117 AC, Braavos
"Must be a sight for you," Daemon spoke, quite suddenly, startling Laena out of her self-induced silence. "Seeing Braavos and whatnot."
She wished he hadn't. She had grown quite comfortable in her awkwardness, accustomed to the silence that had stretched between them all morning and the mutual agreement she thought they had shared not to break it. She was surprised, to say the least, that he felt so compelled to make small-talk. He was not a man for idle chatter and the chitterings of pretending to care for what she had to say frayed her nerves and turned her already unsettled stomach to mush.
Laena supposed she should not be so surprised that his first attempts at pleasant conversation – if such a thing even existed with a man so diametrically opposed to being pleasant – resulted in him insulting her quite handily.
"I have left Driftmark many times," She said, turning her back to him just a bit more as their small boat bobbed towards the city. The move put her face towards the rising sun and she was forced to squint if she wanted to catch a final glance of Vhagar and Caraxes. To say she had never felt so vulnerable might be an understatement of the highest possible order. She was used to the independent nature of a dragon – had lived and nearly died by it more times than she could count – but she could never quite get used to the ache she felt in her chest at their parting and the way her hand always gravitated towards the nearest knife.
Her hand passed over her boot, comforted by the feel of the blade tucked safely inside. Taken from the back of Vhagar's mouth and carved into a point, she kept it on her at all times.
If she could not have the safety of a thousand teeth at her back, she would settle for just one in her hand.
"Of course," Daemon said, tone pinched.
He was trying to be civil, for reasons she could not fathom, and the very least she could was try as well.
After all, she did stab him.
Twice.
Even if only one of them managed to stick.
It was not easy to hide her smirk so early in the morning when she saw the nearly invisible wince on his face every time he moved more than a few inches but she did her best. They were married and she should, at the very least, appear contrite for the physical pain she had caused him. But she would not apologize. He was a demon and the list of pains he had caused to others was longer than all of the histories of the Seven Kingdoms and she would not so besmirch Rhea's memory by playing nicer with the man than she had to.
Their skiff was little thing, more suited for stay close to the shore than trying to ferry them across the choppy waters between their campsite and the larger city, but they were able to hire the man and his boat for a few coppers. They were able to buy his silence for even less. Demon of a man, though he may be, Daemon Targaryen could never be described as anything but effective when it came to protecting what he cared about.
They passed Drowned Town in complete silence –passed over the bloated bodies and rotten wood - each too trapped in their own thoughts to continue the painful exercise of trying to find any sort of peace in the other's company.
Theirs would be a marriage of purpose.
Of protection.
Of meeting where their one and singular goal was the same.
Many women had been shackled away in marriage for far less and Laena could not find it in herself to wholly miserable.
"We should not have left them," Laena whispered, turning back to lean close to Daemon so that she would not be overheard. The man steering the boat was too terrified to speak of what he heard, but she would be cautious all the same. They were steeped in conspiracy – drowning in secrecy and deception – and the thought leaving two children alone seemed counter to their very reason for coming to Braavos in the first place. But Daemon insisted, and though she would never admit it, there was a certain wisdom to the notion that the relative known solitude of their outlying island was safer than the unknown that waited for them in the city.
Laena knew she would be welcome, as her father and his father before him, always had been, but she did not hold out such hopes for Daemon.
Perhaps she misjudged him and was simply viewing him through her own biased perspective, but she assumed he was met with hostility everywhere he went.
She felt him press close, felt the shift so that his chest was against the boniest part of her shoulder, and tried not to pull away out of instinct.
"The Cannibal still stands watch. We are about to be in far more danger," His voice was deep and it rumbled in his chest.
Even with such assurances, Laena could not help but look backwards. The dragon in question – a beast almost as large as her dear Vhagar and twice as vicious – still loomed large over the tree line, even at such a distance. The early morning sun reflected of her scales, adding a touch of beauty to what was otherwise a terrifying sight. Somewhere beneath her feet, Aemond and Ophaella kept watch over their stuff. Neither one had seemed overly interested in waking up that morning and very well might have gone back to sleep the moment they left.
"Danger," Laena said the word carefully, mulling it over for herself as their boat slowed down on the approach to the dock.
How she had once craved it.
Her back stiffened when the boat bumped against the buoy netting. The dock they landed at was not nearly as busy as the others, though it was still stuffed to the gills with merchants, traders, and servants running errands for their houses. She was struck dumb for a moment by the normality of it all and for a brief moment she let herself imagine that she was back in Braavos for completely mundane reasons.
Instead, she willingly threw away the life she had wanted for herself for a child that knew her only as the woman who tried to kill her father.
Her younger self would weep.
The self from three weeks ago would weep.
Daemon slid his hand along the small of her back and made a big show of playing the doting husband as they stood up.
The city of Braavos was not kind to be would-be-conquerors, too invested in their own hard won independence to tolerant such Targaryen nonsense and Laena knew that the moment she stepped into the city with her new husband, she would be marked with hostility. It would be best if they appeared happy. It would be best if they appeared in love. It would be best if they kept to themselves and kept to their own business.
In the quiet of their room – when together and separate – they could sink back into reality and return to normal.
Him, to whatever designs he had on his life now that it had been flipped on its head.
And her, to missing Rhea and the life that the two of them had once hoped to have.
It had always been impossible.
But Laena craved it more than the fresh air found on dragonback.
She let Daemon help her onto the dock, let his hand find a place on her hip, and guide her towards the quickly gathering crowd. Their matching bright white hair was like a shining lamplight, drawing in the people like moths to their flame not knowing that they were just as likely to set them on fire as keep them warm.
They openly gaped, committing their sight of the dragonless dragons to memory. Even when they tried to avoid the pomp, it followed them like an inevitability. The scrutiny did not seem to bother Daemon. He pulled her close and offered a few subtle waves to the crowd, like he was giving them something of value that they should hold onto forever.
She glanced up at him, schooling her features into that of a besotted wife, and imagined she could read his mind.
Gems, they would waste, he would say.
Food, they would glutton themselves on, he would sneer.
But a wave, an acknowledgement of their existence, they would feast on forever, he would say with a sense of self-importance that could not be rivaled.
She might have believed him if she did not know better.
Instead, she found herself smiling at the people they passed – as if she could apologize for the thoughts he had, as if it was the only thing that could make up for the way he walked across the docks like a would-be-conqueror come to Braavos at long last.
"Halt!" A heavily accented voice called, freezing Laena in her tracks, though Daemon kept walking.
The crowd began to rumble, pushing against each other as the clink of heavy armor sounded from somewhere in the middle. The people began to step back, shouting and cursing in every language known in Westeros, Essos, and everywhere in between. Some, she recognized. Some, she feared. And some threatened to ignite the sense of adventure that she had thought she left buried in the rocks with Rhea Royce.
"Do not take another step, Westerosi," The voice called again, more forceful.
The last few people parted and whatever recognition, fear, or adventure might have been swirling inside Laena curdled to dust.
"Laena Velaryon," The man said, eyes dancing between her and Daemon. "The last time you graced these docks you were promising yourself to me."
"The Sea Lord's son, I presume," Daemon asked, mirth lighting up his face as he realized.
"Ferrien Pentarriel," The man said, a self-importance inflating his voice and his chest as he approached the pair. "And that is my wife on your arm."
"Is she?"
"She is. By writ of contract and by writ of the promises made to me by her father. I demand satisfaction."
Ferrien pulled out a sword, making a show of pointing it directly at Daemon's chest.
For a moment, Daemon looked like he was going to ignore the man.
Like he was going to continue to believe he was beneath him.
But then, he pulled out a sword of his own and whatever hope Laena had for keeping to their own business, vanished in an instance.
"How do you say goodbye to a dragon?" Aemond asked, peering up at Dor. She was an inky slick so early in the morning, only discernible against the sprinkle of stars spread out above their heads. He turned his head to the other side, glancing at Ophaella like she would know the answer. She supposed she should, given all the times she had left when Dor was hurt. Laena and her father certainly seemed convinced of their own dragons' desire to return to them, but Ophaella remained unconvinced.
Shoulder to shoulder, the pair of them continued to stare at the dragon.
"In High Valyrian?" She posed, feeling dread filling her gut.
"You do not speak High Valyrian."
Her eyes cut over to him, unable to hide her glare.
"Yes, thank you."
He shrugged and stepped away from her, walking along the side. Dor followed him with her eyes – green jewels set deep in a sea of black – and waited for him to pause. His steps were seeped in comfort, in confidence, that she would not attack him, and he only looked back at Ophaella once more before he extended his hand forward and ran his fingers along her scales.
"Laena and Daemon did not say anything special," Aemond said, continuing to run his fingers up and down. Like he was petting a dog or stroking a fine bit of fabric. "They just…knew."
She wanted desperately for his confidence.
To trust in the might of her own blood right and the truth of her connection.
She earned her dragon.
She bonded with her dragon.
But she couldn't not help but feel just a touch envious of the ease that he moved with.
He turned around and beamed at her, freckles disappearing as his cheeks flushed with delight. He held out his other hand, beckoning her to join him. She took his hand and leaned in close.
"I should know how to do this," She said, fingers tapping on the hard scale. "It feels like I cheated to get my dragon and now I have no idea what to do."
"Maybe. But you have her," Aemond squeezed her hand. "And she doesn't seem to mind too much."
"How can you tell?"
"Can't you?" He held in his laugh only long enough for her to look suitable horrified. "Only joking. Come on, let us give her some space so she can take off. Lots of little dragons to eat before it gets too late in the day."
"A day you've spent with my father and you are already starting to sound like him," Ophaella said, shaking her head. She held onto his hand as he pulled her back, giving Dor enough space to spread her wings. They leaned into each other, covering their eyes with their free hands, and waited until the ground stopped rumbling from Dor pushing off.
"Is that such a bad thing?" Aemond asked, pulling his hand back only when the wind stopped swirling.
"No," Ophaella said, turning her attention away from to watch Dor as she got smaller and smaller against the lightening sky. Soon, they sun would be fully up, the city that she knew less about than King's Landing would be awake, and the pair of them would stay sitting on the barrier island praying that there was a place for them inside the boundaries of such foreign glanced at him again, wishing he would take her hand again before she caught hold of herself long enough to feel a rush of embarrassment. She looked down at her feet, hoping the moment would pass if she ignored it entirely. When she could still feel it, she cleared her throat and changed the subject entirely.
"How long do you think they will be gone?"
"Several hours, at least," He said, something in his voice that caused her to fight through her own embarrassment and look back up at him.
"What?"
"Why do you sound so suspicious?"
"Because you sound suspicious."
Aemond smirked and gestured towards the direction they flew in the night before. "Seems like enough time to do a little exploring, don't you think?"
"Father told us to stay put."
"He said not to leave this island." Aemond did not wait for her to offer any more arguments, already turning towards the trees not destroyed by their dragons. "I want to get a look at the city."
"You want to look at the white and black building."
"Black and White," He corrected, disappearing into the tree line, forcing her to follow if she did not want to be left alone. She made a face at where she assumed he had gone, sticking out her tongue for good measure as she hurried after him, ducking and weaving her way through a bramble of sticky branches and thatches of nettles. What little light the early morning gave them quickly disappeared and she found herself following him through the dark all but blind.
Black and white, white and black.
Truly, what difference did it make? But Aemond seemed stuck on the point, if his tone was anything to go on, and she decided it simply wasn't worth the effort when she had other things on her mind.
Namely, not wondering off in the wrong direction and accidentally careening off a cliff.
"I cannot see a thing, Aemond," She called, spluttering and spitting as a branch flew into her mouth.
In the dark, a hand wrapped around her wrist and, with a mighty yank, pulled her the rest of the way through and back into the light.
"What do you think it is?" He asked, squinting to try and get a better look at the queer building.
It certainly stood out – stark white and black against a sea of brown and green – and seemed to exist in a gulf where no other building did. Even so early, the city was already alight with activity. The fires from the night before still burned, refreshed with fresh wood to light the work done on the docks and along the winding streets. A warm glow lifted up from the city and she found herself leaning forward ever so slightly. She could not feel it, but she was already comforted by the idea. It lilted over everything, wrapping it up and sending it out into the world.
Like a gift.
Or a promise.
Everything seemed to pull her in.
Save for the strange building painted in white and black.
"I don't know, but I do not think I care for it," She said, feeling something strange stirring in her chest.
"Nonsense. It's just a building."
"It's very strange," She mused, hoping he might feel the disquiet the same way she did. "What do you think it is?"
She would not dare hazard a guess.
"I don'-"
"Look!" Aemond grabbed her arm and shook, pointing at the water down by the edge of the cliff. A skiff, filled to the brim with boys and baskets and crude knives, passed dangerously close to the cliff the pair of them were perched on.
"-old you the dragons would be gone," One of the boys said, punching the boy to his right without much malice in the gesture. "We should have left hours ago!"
"You saw it take off. It left just a few minutes ago and flew right above our heads. How much closer do you want to get to a real dragon?"
"Closer than seeing nothing but its fanny."
The two boys in front, who remained quiet as their friends bickered in the back, reached out their oars and pushed back against the rocks.
"It would burn you alive in moments. A fat boy like you would make a nice snack."
"Shove off. Dragons don't eat human."
"And who told you that, you numpty?" The boy closest to them asked, finally speaking up. Equally intrigued, Aemond and Ophaella leaned forward to watch in tandem, enthralled by their first taste of people so unlike them in so many ways. Save, of course, for their use of Westerosi common. Now that she was able to get a better look at them, she could take note of their fair skin – chapped red from the sun – and bright blue eyes. Riverlands boys, if she had to guess, far from home and all the poorer for it. They were skinny and covered in dirt, save for the oldest boy in the front.
He was from the Free Cities, that much she could tell, and cleaner than all the rest combined. With hair half red and half white, tanned skin, and eyes that seemed to shift between blue and green depending on the light, she had never seen a boy so strange looking. The same feeling from before – from the black and white or white and black - settled deep in her gut and she squeezed her hands into fists. If she had been barefoot she would have dug her toes deep into the earth, hoping to find some sort of grounding in the soil she knew so little about.
If she had not sworn off using her gifts entirely, that is.
Instead, she accepted the blindness that she now had to live with.
It was better than the other possibilities.
Safer.
For herself.
For others.
The strange boy – man, maybe - looked up at them both, as if sensing their stares, raising his hand to stop the other boys bickering.
"Seems there are still some dragons, my friends."
Aemond and Ophaella reeled back out of reflex, scrambling to the ground in the vain hopes that they wouldn't be seen. Her knees scrapped against the rocks, ruining her traveling pants beyond repair as the sharp edges cut through the sturdy fabric.
"Maybe they did not see us," She hissed, grabbing onto Aemond's arm to pull him down again when he tried to stand up.
"Of course they saw us, Aella. They pointed at us." He tried to worm his way out of her grip. She locked her fingers together, using her entire body weight to keep him on the ground and out of sight. He elbowed her, hard, and squirmed backwards, kicking out his foot for good measure to keep her from tackling him in full.
"Aemond, don't." She grabbed his ankle and yanked, groaning as he was able to dance his way away from her. "We were supposed to stay put and stay hidden."
"Hello!" The older boy called, voice carrying over the crashing water. Aemond shot Ophaella one final look before he stepped to the edge of the cliff and leaned forward, hesitating for a moment before he waved back. "Where is your friend?"
Ophaella squeezed his ankle tighter.
"Probably scared without her dragon."
"Scared of what? You?"
"This is one is just a little boy. Who's to say his friend is any different?"
"They're Targaryens."
That name still meant something here.
Ophaella pulled harder on Aemond's ankle. It was a useless exercise. They had seen him and the strange one had seen her. Dragons or no, their bright white hair marked them out entirely. Even in the Red Keep, surrounded by others with her features, it was hard to feel so seen in every room they entered. Only Lannisters, with their gold hair and skin, came close, and even they looked like tarnished brass by comparison. Here, where people favored darker features, they might as well paint their faces blue and dye their hair green. They would have an easier time blending in.
Only after it became clear that he was not going to indulge her did she finally sigh and let go of his ankle.
"You're Westerosi?" Aemond called.
He held out his hand automatically, helping her to her feet without even needing to be asked. He held onto her hand, however, and pulled her in close when the boys in the boat turned their heads towards her in tandem.
"What does it matter to you?"
"Gile! They're Targaryens."
"Without their dragons they are nothing. You forget its Targaryens that sent us here. Did you forget? That cunt that burned your whole village down?"
"Weren't my village. I never even lived there."
"That doesn't matter!" The boy, Gile, so incensed was the one who hadn't spoken earlier. He sat in the front of the boat next to the oldest, glowering up at the pair of them like they had personally murdered every person he had ever loved. To hear him tell it, they might as well have. The other boys murmured. Some shifted uncomfortably, others seemed just as angered by their mere presence. Only the strange one seemed unconcerned with Gile's outburst.
Only the strange one, with his strange white and red hair, continued to assess them.
Only the strange one, with his eyes that never stayed the same, continued to
"Sister fucking cunts, the lot of them."
Ophaella gaped, unsure if she should be upset or terrified.
Perhaps a bit of both.
He was certainly too far away to do any real damage, but he seemed angry enough to try.
Without dragons, they were little more than pale nothings. She certainly wouldn't use such strong language, but she could not deny that there was a certain truth to it. She was just as much Royce as she was Targaryen and those years she spent away from the rest of them offered a bit of reality that seemed to escape the rest.
They were remarkable.
They were mighty.
They were feared.
They were hated.
That much was clear to her, even at only seven, and she would not trust that boy's anger any more than she would trust the anger that simmered deep in the lowest depths of King's Landing.
She gripped Aemond's hand tighter.
Gile reached behind him, hand groping around until he found what he was looking for.
He hurled a knife at them first, sending the pair of them diving away from each other in opposite directions.
"Gile, don't!"
"Get off me!"
Ophaella rolled onto her back, chest heaving, and tried to get her bearings. Aemond was quicker and she felt him grab both her ankles and drag her away from the cliff side.
"Are you hurt?"
Ophaella winced as he continued to drag her.
He stopped once they reached the safety of the tree line, each winded and both covered and cuts and bruises and more dirt than they could ever hope to explain. Aemond collapsed on the ground next to her, breathing heavier from his exertion. She felt his arm press against hers, felt the way her heart raced and her palms sweat. She turned sideways and sat up, staring down at him to make an assessment for herself.
"He nearly took my eye."
Nearly.
But not quite.
He clipped a bit of skin, however, and the blood dripped down the side of his head. He pressed the end of his sleeve to the cut, shaking his head at the dribbles of blood that now stained the fabric.
"Told you we should have stayed put."
"And miss such a welcome?" Ophaella collapsed back to the ground, letting out a small laugh.
"I do not think we can count them amongst any new friends," Ophaella said, laughing a little more.
"No, I don't think we can. No matter. They seemed dim anyway."
"And dirty."
They continued to laugh, egging each other on.
"And they have terrible aim."
"Careful. He might come back and actually take the eye."
"Wouldn't I be a sight?" He covered the eye with his hand and made a face, snorting at the way she mimicked the same face back to him.
A sight he certainly would be.
The weight of Laena's glare was almost too much for Ophaella to bear. She felt it on the back of her head, practically burning all the way through, and sat with her back ramrod straight as they traveled towards the city. They had a place to stay, vaguely, and a hot meal waiting. Neither would say where or with who, not that it would make a difference to Ophaella, and instead focused entirely on interrogating them on what had happened in the small time they were gone.
Enough for cuts and bruises all over their backs.
Enough for Aemond to nearly lose his eye.
Enough for Laena to separate the two of them on the boat as punishment.
"What were you thinking?" She asked, looking between them two of them for an answer. "We are guests in this city. Wandering off in such a foreign place. You could have been taken, killed, rap-"
"Laena, please. They walked to the edge of the very isolated island, not the middle of Flea Bottom."
"You are one to talk," Laena seethed, turning away from the children on either side of her to shoot daggers at her father. Ophaella leaned sideways, eyes wide as she caught Aemond staring at her from the other side. "Sticking your sword in the first man that looks at you funny."
"I was defending your honor, darling. Surely such a practice is still done at that soggy dunghill you cal-"
"Ferrien is a fool and a drunk. He would have fumbled around for a few days before he found his comforts in the bottom of his cups and forget the whole thing entirely. But no, you had to go and stab him."
The boat slammed into the dock, although neither Laena nor her father seemed to notice.
"And now look what you have done. Started an incident."
Ophaella looked around, eyes wide.
Incident was certainly one word for the pure chaos that engulfed the dock. People had scattered, leaving behind their wares right where they were dropped. The bells tolled with no discernible pattern, ringing out like a solid blur of sound. Men paced back and forth, swords drawn towards each other as they shouted in every language imaginable. In the middle of it all, was a man soaked in blood.
Pinned in place by a very familiar sword.
Her father jumped out of the boat, entirely unconcerned by anything around him. He turned around and held out his hand for Ophaella, shooting her the subtlest of winks as he helped her onto the solid dock.
"You stab one man and suddenly it's an incident," Her father said, hand finding the familiar place on the back of her neck.
"Yes, when the man happens to be the son of the last Sealord of Braavos. An incident." Laena stepped up beside them, her hand in a similar place on Aemond.
"Hmmm. Anyway, I've heard tale of our hosts wine collection." He father walked forward, steering Ophaella left and right and left and right as the people continued to shout. "Let us go test the limits of his hospitality."