this storm. Daenerys took the sword, holding it carefully. She saw Dagon's encouraging smile, and the lingering touch of his fingers on hers before he had relinquished it to her. She turned to her guests, but saw none of them. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs, and when she started speaking, she feared they'd not hear her words over the loud sound of her drumming heart.

Afterwards, she'd not be able recall what exactly she said at the feast, but Daenerys would always remember their reaction. A great roar that would rival any dragon. Their throaty cheers and loud applause washed away the last remaining vestiges that she couldn't do this. I can, she thought with exhilarated triumph, and I must for our son.

Our son, the words wrapped around her in comforting warmth. She felt Dagon's hands on her, one joined hers on the sword and the other was on her shoulder. Her husband's ironborn began chanting their names. My ironborn, she reminded herself. With fire and blood and steel, we'll take the Iron Islands. She raised the sword their son would one day wield and took in the rousing noise that made her feel powerful for the first time in her life.

The distinction between late evening and early morning blurred for Dagon Farwynd.

The dim light of the lamp at his elbow gave him enough to see without bothering his wife's sleep. My sweet bride, he looked up from his book to see her. She lay on their bed, asleep under their sheets. All save for one, Dagon had his thralls take that sheet. The one that proved her purity. Such blood was considered potent and would be carefully extracted. The consummation of their union had been met with enthusiasm by both bride and groom. They spent much of the night, exploring and enjoying each other's bodies and in many different ways. Chasing and savoring the carnal pleasures and indulging their lusts.

"A few minutes of rest," she had murmured, clinging to him, in the lazy afterglow.

Dagon had said nothing, and simply held her. He didn't leave her until the steady rise and fall of her chest signaled, she was asleep.

He couldn't afford to sleep. Not yet.

The pounding headache returned. It was them. The doors rattled inside his mind. He kept a firm hold, refusing them entry. He reached for his goblet and finished the potion in two sips. He grimaced from its foul taste.

It was a slow fade, their retreat. And only when the numbness came over him did, he realize he had been gripping the edge of his desk in a white-knuckled grip throughout their withdrawal. He loosened his hold and sighed. The numbness made his thoughts seem slow and clumsy. The aftertaste on his tongue was an unpleasant tartness. But it had to be done. He told himself this was only temporary because he couldn't keep taking it.

The drift dreams didn't come to him every night. Sometimes weeks or even months would pass in between them, but he thought it was wise to be cautious.

Dagon didn't wish to startle his new wife with his thrashing and shouting as his mind sunk into the fathomless abyss of the dark seas. He couldn't risk another to wake in his body while his mind wandered. It was too dangerous. That was why he found himself up at this hour, trying to keep his mind occupied with books and missives. The potion was slow acting, and had to be taken in doses. It was powerful, and too much, too quickly could have dire consequences not just on the bond, but of the mind itself.

It was her stirring that made him blink up from what he had been reading or trying to. She had rolled over, her hand absentmindedly touching and reaching out to the side of their bed, his side. It was a slow second of weary realization before her movement quickened.

"I'm here," he called out to her in the sleepy silence.

That calmed her. "I was worried."

The confession was softly said, but it cut him deeper than he thought. "I'm sorry."

Her violet eyes said more in a tender glance than any further word that could be shared between them. "I had a dream."

Dagon lost all interest in his book. "The dragon?" He asked hopefully.

"No," she rose out of their bed. She grabbed one of their sheets and draped it over her shoulders. "My brother was on the Iron Throne," she paused, "I think." She walked over to where the hearth's dying glow offered slim threads of light in the darkness. "He was in the shadows, but I saw their outlines."

"Their?" He found some of his interest shifting from her dream to her. The sheet she used as a cloak left much of her for him to admire which he did, taking in her lithe form, her small breasts, her lovely legs, and her sweet cunt.

"Yes," her own attention was torn between the retelling of her dream and that of the eggs that she had placed in the fireplace, having nestled them into the kindling like a bird's nest. The dragon eggs had been his final gift to her, the seventh. When he had secured them, he had thought them mere decorations, relics of her family's proud history. Until her dreams. Even still, his hope was a small seed, but it grew.

She treated them like living things, and not the stones that most believed they had become. The fire hissed as she poked it. Embers danced and new light stirred from the flames as they lazily crackled and grew. She worked it well, knowing where to prod, and what to move and soon the fire's glow grew brighter and brighter. Satisfied, she returned the poker, and moved to the eggs.

He was about to caution her of the danger of the fire but stopped himself. The dragon's blood, she had told him, and then showed him when she first handled the eggs in the fire. They should've been scalding hot. But they left no burns or calluses on her delicate fingers . He had heard Viserys rant on it countless times, and had dismissed it as pure boasts, but there was truth to their claims. This fire in their blood, he had noticed her own flesh seemed to burn hotter too, remembering his fingers on her skin. With anyone else, he'd think the person struck with a fever, but not her. He had liked it, that heat. A lot, he admitted.

"They were impaled on the swords of the great throne," She went back to her dream, moving the eggs calmly as the fire burned around them. "Stags and lions, wolves and hounds, all of them skewered, struggling and sinking deeper into the swords," She recited it mildly while her eyes remained on her eggs. Her hand was on one of them for a long heartbeat before she withdrew it.

His wife's dreams continued to astonish him. It may not have been dragons, but this dream was surely a sign of a future victory for them. And a portent of woe for our enemies. "You're amazing," he said in sincere awe.

In the firelight, he saw the pink in her cheeks. She half turned and began to shyly dip her chin before she stopped herself. Instead, Dany raised her head proudly and smiled at him, radiant and grateful. "Thank you."

He returned her smile and nodded.

"How long have you been awake?" She opened the balcony doors, letting in the sounds and smells of the bay. "You should've woken me." A gust of wind billowed through, rustling the sheet. She laughed in clear joy as the sheet swirled around her.

He watched her, enjoying the sight of her. In the pale moonlight she seemed to glow. The sheet's swishing gave him enticing glances of her arse. With reluctance he returned his attention to her question, putting aside his growing desire that she effortlessly stirred within him. "I didn't wish to disturb you." He could hear the lapping of the bay's waves in the distance. The smells of the sea intermingled with the lingering scents of sex and incense.

She took his answer with a nod. "So, what were you doing?" She stepped off the balcony to return to their room. "That could keep you away from your bride on our wedding night?" She grew bolder in her teases and her smiles came easier. She seemed a different person from the one he met a week ago.

I would've gladly wedded and bedded that stranger. However, he didn't mind the changes that he saw in her, so he felt no need to correct them. Dagon stood up, offering her his chair. "It's a family chronicle."

"Really?" She didn't move to sit in the empty seat. Her eyes were on the opened book. He watched the interest in her countenance change to confusion. She frowned. "These aren't words."

"They are," he watched her silvery-gold hair tumble down one of her shoulders when she turned to face him. "This," he tapped one of the words. "Is the language of Lonely Light."

"But some look like pictures," she pointed to one.

They were taught a different way to write to safeguard their secrets and knowledge in the many books and records they kept from their skinchanging experiences. He nodded at her unasked question, as she turned the pages, she grew more awake with each passing page and of the words she tried to read.

The family songs say we were taught by the mermaids. A way to protect what the sea change had shown his family. To ensure that outsiders couldn't steal their knowledge or their secrets. They shared some of what they learned. Dagon translated some of it himself for Irwyn and his acolytes, but most remained unread by outsiders. The oldest tomes back on Lonely Light were considered more precious than all the gold that Oldtown could offer.

"What does this one say?" Her question pulled him from his thoughts of home to see which one she was pointing to.

He had done that one. One of his older lessons from when he was still a boy, bursting with information after collecting his first two companions. "It's about sharks."

"Oh," she looked at it more closely. "It sort of looks like a fin." Somewhere in her reading, she had sunk into the seat, too engrossed at the pages to notice.

"It does," he said, more for her benefit than in truth.

"And what does it say specifically?"

"I wrote that when a shark stops swimming, they sink."

"Truly?" It was excited curiosity that drove the word from her not an intended insult, but she still caught herself and the possible affront that could be given. "I'm sorry."

He kissed her hair to show her he knew she meant no insult. "Yes, they do," he had learned that lesson himself. "I went on to write about some other things including their diets, and their travels."

"It says all that?" She gestured to what she thought were just strange symbols.

"Yes."

"Did you draw this?" She asked after flipping a few pages getting closer to the beginning of the book.

"No," like with writing, he was taught at an early age how to draw. Some things were difficult to translate, so they had to learn how to capture such experiences through sketches, plants or animals, or places. The one she pointed to had been done by the person who owned this book before Dagon. "My uncle did that."

"Uncle?" she asked, "I didn't know you had one."

Her confusion was warranted since he never made mention of him before in any of his stories of Lonely Light and his kin. "He died long ago." His uncle had been younger than him when he killed himself.

It was a madness that took him. His grandfather had said. A sickness, Maron Farwynd was certain of it, and what caused it. It was that Three-eyed raven! His grandfather cursed this thing as if it was real, as if it was possible. His grandfather had gone to the rookery and killed every raven they had and then forbade the bird from ever living on the island again.

Don't trust it, Dagon. His grandfather's grip on his arm was tight. Dagon was a boy of seven, confused, and scared. If the bird comes in your dreams, send it away. He'd not forget his grandfather's sobs that followed.

A three-eyed-raven never did visit Dagon, but he remained vigilant of this creature. When he was older, he learned it had been mentioned before by past Farwynds. 'A herald of death and madness' was what one Lady Farwynd had written in grief after the loss of her daughter. ' It's the work of the Stormgod,' another Farwynd had written after losing a brother, 'His means to try to hurt us and He has.' Even in this book, his uncle made a reference or two to it before he succumbed. 'The Three-Eyed-Raven promises me answers,' his uncle had written, 'to know more than any Farwynd before me.' There would be no answers for his uncle, only a painful death.

"I'm sorry," she took his silence as mourning.

"It's no matter," he assured her, "I never knew him. He died before my own father wed."

Dany skimmed a few more pages, but she seemed to have lost interest in its contents for the night, until finally she closed the book. She turned to face him, her sheet falling away as she stood up. Her skin was hot beneath his admiring fingers. She moaned when his hands came to her breasts. "More," she encouraged in between her kisses. He understood, scooping her up in his arms, he carried her to their bed to fulfill his wife's request.

The potion worked and he was able to sleep peacefully until she woke him up with her mouth. They enjoyed themselves once more before they came.

Gwyn Farwynd entered their chambers with a few of her thralls trailing behind her, all of them women. Gwyn wore a veil made to resemble a fishnet. The mesh was silk and encrusted with white and black pearls. The thralls wore humbler veils of roughspun thread with bits of coral instead of jewels.

Gwyn's role was usually tasked and overseen by the mothers of the bride and groom, but Dagon's was far away, and Dany's was dead. Neither did they have sisters, so it fell to Gwyn. Dagon had already told Dany of this, so at their arrival, she knew what to do. Daenerys didn't try to cover herself up but moved to lie still and naked atop the sheets. He moved to her right side and took her hand in his. The bowl was brought forward by one of Gwyn's thralls, a plain, sharp featured girl of ten and seven. The seaweed floated in the sea water that had been blessed and prepared. He couldn't see them, but he knew the seeds were at the bottom of the bowl.

While the other thralls sang one of the songs of Her, the sharp featured thrall took the seaweed and wrapped it around Dagon and Dany's interlocked fingers, binding them to each other. Gwyn brought her wet fingers and began with the tops of Dany's feet and of her open palms. The wet markings could be seen against Dany's skin. She dipped her fingers and did it again, this time bringing the blessing with dabs below both her eyes. The thralls behind her prayed in murmurs as she continued. She next brought it across her brow, Her mark, and then smeared her fingertips across Dany's mouth.

"The sea is the bringer of life," the thralls said, "the nurturer of our world."

Gwyn cupped her hands into the water before raising them, letting it slip through her fingers in a steady dribbling back into the bowl. She then brought her hands to Dany's breasts and said the words while making the outlines of Her sign upon each of them.

Dagon was proud of his new wife who remained quiet and still through this important rite. He watched as Gwyn made the same sign above Dany's sex.

She then returned her hands to the bowl. "May his seed quicken and may the waters in her womb prove to be as fertile as the sea itself." She then brought her hands to Dany's flat belly, and in his mind's eye he saw it swell with their child. Gwyn was saying the final words while making the last blessing when Dany squeezed his hand. He turned to his wife and knew her thoughts were the same as his and they smiled at their unspoken hope.

Here we are with the wedding night chapter, and instead of poorly written smut, I just give you more crazy and random ironborn lore that I either made up or bastardized from other religions/myths/etc and likely shouldn't have included.

Yeah, I gave the Farwynds some hieroglyphs for their own writing system b/c why not.

The Three-Eyed-Crow (Three-Eyed-Raven in the show and in this story) has no role or impact in this story. I just wanted to make a reference to one of Bran's GOT chapters: "He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points." I like the theory/implications that The Three-Eyed-Raven has reached out throughout the years and tried to find other dreamers. And I liked the idea that some of those dead dreamers came from the Farwynds of Lonely Light.

The dragon eggs make their debut. I know readers have asked about them. And here they are, but don't be surprised if they don't look the same. I mean this an AU after all, so why not make them look a bit different.

Since this is crack, I'm leaning into the Dany being fireproof bit from the show, because it works for this silly story.

In some ways this story will cover some of Dany's canon beats, just with an ironborn coat of paint instead of Dothraki, but it'll diverge in places too.

The first Euron Greyjoy 'sighting' has been made for this story. Just a tease, but more will come. I also gave him a bit of a buff with the Slaver's Bay alliance. Both that alliance and Dagon's brief history with Slaver's Bay will be explained.

Until next time,

Spectre4hire