119 AC, Braavos
The Sealord sat down heavily in his chair across from Daemon, without preamble and without courtesy. They were long past such niceties and they sprang immediately into the business at hand, each tense and solemn. It had become hard to maintain a cordial relationships after one party invited in a-would-be assassin to kill the other party, though they both still endeavored to try.
The Sealord denied it, of course.
Such was their dance.
Daemon had grown tired of the relentless tedium.
But Daemon got his satisfaction by his own means and the man, now free of his head and the burdens of life, sat at the bottom of the bay. What little purpose he served before death could now be rectified, as fish would always been in need of food.
It brought Daemon a momentary bit of happiness.
But that had faded months ago and his countenance had turned grim.
Another man joined them today, adding spice to their normally bland meetings.
Daemon watched him, content to wait for the Sealord to explain his presence rather than reveal himself to be curious. Rather than reveal any sort of chink in his polished armor. He was slight, with dark skin and eyes that seemed to blend into one another. He was dressed in finery, but not of the impractical sort, and refused any wine offered in his direction. The only thing remarkable about him was the large key hanging around his neck. He remained content to sit back and watch the others, waiting for his time to reveal the purpose of his presence.
"The Lords grow increasingly restless with you families presence," The Sealord said. He poured himself a heady glass of wine. The smell nauseated Daemon, though he did his best to school his features when a glass was proffered in his direction. Daemon raised his glass in thanks and took a small sip.
It might very well have been poison, it burned so great.
Zommaro Maien, a name Daemon had only bothered to learn after a few days in his house, watched him. His eyes had grown darker over the months – his expression more pinched and guarded. It was not friendship that the two men shared, but it was certainly something.
Something dark.
Something wicked.
Daemon steeled himself for whatever was to come, though his mind and heart were not present.
They lived with Ophaella, as they always seemed to do, and the continual worry that seemed to have completely overtaken him.
He wondered if she could feel his heartbeat through the stones right now. Would she even bother to listen, after he had thrown her concerns back at her time and time again? She had tainted her very soul, in service of protecting a man who had offered nothing in return by scorn. She had listened to and taken his words about mother for truth, just to avoid the pain of losing them both.
Daemon was not blind to that fact.
"Though, their attention has shifted, as of late."
"Is that so?"
Would this endless torture never cease?
He longed for the freedom the others in his family had found in Braavos.
Family.
His brain hiccupped at the word, though he refused to examine it any further.
"A daughter is a prize to have."
"A daughter is a burden," Daemon said, though he did not believe even his own words. It hurt him more than he could even fathom to have even said the words, fearing again what Ophaella might think if she had heard them. Daemon sat up straighter, setting his wine down.
"Your Westerosi attitudes will never leave you, will they?" Zommaro smiled at him over his glass, though the gesture did not reach his eyes. "Here, where land is passed by merit and by writ of the sword, a daughter is a bargaining tool. A son is nothing more than an opportunity for unrealized expectations."
"I have no sons, so I will have to take your experience as fact. But I do have a daughter and she has been nothing but trouble since the moment she was born."
Good trouble.
The best trouble.
The sort of trouble that Daemon now could not fathom living without.
"There are those that would relieve you of that burden."
Daemon looked at the other man, eyes narrowing.
"She is a child," Daemon said, voice closer to a growl than he would have liked.
"And yet, she runs around the city with the boy like a girl twice her age. Soon, her value to you will be apparent and you will welcome such conversations with gusto." Zommaro looked to the other man as well. "But, we do not gather here to discuss the girl."
"Allow me to introduce myself," The other man started, voice deep and silky smooth. But it was laced with something Daemon did not like and his hackles were raised to the point of no return. His hand dropped down below the table to grip the knife strapped to his waist.
If he was to carry, he was to use.
What was it that Laena had called them, wicked hands.
He felt the keen sting of their wicked work rolling over him in full.
"A name is not necessary, but I would have you know me by my station."
"A Keyholder," Daemon said, eyes trailing down to the key around his neck once again. "So rare are personal visits from the Iron Bank of Braavos. Surly I do not merit such an honor."
"A Targaryen, even one removed from the Throne is always of interest."
"Take a look. Enjoy the view, for that is all that it is. I offer nothing else but a handsome way to pass an afternoon."
Neither man was impressed with his wit, not that he expected them to be. They continued to stare at him, stone faced. "My answer has not changed, Zommaro. I am loyal to the King."
"My question remains. I will ask you again." Zommaro drowned the last bit of wine in his glass, sharing a look with the Keyholder before he continued. "When I do, I do so with you knowledge that this is not the first conversation the Iron Bank has had with a Targaryen."
"I am sure it is not. I am sure you have attempted to you pour your promises of wealth into every ear that turns your direction, to very little affect."
"Is that so?" The Keyholder's stony expression turned to one of surprise.
And satisfaction.
"Who do you think financed Aegon's Conquest in the first place? A dragon levels a field, but the coin is needed to till it once again. The coin is needed to plant the seeds and foster them to grow."
"So you seek payment from me for a debt that is a century old?"
"No." The Keyholder stood up. "That debt has long been paid. We seek an understanding, from one Kingmaker to another. Every day that our waters grow more treacherous is a day that we cannot exact our payments. We do not abide by apathy any more than we abide by failure to pay a toll. The Iron Bank will have its due. If King Viserys cannot guarantee that in the same way those who came before him did, then we will seek another. We offer you the chance for that to be you."
"For a price."
"As always. Nothing is free. You know that as well as anyone. What price did you pay for your wife? For Rhea Royce and Laena Velaryon? What debts do you owe for your daughter? What debts are owed for all the gifts she has been blessed with? Life is nothing but one transaction for another."
"I will ask you again tomorrow, Daemon, as you have bid me. You are loyal to the King."
"I am loyal to the King."
Daemon said the words again and again, over and over. Doubt creeping in.
He had doubted it before and he was sure he would do so again, but it had taken on a new poignancy. Daemon had always been aware of his brother's apathy and bore his frustration with it with reluctant acceptance. But that acceptance seemed lanced from him with force.
It was no coincidence that this conversation started with Ophaella.
They were being watched.
His little Ophaella was being watched.
How could he accept such a world for her? How could he accept the violence and the savagery that was borne from Viserys's failure? He had reveled in the freedom such things brought him, but he knew it would be her doom. Already she had suffered.
Already she had killed.
Already she had been forced from her home twice.
What further pain would she be forced to endure if he sat idly by and allowed the mess to continue?
"Ask me again tomorrow and maybe my answer will change."
Braavos stretched into eternity.
Laena had known when they first left Westeros that it was not a quick trip. She would do it again, of course, and allowing melancholy to overtake her for too long was a needless thought exercise. But she could not escape how depressed she had begun to feel as the years stretched on.
She stretched on.
Laena turned her head to the side, water as the flamed licked at the edges of the hearth.
She had over built her own fire tonight, unwilling to have the Sealord's servants do it when she was in such a state, and committed herself to an evening of misery. Daemon was meeting with him again, as he seemed to do nearly every day, leaving her alone for the night.
The Sealord's home had been tense, of late. The man who tried to kill Daemon had left them feeling precarious and unwelcome, though the Sealord insisted otherwise. He demanded more of Daemon's time, leaving Aemond to wander around with Ophaella more and more in the last few months. Laena longed for the safety of their dragons, but knew better than to question their absence. They lived their lives in parallel, and only crossed when the dragons decided it was time. Whatever was supposed to happen to them in Braavos was meant to happen without dragons.
But Laena could not fight off the seeds of doubt that had begun to bloom inside.
A soft knock at the door broke Laena out of her haze before she could really start to follow it down to the deepest of holes and she schooled her features into what she hoped was pleasant and welcoming.
The mask instantly melted away when she saw Ophaella sticking her head inside the room, a knowing look on her face. Her pale curls swung to the side, a little ratty and dustier than normal, and Laena knew instantly that her and Aemond had, once again, been out in the city. Her hands clutched the edge of the door, stained with ink like always, and Laena knew that she could not be too upset with the girl for such youthful foolishness. She still attended to her books. She could expect no more of her than that.
"Come in, come in, darling," Laena said, smiling as Ophaella threw the door the rest of the way open and hurried inside.
"I have letters. The servants were speaking about bringing them to you when I stopped them."
"Good girl. They are relentless in their cleaning regiment. Let them in the room and we will not be rid of them for the rest of the night."
Ophaella held them out, dropping her heavy bag down to the ground next to her feet. It slammed down, causing Laena to look away from the offered paper and at the bulging bag.
"New books?"
"Only a few," Ophaella said, kicking it behind her legs to get it out of the way. "Histories and whatnot. Nothing interesting."
"You went alone?"
"Aemond wanted to go to the docks today. These books come from the Sealord's personal collection. I got them on my way back."
"And he gave you leave to take them?"
Ophaella blushed and looked away.
"I did not ask. I will return them before they are even missed."
Laena eyed her up and down, a little shocked by how much the girl had grown in recent months. Laena doubted she would be particularly tall, when all was said and done, though she may still surprise her. Rhea was slender and slight, deceptively strong for a woman with such a diminutive size, and Ophaella seemed to be taking after her more and more with each day that passed. Laena had feared for what features of her father the girl might inherit, but it seemed that all that was shared between the two was their hair.
But that did not comfort her.
It was not Daemon's looks that were so anathema to her, handsome and striking as he was, but his everything else.
But she was still so sweet, for now, so kind and thoughtful and concerned only with the happiness of those around her, that Laena found she had stopped worrying about what she might become at some point during their time in Braavos and instead focused on the joy of what she was right then.
It was not an opportunity she ever thought she would have and now, three years on, she still found herself living in near constant disbelief.
Ophaella sat down in the seat right next to Laena, collapsing against her side with a loud puff of air. Laena shifted, throwing her arm around her shoulders as she drew her in closer.
"Shall we open our letters and see what is happening in the exciting part of the world?"
Ophaella nodded, sinking further down. She kicked off her flat slippers, flexing her toes as she propped her feet up on the end of the chaise. Laena did the same and the two of them relaxed together in front of the fire, content with remaining hidden away until they were due at dinner with the Sealord and whatever guest he brought along.
A nauseating chore that was so burdensome, Laena found herself envying the freedom Aemond and Ophaella were afforded for the simple fact that they were both nine.
The letter on top was from Rhaenys, her mother.
Laena pulled it aside, intending to read it later.
The next was from Laenor and Laena opened it with enthusiasm, spreading it out on her knees to make it easier for them both to read. Laenor, upon hearing how much Ophaella enjoyed his letters, began to write to her as well. He had always expressed a certain fondness for the girl – one that had been shared, for a time, by Rhaenyra – and Laena was eager to keep their relationship growing, even when separated by the Narrow Sea.
Dearest Laena,
King's Landing is a chore, as always. Joffrey grows like a weed, the poor seamstresses can barely keep up with the demands of keeping him clothed. Must be a trait he gets from Rhaenyra. Father has requested I accompany him across the sea. A trading mission, nothing more, but I have agreed eagerly. I long for the fresh air, for the freedom of an endless sky, and nothing by Seasmoke beneath me. I will try to persuade him that our business requires a trip to Braavos, but you know how he feels about that place…
"A festering sore that smells of piss," Laena provided, delighting at the smile that sprung forth on Ophaella's face. "Though, he might just be confusing it with King's Landing."
…When will you come home? I have all but exhausted every conversation that can be had. I fear I will soon turn to drastic measures to keep my mind from atrophying.
At any rate. The boys miss you. I miss you.
Giving you and little Ophaella all my love,
Laenor
Laena sighed and folded the letter back up, tucking it aside with her mother's with the intention of answering it later. There was a melancholy to his words that only she could understand. He buried it well, beneath layers of sarcasm and his jaded attempts at humor.
Her heart ached for him.
Ached for the lot he had drawn in much the same way it had once ached for herself.
But she had managed to find much to be happy about. She need not look any further than the girl relaxing against her side. Or to the boy causing mischief somewhere in Braavos. She had even managed to find something of worth in Daemon, though she would never describe it as anything more than a neutral acceptance.
She still longed for home, however.
She thought that feeling would never leave her.
She still longed for Rhea Royce and the fleeting love they had shared.
"What's next?" Laena asked, pushing that particular feeling aside as she forced a pleasant look back onto her face.
"A letter from Helaena for Aemond."
"Nothing for you?"
Ophaella shook her head, shrugging. "Not this time."
Rarely.
If ever.
Laena had not been blind to that fact. She squeezed Ophaella just a little bit tighter.
"What books did you steal?"
"Borrow," Ophaella emphasized.
Laena scoffed and stood up, crossing to the fire to stoke it just a little bit. The cold storms had settled over Braavos for several weeks, chilling everything and turning it to misery. Or perhaps, she had turned to misery. Ophaella and Aemond seemed entirely unbothered by the unpleasant weather.
"Can I see them?"
Ophaella looked for a moment like she might argue. Her face flushed crimson and avoided her gaze, looking around the room at anything but Laena. She finally relented after a moment, pulling the heavy bag out from behind her feet and depositing it in the small space created between them by Laena sitting up.
Laena dug through the bag, increasingly amused as she pulled out an ever increasing collection of romantic books.
"I have read this one," Laena said, holding up a particularly salacious one.
It was certainly too mature for a normal nine year old, and perhaps she should scold her for not only stealing the books, but reading them in the first place. But she wouldn't bother. Ophaella, and Aemond for that matter, never struck her as what would be described as normal children.
And how could they be?
How could a child that commanded one of the largest dragons in the world, a child that had killed two people with the inherent powers that made her blood thick, a child that was born into the most powerful family that had ever existed and would likely ever exist, ever hope to remain grounded in the way she probably should?
"What's this?" Laena asked, holding up an out of place tome.
She had attempting to hide beneath all the others, burying it so far down in the bag, Laena was forced to dig.
"It's nothing!" Ophaella said, throwing out her little arms. She tried to grab it from her hands, a panicked look on her face.
"I am sure I have read wors…" Laena trailed off when she saw the title of the book. "Ophaella."
"It's nothing," Ophaella said, trying to grab the book out of Laena's hands.
"Necromancy?" Laena held it out of her reach, trying to look as angry as she was concerned. "What in the Seven would have possessed you to try and read a book like this?"
"I found it a few days back, when you had to leave early from my lesson. I thought it looked interesting."
She might be presumptuous, impertinent, and far too curious for her own good, but she had never been a liar.
"In the library? Just out in the open for anyone to find?"
"Well, not exactly."
"Ophaella, what did you do?"
"Nothing! One of the Maester's apprentices was putting books away and he dropped this one. I did not think they would notice if I borrowed it."
"I do not care if you stole it from right under their very noses, I care that you are reading it in the first place."
"I have not actually read it yet," She said, voice dropping. Her lip wobbled and she took a deep breath, like she was struggling to hold in her tears.
Like a child.
How easy it was to forget.
"I just thought…" She struggled to find the right words, the blush of embarrassment spread as her eyes became red with unshed tears. "You cannot tell father. Please. He'll never forgive me."
Rage was not quite a harsh enough word to describe what she felt.
Her hands tightened into fists behind Ophaella's back.
Months it had been since the incident with the poisoned wine and not once had she mentioned it. Every hint Laena dropped, every passing mention of Rhea Royce and the abilities she possessed, had been met with stagnant silence. She had begun to fear that she had taken Daemon's harsh words to heart and given up on the whole notion entirely.
And she had, in a certain way.
But instead of turning her back on what she could do, she had begun to explore it in secret, filled with nothing by shame.
"He is stubborn and shortsighted, Ophaella."
"He forbid me and I keep doing it anyway."
"As you should. He was wrong to make you promise such a thing."
Ophaella's eyes widened and her lip wobbled worse than ever. "I have tried so hard. But it hurts. The heartbeats are everywhere and I can't ignore them. Every time I touch the ground, I can feel it. Breathing with me, begging me to look deep into the stone and trust it like I'm supposed to. But I can't."
"You cannot learn to control the bigger abilities if you refuse to even acknowledge the smaller ones." Ophaella stood up, throwing off her arms with a force she probably did not intend. She crossed her arms over her stomach, pulling in her on herself as she moved to stand in front of the fire. The maternal part of Laena, the part that had longed for the relationship she had with Ophaella from the moment she had even learned of her existence, wanted to embrace her again.
But the other part, the part that had made promises to Rhea, could not.
Instead, she hardened her heart and stood up.
"The heartbeats will drive you mad if you do not learn how to deafen yourself to them. The stones will swallow you whole if you do not learn how to ignore their call every time you touch them. Your gifts will kill you and you will continue to kill others if you do not let go of these childish notions of loyalty to a man who would have just as soon throw you from dragonback than claim you as his own when you were born."
Laena knew her words were needlessly harsh – uncalled for and not entirely true in regards to Daemon - but she also knew that the time had run out for them to play around with niceties. Her plans for a gradual approach had relied on Ophaella expresses her own interest. But almost three years had passed.
She could not wait any longer.
The words she spoke to Daemon all those years ago echoed back to her in her mind.
She will learn to control her gifts or she will die for them.
They were truer now than they had ever been, with each day that passed
"You will return that book tomorrow, Ophaella. And then we will start at the beginning, as we should have done the moment we arrived in Braavos. This back and forth ends here and now. You have shamed your mother and the gifts she gave you for long enough."
Every word she spoke caused Laena unimaginable pain, as she could see Ophaella pulling away and retreating back in on herself.
The girl gathered her books in a hurry, leaving the one that had caused this whole mess for last. She carefully set it on top, hands shaking. When she was finished, a task that took he far longer than it should have, she looked back at Laena for only a moment.
"May I be excused?"
"Ophaella?"
"I wish to return these books before the rain comes and give Aemond his letter."
She also intended to cry. Laena could see it written so plainly on her face. She wondered when it had become that she desired to cry in private. But she knew she had lost the right to ask, suddenly and without warning. She had wanted for purpose – wanted for something that would cease her endless malaise – and it seemed she had finally found it.
Laena just never imagined it would leave her feeling so empty inside.
"Would you consider that to be teal or turquoise?" Ophaella asked, narrowing her eyes at the fabric. She turned it over in her hand, trying to find the right lighting to answer her question. The woman on the other side of the stall watched her, dark eyes dancing back and forth between her plain clothing and bright white hair.
Perhaps she thought it was some sort of contradiction.
A child with such wealth, playing the part of a pauper. What a sight it must have been.
What an insult, it must have been.
Ophaella knew enough of her family to understand their place in the world, even so far from the Red Keep and the undeniable power they carried. She knew enough to know their coffers were as endless as the skies, though her experiences with physical money was embarrassingly scant. The allowance given to her by Laena three days before jangled in the silk pouch, begging to be spent.
"What does it matter?" Aemond asked, looking very much like she had just yanked all his teeth out rather than ask him a simple question. "It's blue."
"It would be easier to just say you're stupid. It would take less words."
The shopkeeper smirked, forgetting herself for the briefest of moments before she schooled her expression back into one of welcoming neutrality.
"What do you even want it for? You don't need any more clothes."
"It's not for clothes," Ophaella said, pulling out a few heavy coins. "The pillows keep scratching my face."
She refused to look over at him, knowing exactly the look he would be giving her. Still, she could feel his faze burning a hole in the side of her head.
"You said we were going to be shopping for knives."
"Why did you believe me? It should have been obvious I was lying, as I have never once bought a knife or expressed a desire to buy a knife." Ophaella dropped the coins into the woman's hands, blushing at the way she kept looking back and forth between Aemond and herself.
Her own precociousness had become inescapable to her, as of late. Closer to ten than not, and over three years removed from the forced formality of King's Landing, she had nearly forgotten herself. She and Aemond were free to wander, burdened only by their never ending lessons from her father and Laena. They were practically feral compared to their old selves.
Untethered.
Unburdened.
Free.
She barely had a title to being with – Lady of Runestone, what a meaningless collection of words in this part of the world – but she had almost forgotten the sway they held.
Save for the looks, save for the unearned deference.
She might be able to forget entirely.
It had been so long since their dragons had flown over their heads that it had started to become hard to remember being a Targaryen at all. All that remained to them was their features, so fine and foreign, and their station, so needlessly elevated, and their ability to suck all the air from every room they stood in.
The woman's hands shook as she gathered Ophaella's purchase.
This was a woman grown, with a job and a way of earning her own money and purpose, and she still seemed to panic at the very idea of a Targaryen buying her wares.
Ophaella pulled her hood back over her head, hiding her blinding white hair.
"You've had three years with those pillows. Surely something could have been done about it before now?" Aemond crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the cracked wood of the stall. He had shot up in height in the last few months, not quite towering now, but able to peer down at her where before they had been solidly eye to eye.
"I did not want to appear rude." She took the bundle of teal – she decided it was teal – fabric from the woman and shoved it into her bag. It was a needlessly fancy color and more expensive than the creams and ruddy browns, but she like the look and the feel of it and she had been given an irresponsibility large amount of money. "But, feel."
She grabbed the hand on top and dragged it to her cheek, forcing him to feel the rough texture of her skin.
"Awful."
"Right?"
"Disgusting. Terrible. I do not know how you have survived so long."
Ophaella shoved her bag into his stomach without ceremony, glowering – without much heat – at the look he gave her.
"So, to clarify, we're not going to go look at knives?"
"Why do you need more?" She asked, looping her arm through his as they started walking through the market. It was not as busy as usual, but they still had to bob and weave around people to avoid being stepped on.
"Because I have been given an irresponsible amount of pocket money and I need to spend it on something before Laena threatens to take it back."
They both knew why they had so much more money than normal. It was a bribe, plain and simple, from Laena and an apology of sorts. It was an apology that Aemond did not need and one that Ophaella struggled to accept. But she still showed up daily to their lessons and she still felt so much love for the woman that was like a mother to her. She knew whatever progress she had made – little though it may be – was by her hand.
But her words still hurt.
And the feeling they left behind hurt worst of all.
She pushed the feeling down and smiled at Aemond, pleased to see it mirrored right back at her, though much of it was hidden from her by the shadow of his hood. She could still see a few of his freckles peeking out, darker than they had been when they first left King's Landing. His skin was darker too, tanned from all the hours he spent out in the sun with her father. But where he had grown pleasantly tan and more able to blend in, she had remained pale and moony. Where he spent his time with swords and knives and shields, she spent hers with books and lessons and exploring the darkest parts of the library. But she was not utterly defenseless. A few days after the man tried to poison her father, over a year past and nearly forgotten by them all, he had pulled her from bed well before dawn and dragged her to the tiltyard.
The thin dagger strapped to her back – and the new muscles that had never been there before - was all the proof that existed of her time spent there.
No one else knew.
Not the Sealord, whose house they remained living in. In whose house they felt like gilded birds – trapped by their lack of dragons offering them a much needed escape.
Not the quartermaster, whose swords Aemond trained with daily.
Not the servants, who whisked away the bloody bandages from all her failed attempts at a parry.
Only her father, Aemond, and Laena.
One of the many secrets that kept them tied together.
Though, there were always the secrets that kept them apart.
Her father with his meetings with the Sealord.
Aemond with his sneaking out in the city at night.
Laena with her growing unhappiness.
And Ophaella with the books she was never supposed to read.
Books about magic.
Life.
Death.
Old blood.
The weight of the promises she had made and then promptly broken weighed heavily on her, just as the weight of Laena's words had weighed on her. She hated the truth of them just as much as she hated herself for denying it for so long.
Her father was a man who would have just as soon thrown her from dragonback than claim her as his own.
It was such a childish notion, to think that she could simply will it all away, to think that the disdain he had always held for her would simply vanish if she saved his life enough times.
She felt stupid for even thinking that.
Worse still, she felt unimaginable guilt for what her mother might have thought of her for even trying. So desperate to honor the father, she had denied the mother. And now, so shamed by her abandonment of the mother, she was set to disobey the father.
The father that she loved above all despite how he might feel about her.
We Remember.
She told herself that she would never again forget. Now was time to make good on a few promises of her own.
"Come on," Aemond said, pulling on her arm. "The stall is so close. It will only take a few moments."
"Fine," She acquiesced, allowing him to pull her in the opposite direction of home.
They winded their way through the market, both in high spirits despite how the last few weeks had been. Her father had worked Aemond particularly hard, without explanation, leaving him exhausted all the time. Everything ached, he said, and the time they had managed to spend together was usually inside, splayed out on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Ophaella, for her part, had spent even more time indoors than usual, Laena making good on her words.
They had started back at the very beginning.
Just as Aemond was physically exhausted, so too was she mentally spent. Every day she woke with a racing heart and sweaty palms, as if her gifts had built up inside her night and demanded attention the moment she was even aware of the fresh morning light.
It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
To feel a difference in herself, from even just the barest of attention paid to actually progressing in her abilities, was life changing. But it also came with an all-consuming guilt that was hard for her to even fathom.
Her father still didn't know.
They reached the knife stall after a few moments. It was in a less trafficked part of the market, free from the throngs of people who gathered around the fruit and meat stalls. The merchant immediately perked up at the sight of Aemond making a beeline to him, smiling to reveal a row of gold and silver teeth.
"Welcome back, my young friend."
The merchant held out his arms, gesturing Aemond to come closer.
"I have some fine new items for you today."
"I only need one thing," Aemond said, shooting a strange look over at Ophaella. He pulled off his hood, reveal his pin-straight white hair. The color of their hair was the only thing they had in common. It was the only thing beside their ages that marked them as a unit. Otherwise, they could not be further apart. "A sheath, for a small knife."
Aemond bent down and pulled her rune knife from his boot, laying it out on the table for the man to see.
She stared at it.
He was taunting her with it, daring her to take it back and fully accept her gifts as she was meant to.
"If you need a new knife for protect…"
"Just a sheath. This knife is special and I want to make sure it's kept safe."
"Aemond," Ophaella warned, eyeing the knife as the merchant picked it up to get a better look at it. Her heart clenched to see it in someone else's hands. She eyed the notched of the blade, the worn handle, the stains of blood that had coated it for years.
Her blood was on that knife.
Her mother's blood was on that knife.
Her hand moved forward of it's own accord, but a harsh voice stopped her before she could grab it away from the merchant.
"Told you it was them."
Aemond and Ophaella swirled around, stepping closer together out of instinct. She recognized the boys instantly and moved to stand behind Aemond right away. She grabbed his right hand, squeezing it for dear life. They were older than before, taller and more filled out. She felt naked without the safety of a cliff between them.
Felt empty without the shadow of Dor looming so large.
"Seems they decided to slum it," The boy, Gile, said, looking Aemond and Ophaella up and down. "Oi, Targs. Finally decided to crawl out from your hole?"
"They've been with the Sealord," One of the other boys hissed. "The one that took over after their da killed the last one's son."
He was much taller than he had been before and covered in a mess of pimples. Puberty was being unkind to him and his once boyish face was soon to be grotesque. The others were not much better.
"None of this here," The merchant tried, voice falling on deaf ears as the boys started towards them.
"Where's your dragon, huh?"
"Hunting for boys like you to eat, I'd wager," Aemond said, voice firm and confident in a way that Ophaella could never fathom for herself.
"But not here? Take off your hood, girl, so that we can see your pretty face while we kill this cunt."
Aemond wrenched his arm out from Ophaella's grasp and moved to stand in front of her just a little bit more. "You tried for my eye last time. Let's see if you can do better."
"Aemond," Ophaella gasped. He pulled away from her entirely, hand reaching down to the sword at his waist. He had carried very day since her father had given it to him, but he had never had any need to use it away from the training grounds. He did not draw it yet, however.
Measured.
Calm.
Perfectly content to use his fists to settle this problem.
Idiot.
They lunged for each other at the same time.
It was a messy affair. With a bunch of flying limbs and shouted curses. Whatever fear Ophaella felt soon evaporated as she watched them, concern giving way to exasperation as Aemond continued to roll around on the ground with the larger boy. Ophaella crossed her arms over her chest and glowered down at the scuffle.
Childish nonsense.
Until another one of the boys, free to move around in Ophaella's distracted state, grabbed her by her hood and threw her roughly to the ground.
It was pure chaos after that and Aemond's actions soon turned from that of a child to that of a something greater. His hand instantly drew his sword as he pulled himself away from Gile and advanced on the boy that had Ophaella pinned. He shoved the tip of the sword against his neck, breathing heavily, face covered in little scrapes.
"Off, now."
His voice was rougher than she had ever heard it before.
Hands wrapped around Aemond's head, pulling back before he could stab the other boy. Nails dragged across his face, cutting his eyelid and causing him to cry out as his eyebrow was split and blood began to pour down his face. Aemond was thrown to the ground and his sword went flying away, leaving them both at the mercy of their two attackers.
Gile grabbed the sword for himself, holding it above Aemond's neck.
"Enough."
It was the strange one.
The one from before.
The one with his red hair and white stripes, the one with the eyes never seemed to stay the same, stood above the scene, face impassive as he pulled Gile off Aemond and threw him to the ground.
"A boy will go home." Ophaella pushed back against the boy pinning her down, using his distraction to upend his balance and send him to the dirty ground in a heap. "Now." The strange man left now room for argument and the boys, forever whatever reason, heeded his warnings without protest.
A gift from a stranger.
Of a certain sort.
Ophaella immediately rushed towards Aemond, skidding to her knees next to him. She yanked off her cloak and pressed it against his eye, glowering down at him.
"You almost lost your eye. Again." She pressed just a little harder than necessary. "What was that? We could have walked away."
"He spoke to you."
"And that was enough to fight?"
"No. Him looking at you is enough."
Ophaella blushed something awful, the feeling getting worse when she realized they were being watched by the strange man still. Aemond seemed to realize that as well at the same moment, and instantly sat up. They both turned to look at him, drawing close together again.
The man observed them both for a moment.
Something akin to dread settled deep in Ophaella's stomach as she looked at him.
Like she was looking directly in the face of death.
But Aemond did not feel the same way, and she could do nothing but watch as he stepped closer to the man, looking up at him with nothing short of amazement.
"A girl should get her knife." The man said, looking at Ophaella for only a moment before he turned his haunting gaze on Aemond in full. "Braavos is not safe for a girl with not dragon and no knife."
The way he said it made her think it was not the knife he was speaking of at all.
But what the knife could do.
"Who are you?" Aemond asked. "Why did you intervene?"
"A man is a green watcher. A man is a stranger. A man is No One."