"How much longer must we suffer this river?" Whined Viserys, leaning over against the cabin door, his face a tinge too pale, strands of silver-blonde hair draped across his sweat slick forehead. He wore a faded, ragged cloak, much like her own, that smelled stale and moist. Viserys had always hated sailing. His disdained expressions were difficult to avoid when a sailor was nearby, and she could see him shudder at the faintest sight of a storm across the raging waters. And though the Rhoyne was no vast ocean, he would seldom leave the safety of their small cabin and poorly stitched beds.
Daenerys was fond of the river, however. Even though it matted her hair and ruined her clothes. The breeze of the rushing waters felt fresh, and the rippling of the new moon across the waves was entrancing. She liked to watch the riggers climb upon the masts and the deckhands wash the deck. All the captains she had ever met wore a gleeful smile and a hearty tale. And at nightfall, songs would be shared and drinks would be drunk. Though she could never join in, she always loved to listen, keeping her ear upon the door whenever Viserys had drifted asleep.
Two sharp knocks came upon the door to their cabin, startling Viserys for a moment before he quickly flung the door open. A young woman greeted them silently. She wore a dark coloured tunic and dark leather shoes, adorning a purple shawl around her head that veiled all but her dark, muddy eyes. On her tanned face, you could briefly catch the black tattoo of a snarling tiger, much of which had been slowly burned away. Oftentimes the woman would find her staring, and Daenerys could only look away with an ashamed blush.
"Come. We are docking. The captain will see us off. But keep your wits about you."
"Are we found?" Viserys asked hastily and quietly, trying hard to keep the fear from his voice. Daenerys shifts in her spot uneasily. Her brother had always feared recognition. Around each corner, within each home and past every street were the Usurper's blades, he could claim. Lurking in the shadows, away from Daenerys' sight. They ran from Braavos to Tyrosh, Tyrosh to Myr, her arm trapped in her brother's own, frantic and desperate to escape a shadowy pursuit.
And Daenerys had learned to fear it too. But it came to her in a strange way. Away from the streets and temples, and in her dreams, and in her nightmares. In the horrid, dripping fangs of a beast, in the cawing of a faraway bird, in the frothing mouth of a drunken, armoured king.
The woman grabs her arm gently, ushering them both off the ship. "We are not. But that is no cause for recklessness. Volon Therys is guarded fiercely. There is no fault in caution." But Viserys remains anxious, keeping his gaze upon the rustling tree line in the distance, his hand tight against a large satchel. The woman locked eyes with Daenerys. She smiled meekly, but the woman only stared before turning her head to the road. She had never told them her name, despite Viserys' protests. None of them had. Stranger after stranger, each tattooed with strange markings. Friend, each of them claimed. Safety, each of then promised.
And Daenerys thinks of Ser Willem. Of his soft, leathery hands and his great big smile. And she holds back her tears, for she knows what Viserys will say. You are a dragon, he will spit. Dragons do not cry. So she bites her cheeks, hard.
"Why have we stopped? I can see no city." Seethed Viserys through gritted teeth, his hands pinching into the forearm of the woman. She snatched her arm away, narrowing her eyes at him.
"You would do well to learn of the city which you claim safety. The riverfront is harsh, and there are no berths from the south. We must walk. But worry not," and the words are snark, and Daenerys can feel Viserys bite his tongue, "it is a short one. We shall reach my mistresses' home before nightfall." He can only bristle at the comment, walking ahead despite his unfamiliarity.
"Is your mistress kind?" Daenerys asks, quietly, and with an instant swelling of regret.
"Kinder than some. Do not fret." But it does little to ease her feelings. There had rarely been much kindness, Daenerys had found, as she and her brother trekked from city to city. Viserys had cried that it was not fair, but Daenerys only thought it was sad. A cruel heart must be painful to have, she thought, staring at the fading sun that painted the gently rippling Rhoyne gold.
And the woman did not lie, as before long sun-tipped hills were replaced with spiralling marble towers that soared into the sky. Beneath their shadow stood a wide white wall, pristine and glittering. Faint lights appeared atop each tower, sporting small black dots that looked like men the closer they approached. Across the river, there was the faintest hint of ruins, and it brought a twisted feeling in her stomach. She chose to look away.
In the distance, Daenerys could see a large gated archway, sculpted with the finest white stone. Detailed statues depicting a roaring tiger stood strong on each side of the gate, the bases etched with intricate carvings of dragons. The tigers were a deep black, their eyes and stripes a crimson red with a brazier of fire smoking in their snarling mouths. It looked terrifying, to an onlooker. But Daenerys felt enamoured. She had heard little of Volon Therys. The few books Ser Willem held spoke of it as a minor town of Volantis. But she saw otherwise. Grandchild of Valyria. And Viserys seemed the same, for he said not a word, and only watched in carnal fascination.
The woman begins to speak in a hushed tone. "The city is the gatekeeper to Volantis from the north. If the general deems you unfit, you cannot trade in the city of Old Blood." She pulls a few loose coins from beneath her cloak, counting them quietly, before looking back to the approaching city gates. "There are few elephants here. The tiger's paws cut deep. Cover yourself, and swallow your pride."
As they approached the gate, a rows of black-armoured guards stood aligned, the spears pointed towards the sky. One party by one, the crew are examined by the guards. Some are given passage. Others are less lucky, and Daenerys finds the roughness of the guards unnecessary, but holds her tongue. She holds her cloak tightly, keeping her head down.
A large guard beckoned them forward. His armour was tight, and Daenerys could see his fat bulging from his armpits and sides. "Business," says the guard in Valyrian, his accent thick and almost unintelligible to Daenerys.
The woman does not hesitate, speaking in a rehearsed voice, full of honey and sweetness. "We are servants of Madam Lyria. We return to Volon Therys at the order of our mistress." She says, bowing before handing him an inked letter, stamped with a bleeding star turned red. The guard reads it for a moment too long for Daenerys' liking, before grunting rudely and beckoning them forward through the rising gate. Viserys seemed irked at the label, but said nothing.
As they moved through the city in strange routes, Daenerys became distracted by the surrounding sights, neglecting to hear the many questions of Viserys to the woman.
The street were worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, almost shining under the warm hue of dusk. Narrow cobblestone pathways were strewn in every direction, illuminated by the occasional oil lamps. Each building was carved with detailed mosaics, the faded depicting the ancient histories of Valyria, the newer on the rule of Volantis. Stone columns supported overhanging balconies, and behind small archways, Daenerys saw gardens and overgrown plants. The tallest towers within the city were sturdy and armed with braziers and archers, and guards who drank and sang in the barracks below. In the distance at the far side of the walled city, clouds of smoke rose from a giant brazier of fire, the temple beneath it stark against the white city with its black stone.
As they approached the centre of the city, the streets grew busier as inns and pleasure houses drew the nightly crowds. The market stalls were closed, but the faint smell of spices, herbs and meat still permeated the air. Across from the market, a wide street adorned with tall dry trees led straight to a gated grand palace. Even in the dark, Daenerys was astounded. The palace built atop a hill, overlooking the cityscape. Large statues of dragons and tigers and elephants decorated its grounds, and the arched doorway as tall as any watchtower, a dim light creeping from beneath its stone doors. Viserys claimed the Red Keep was larger, and built by the Conqueror, but the woman was quick to remind him that Volon Therys was a vassal to Valyria, the palace once built by an ancient dragonlord.
They stop in front a large manse. It is unassuming, and simple compared to the surrounding city, made of large stone blocks and an arched wooden door. The woman knocks the door handles against it twice, and thrice more after a short pause.
After a short moment, a large, muscular man swung the door open. The woman rolled her eyes. His skin is ebony, almost as dark as a new moon, and perfectly clear without a blemish, scar or wrinkle. He has large golden hoops in his ears, and not a stubble of hair upon his head. In his hand is a large oil lamp that flickers through the dark entryway, the only light beside the bright moonlight streaming through the courtyard behind him.
"Are you trying to frighten us?" The woman huffs and slaps the man against his thick, muscular arm, walking past him to a bench on the far-side of the courtyard. He smirks, before turning to Viserys and her.
He smiles at them widely, and Daenerys can see the gold in at least four of his teeth. "Daughter. Son. Blessed be thy," he says, his voice is low, and commanding even in quiet tones, his accent strange and thick. But his eyes are calm, and Daenerys relaxes her muscles. She turns to see Viserys clutching his satchel tightly and eyeing him intently as he walks past the large man slowly into the courtyard.
Daenerys can only offer a small smile. A sudden tiredness permeated through her, and she realised how sore her feet were.
"The Madam?" The woman asks, returning now with her own lamp.
He shakes his head. "Home is is unused for many days. Mistress return on the morrow." She can see Viserys jump at the news, standing back in the courtyard, grasping at the nothing behind him.
"Not here?" He is frightened, Daenerys realises. It was the same voice he could never hide after Braavos. But she can feel his anger overcome his fear as he points an accusing finger at the woman. "You swore that—"
"And I have kept my word, to the best of my knowledge. Besides, it is of little difference." She walks to a large room beyond the courtyard, raising a small torch to light the lamps within the room. Viserys does not move, Daenerys following his example.
When she returns to the room, she seems frustrated, and tired, rubbing her face and sighing. The large man chucked in amusement, before leaving the villa and closing the heavy wooden doors behind him. "If I were to kill, rob, or hurt you, I would have done so long ago. Your rooms are prepared, and I shall draw a bath for each of you." Still, her brother remained guarded.
The woman scoffed, gently grabbing Daenerys' arm and leading her down the hallway. Viserys followed tentatively, questioning the woman about the large man and the Madam's apparent absence, to which she did not respond. He peered his head into very open room and around every corner, before the woman brought them to his own. He entered slowly, lighting the oil lamps himself and inspecting every crevice.
"Satisfied?" She asked smugly. He only grimaced, and mumbled a quiet thank you before she left, Daenerys' hands in tow. At the end of the hallway, the woman unlocked an ironwood door, revealing a cosy room. Daenerys entered with trepidation, coming to a sturdy wooden bed sat against a windowed wall, draped in purple fabrics, the curtains the same purple, lined with white and gold trimmings. The feathered mattress was soft, lighter than any Daenerys had ever felt, and she desperately felt the urge to sink into it.
As the woman lit oil lamps across the room, she could see more and more of the furnishings. The room felt intimate. Tapestries depicting fields and castles adorned the walls. Behind them, the walls were littered with small drawings, the mosaic floors carved with crude hearts and initials. A desk was decorated with wooden animals, from tigers to elephants to dragons. In the corner, there was a small box on a bookshelf that held carefully painted grey wolves, still covered in a layer of dust. The books were unopened, and a few lay on the wooden table beside her bed. On the ceiling was a frescoed mural, slightly cracked and faded, illustrating a simple clothed man with silver-white hair and violet eyes, his fingers grasping towards the snout of a crimson scaled dragon.
It felt different from the single room she had shared with Viserys her whole life. She could not smell the faint air of the lemon tree outside her window, nor feel the streams of sunlight pour through. She could not hear Ser Willem's voice, or Viserys' midnight turning of pages. Her fingers drifted across the bookshelf, and she swallowed a growing lump in her throat.
"Here," called the woman from another room. It was adjoined to the bedchamber. When she entered, the immediate smell of fresh roses and lilies flushed her cheeks. They were woven through holed panels that surrounded a large stone bath. In the corner, a large circle circular basin spouted flowing water that boiled beneath a small fire. Daenerys watched awkwardly as she poured the scalding water into the bath. The woman's face was uncovered now, and she could more clearly see burns that marked one half of her face. They were faded, and mildly resembled an tattoo. Viserys had told her such markings belonged to slaves, much to her horror. She felt the urge to ask in morbid curiosity, but held her tongue in shame.
The entire bedchamber was a luxury she had never been truly afforded. It felt a dream, like the old life in Westeros Viserys had always spoke of. She had thanked the woman awkwardly what felt like a thousand times, unsure of what debt she suddenly now owed. When she left, she undressed and quickly dipped into the steaming hot waters, immediately groaning as her muscles ached. It was fierce against her skin, filling the room with a simmering steam that moistened the stone floors. It soothed her calloused, bruised feet, and she sent silent gratitude to any of the gods for safety from the long, arduous roads.
Tears brimmed at her eyes. Roads wrought with sorrow and pain. Each step, each blistering stone pulled her further from old white walls and the smell of lemons in the morning air. From the smile of an old protector, and the careful carvings of a red door. Home. It pierced her deeply as she tucked her knees to her chin, tasting the salt from her tears upon her lips. She remembered Ser Willem's limp arms, dangling from the side of his bed. His face was grey and his lips pale, his eyes devoid of the once gentle brown. And she remembered the servants, eyes brimming with malice and cruelty, who stared at her like hungry animals, uncaring of what they stole, of what they ripped from her very hands.
She had never once cried, nor complained of the betrayal, despite her desire to sob into every sleep. Dragons do not cry, Viserys has said, as he dug his claws into her arm and hurried through empty street. But Viserys was not here, and in the silence of the steaming room, she sobbed into her knees. And when the crying stopped, after countless hours, she half-remembered soft hands dress her pruned skin in a nightdress, and lay her in bed while humming a lullaby. It sounded kind, like a dream.
—
When she woke, she could feel the sunlight creep through an ajar window above her featherbed, warming her skin. The furred blankets coiled around her legs as she stretched and then curled even further beneath them. It was the calmest sleep she could remember. It was difficult to forget it was real. As she peered around the room, she felt shocked at how alive it felt in the daylight. The tapestries of fields seem to shine, the white walls glistening, the crimson dragon far fiercer.
Eventually, she dragged herself to the looking mirror, only to find her hair a tangled, frizzy mess, with not a servant near to help her. Much to her surprise, she found herself without any clothes, besides the nightdress that clung to her skin. Her old, mangy robes had been taken. The garderobe and closets were empty, and the drawers held only old pieces of parchment and ink. When she stuck her head through her open door, she could see nothing but an empty hallway, but could vaguely hear loud voices.
Daenerys felt awkward. She did not want to seem ungrateful. Though her wants were little, Ser Willem had been quick to bark his orders. She awkwardly hurried through the hallways, holding her arm in her hand, peeking her head in open rooms to see if were anything to change into.
When she could find nothing, she relented, following the now angry voices to a small kitchen. More mosaic walls adorned the walls, and she could see a tall woman stand beside a lit hearth with hanging pots full of a savoury smell. She wore a long silver dress with loose sleeves and a modest neckline around her collarbones, woven with floral embroidery. Her brother sat on a sturdy stone table with bowls and dishes of exotic foods and smells. He looked angry, waving an unrolled letter in his hand. Before he could speak, the woman turned to meet him.
"I have given you every assurance available. If you would not trust the claims of your allies, then I wish you well on whichever journey you intend to embark on. For you will do so without our help." He scoffed, standing to point an accusing finger at her.
"They—"
She grabbed the letter from his hand, burning it in the fire and matching Viserys' glare with equal fury, that seemed far calmer, "They have taken every measure possible, given the circumstances. And their silence to you does not speak of their loyalties. Remember, of what was taken from them by the Usurper. Whose eyes still dangle above their kingdom."
He bristled at her admonishment, putting his hands on his hips before breathing a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was quieter, and almost defeated. "I cannot lead armies from here."
She laughs, much to his visible chagrin, "You cannot lead an army you do not yet have. And I have no armies to give you. Safety, is my only promise. If that is inadequate, then you are welcome to leave."
Viserys seemed tamed, turning away from her, clearly embarrassed at the scolding from a stranger.
"Good. Now sit, and eat. You are bone thin. Where is your sister?"
"Here." Daenerys said quietly, standing half behind the doorway. The woman seemed abashed as she realised Daenerys had witnessed their squabble, quickly coming to her side and leading her into the room gently. Viserys glanced at her for a moment, before returning to his food.
"Come, break your fast with us." Daenerys stopped, shivering at a breeze that flew through her loose clothing. When she did not move, the woman seemed concerned, kneeling down to meet her. Daenerys could see a silver necklace hung around her neck, a dark sapphire pendant sitting on her chest. It looked like stars shining. Daenerys stared at it for a moment, before seeing the woman's smile. It was.. sincere, strangely so, and inviting. It made Daenerys want to smile.
"Are you Madam Lyria?" She asked.
"I am, dear." In the morning light, Daenerys could see the Madam clearly. She was taller than Viserys, with a straight back and sculpted neck. Long long raven locks that fell long past her shoulders. Her skin was tanned and clear, with faded freckles near her a nose and a small mole on her left cheek. But her eyes, her eyes were a striking violet. Daenerys felt herself lost in them. They gleamed tenderly, and looked so very much like her own.
"Did you not like the clothing in your chambers, dear?" She asked, pulling at Daenerys' dress lightly, concerned, but still with a faint smile.
Daenerys hesitated, suddenly aware of Viserys' eyes on her. "There were none," she said after a long pause, looking into the Madam's eyes to find them still tender and warm.
"None? Ayah did not give you any, I take it." Daenerys shook her head, assuming Ayah was the marked woman who had guided them from Volantis. It felt odd to hear a name. Intimate, in a way she could not describe.
Madam Lyria stood up and sighed, before taking Daenerys' hand and walking down the hallway to another room. "Well, tact is a skill I could never teach her."
When they entered, Daenerys' feet tingled. There was a thick, woollen rug that carpeted the entire room, coloured red and gold with square and diamond shapes. Wooden benches and shelves adorned the room, covered in different silks and fabrics, most of them half-finished or sewn into rough shapes. A large workbench sat in the centre, illuminated from the light of a large window. Letters, needles and many-coloured threats drown the entire bench, and in the corner, chairs with finished clothing were neatly folded. The Madam moved to a closet adjoined to a large shelf at the end of the room, opening it. There dozens of other dresses, small and large. Daenerys had never seen so many, with so many colours it seemed a rainbow of silk and wool. Daenerys raised her hand to touch them, before pulling it back quickly.
The Madam pulled a stool from the bottom of the closet, wiping the dust away with her hand and placing it squarely in front of Daenerys. "You may pick whichever and as many as you wish. If there are none you like, or not enough, I shall craft some."
Daenerys stepped back, shocked at the woman's generosity. "I—I.. I have nought to—" she whispered meekly, unable to meet Madam Lyria's eyes.
She smiled, and came to her knees, cupping Daenerys' face in her hands. They were gentle and smooth, and she felt the urge to lean against them. "It is a gift, child. Think nothing of it." She stood up, skimming through the old letters on the workbench before lighting a fire with two stones. "Besides, they would only waste away in the closet." This alleviated Daenerys' hesitation. She brushed her hands against the dresses, feeling their fabrics and turning them towards her.
For nearly an hour Daenerys browsed through small clothes, shifts, gowns, and many dresses and cloaks. They were plain, but well made and sturdy, and still far fancier than Daenerys had ever worn. She played with the soft silks and spun around in the long dresses, most far too long for her height. Madam Lyria watched, writing letters occasionally. She would ask Daenerys questions about the voyage, none ever too personal, most of food and clothing.
When she was finished, Daenerys arms were piled with so many dresses it reached her nose. Madam Lyria laughed, taking them and placing them on her bench. "I will have these taken to your chambers." She looked back at Daenerys, who now wore a loose purple dress with silver sparkles. "It matches our eyes." And Daenerys grins widely in recognition, nodding, before taking the woman's hand.
When they returned to the kitchen, Viserys had left for his chambers and his books. The tables were still draped in various foods; a large loaf of bread, black olives and dried capsicums sitting in spiced oil, cheeses Daenerys had never seen nor smelled before, a small jar of golden honey that smelt sweet, a handful of dates, figs and a cluster of purples and green grapes. She did not know where to start, so the Madam started for her, drizzling some honey onto a slice of bread with crushed olives and cheese. Daenerys was astounded at the taste, biting into it hungrily, before blushing at seeing the Madam watch her amusedly.
"You do not seem acquainted with the cuisine," Madam Lyria joked with a half smirk and a grape in hand.
She shook her head, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. A swell of old memories hit her. "We had many foods. I remember Ser—," she bit her lip, wondering if it were safe to speak his name, "I remember Ser Willem, before he grew sick, he would go into the markets, and return with dried fish with such hot peppers in them, and often, plates with clams and mussels. Ser Willem said they were a sailor's favourite snack." She smiled into her food, but felt her appetite lessen with every passing moment.
"It must be nice to smell food that is less.. fishy?" She jests, her eyebrow raised, and her smile faint. But her eyes are concerned, and Daenerys looks away nodding.
"We had a lemon tree. It would sit right beyond my window. And when the lemons grew fat and ripe, I remember Ser Willem would take them to the baker in the market, and return with lemon-cakes."And she remembers his smile, and his large, leathery old hands.
The woman studies her for a moment, before placing her hand on Daenerys' own. "There are markets here, by the square near the port. They are far livelier in the day, I can promise you this. When you are settled, we shall venture into the markets together." Daenerys accepts, but her thoughts still lingers on the lemon tree. She looks to the windowsill in the kitchen and sees a garden, but finds no lemon tree. The Madam brings her a sweet drink made of grape and berry, and Daenerys returns to her food, this time silently, and with far less joy.
By dusk, Daenerys returned to the kitchen. She had only slept for the remainder of the day, her muscles still sore and tired from the journey. It felt good, to sleep undisturbed. And yet it was equally as strange, to sleep without the gentle rocking of a ship an ocean's waves.
When she entered, Madam Lyria was chopping vegetables on a wooden board, placing them into a bowl on the side. "Are you hungry, dear?"
"No, Madam Lyria. Thank you." Daenerys said quietly.
She chucked. "So formal and well-mannered. I hope your rest agreed with you." Daenerys nodded, sitting at the table, staring into the garden beyond the window. The plants appeared golden under the sunset light, rustling ever so slightly from a cool, nightly breeze. Across the room, she found Viserys peering through a curtained window. When he turned to them, his eyes were read and puffed. He had not slept, she realised. He seldom did, and she felt sad, for she had thought their arrival would change his poor habits.
"There are guards upon every watchtower and wall. Why?" He asked, failing to keep the worry from his face.
The Madam keeps her back to him as she slices a large cucumber into a dozen pieces, placing them onto a ceramic plate with a number of dates and nuts. "A passing worry. The city guard has been here since these walls were erected. General Maegyr's reinforcements serve as a shield against Dothraki who raid neighbouring villages."
"The Dothraki? Please, their horses would sooner fly than then those savages learning to siege a city with such high walls." There was little Viserys found impressive, outside of Valyrian history.
The Madam places the plate in front of Viserys, who picks it at, unused to the strange foods. "It is unsurprising. Volantis prepares for an election, and the Tigers are unlikely to cede the control they have amassed. Dothraki hordes have already begun sweeping the southern Rhoyne near Selhorys, and scarcely a moon past, a slave revolt left a dozen masters dead in Valysar."
"A pack of runaway slaves and horse-loving barbarians. The tiger does not wish to be seen soft, more like. To think this Maegyr is of the Old Blood. You'd think them a pack of eunuchs, with such weakness."
Madam Lyria tittered at his annoyance. "I did not think you so well-versed in Volantene politics."
He waves her off, staring at the dates in his hands. "Volantenes are snakes grovelling at a chance to be dragons. I find it an insult to compare them to Valyria. Aegon the Conqueror knew what the blood of the dragon meant. He united a lawless, uncivilised land into the greatest kingdom since the Freehold. What do the Old Blood do? Sip on wine and run endless campaigns behind their Black Walls. It's pathetic."
"Politics is scarcely anything different," she mumbled, taking the plate from Viserys and offering some to Daenerys, who politely declined again, but thanked her. "You would do well to keep such opinions silent."
"Do you take me for a fool?"
Madam Lyria bites back immediately. "I take you for a cautious man. And surely not an unwise one." She places the ceramic plates into a sink, washing her hands with the warm water from a large bowl, before drying them and returning to stand beside Daenerys. "Politics aside, it would be prudent to protect your identities within the city, regardless of the focus of the General's eye," she brushes her fingers lightly against Daenerys' loose locks, dancing it between her fingers. "Your appearances are less notable, though not ideal. But your names? Names carry history, carry legacy. And there are some who will search for the names, Viserys, and Daenerys. You must shed them. Keep them close to your heart, but away from prying ears."
Viserys shifts in his seat, visibly uncomfortable at the prospect. "We should be proud of our inheritance. The name Targaryen should be feared. I will not have the Usurper's comeuppance drowned because of a fleeting fear."
She snickered. "Go, then. Into the street. Announce your name. Do it with pride, with vigour. And we shall count how many days it will take for a blade to reach your throat." Daenerys felt uneasy at the thought. "Throwing caution to the wind would gain you nothing. Without this food, this roof, these walls, you would still be begging in the streets for scraps. I ask little of you, and gain far less in reward. Caution, and a healthy amount of gratitude shall do you many favours."
"How?" Daenerys asks. Madam Lyria catches her eye, and watches her intently.
Daenerys finds it unsettling as she speaks again, this time distant, her mind elsewhere. "It will be odd for two such as you, with such colouring, to be seen so suddenly, or excused of quickly. To hide you is to invite further trouble. In any court, prying eyes are not far from sight." She opens retrieves a small wooden box from a shelf across the room, filled with dark liquids and powders. "It is safer to live as another. Hidden, yet free."
Viserys bristled at the idea, but soon looked deep in thought. Madam Lyria watched him curiously, curiosity which soon turned to pity. "It is a terrible burden upon the heart, to shed one's life. But I do not ask you to burn your past. Only to hide it, for now." And her tone was sincere, and full of empathy. But Viserys seemed put off, his face stuck in an odd grimace.
The Madam came close to Daenerys now, rubbing her fingers against her chin and brushing them against Daenerys' jaw. "Perhaps.. I would have you call me mother, or Mama, as I once called my own. Easy enough to fabricate with a well-placed lie." She nods to herself, before looking to Viserys. "As servant or slave, you both remain a target. As my child, none can bargain nor buy you. And I see no reason for suspicion. My name is known little outside of Volantis and Norvos. Children are a rather boring sight, particularly in my line of work."
He huffed. "You would have me insult the name of my mother through some deluded pretence? No, never. I refuse to demean myself so."
Madam Lyria seem unperturbed by his opposition. "So be it. In any case, you are too old, and do not resemble me." She turns back to Daenerys. "You are as fair as I once was, before my time under the long summer. With a touch of hair dye, none shall question it."
She kneels down and holds Daenerys' hands gently, squeezing then slightly before looking into her eyes. "Is that.. well with you, dear? If it is uncomfortable, I shall not force it unto you." Mama. And the word looped in her head and rung through the hallways of her heart. She had never known her mother, and Viserys spoke little of her before his rage manifested. Oftentimes, she would imagine her mother in the looking mirror. She wondered if her eyes were coloured like hers, or like Viserys. If her smile was warm, and if her eyes were kind. And when the storms grew heavy on the open waters, she would hold the sheets tightly, and pretend her mother was there, laying beside her, her arms wrapped around Daenerys. With a lullaby and a gentle voice, and a thousand kisses for when Daenerys' heart grew cold.
Mama. She played with the word on her tongue. Mama. After a time, she looked up and nodded. And when the woman smiled, Daenerys smiled back.