Daenerys had been awake for some time. She sat at the edge of the bed, her legs hanging, too short to touch the ground. Her fingers curled around long black locks. Dark and colourless. Hair that in hid in shadow, and did not glimmer under the moonlight. She moved to the looking mirror, biting her cheeks and pursing her lips, dipping her hair into a warm bowl of water, slathering it until her dark locks were sleek and shining. Uncertainty danced in the wide comb that detangled the ends of hair, the stray hairs wrapping themselves around her fingers.
Daenerys frowned, pinching each hair into a small black clump, leaving it in her closed fist. She opened a small draw beside her featherbed, retrieving a worn leather pouch she had found wasting away at the bottom of her closet. Inside, she had placed other hair clumps. Though, these were a silver-blonde. She had brushed her dry, curly hair until it turned frizzy and brittle, retrieving as many of the strands as she could before Madam Lyria dyed her hair midnight. She played with it in her hand, wondering if it felt different from her the new dark ones. They didn't.
She put them away, at the bottom of her closet now, away from sight. Better not to look at them. Better to forget what she looked like in the mirror. Daenerys sat by the windowsill, opening the tinted glass slightly ajar, listening to the morning air of the city. The markets were open with a storm, the white walls bright under the summer sun. Madam Lyria had promised to take her into the city once everything was settled. Birds sung in the sky, and if you listened close, you could hear the waves of the Rhoyne, and the crackling of the brazier from the Temple of Light.
Beside her was a small wooden desk, littered with old parchment and pieces of old charcoal and lead that hung over its circular frame. Daenerys had grown bored, and the Madam had bought all sorts of things to keep her occupied. But her favourite were the charcoals and chalks and dyes from the travelling artisans. The Madam had showed her how to crush madder and woad into a deep violet, using it carefully to colour the many eyes she drew on parchment. At first Daenerys drew her own, and then Viserys. And then she had tried to draw her mother's, without any idea of what they looked like. The product was always the same, strangely like Madam Lyria's and her own.
She didn't want to draw today. Her leg tapped the chair nervously as her fingers dug into her nails. The Madam had asked her to choose a name. She had been wrecked endlessly with contemplation. And yet nothing came to her. Was it such a simple task? Choose a name, and shed all that which you are. Choose a name, and be reborn? It felt daunting. It felt unfair. Her mother had named her, Viserys had said. Stormborn, for the rage, for the tempest that bowed beneath her. Must she give it up? I must.For my life. And yet it felt no less of a betrayal. Against a woman she had never known.
And with her hair, as dark as midnight, even Daenerys became strange upon her tongue. Like a stranger, one she could only recall in a half-remembered dream.
She didn't know how long she sat there by the windowsill. But the sun had fallen past noon, and her hair had turned soft, dry and bouncy. Her stomach grumbled with urgency, and she quickly found herself slowly walking through the hallways, hoping someone would would be in the kitchens so she need not bother anyone.
She passed Viserys' room briefly, peering in around the corner. He was fidgeting with a doublet the Madam had undoubtedly gifted him. It was a dark grey with blotches of red and white. He pressed it against his body, standing in front of the looking mirror, stretching out the arms and waist of it, looking reluctantly pleased. She moved to walk past, until he caught her small figure, calling her back.
"Daenerys, is that you?" She approached him slowly, standing next to him as he placed the doublet on his featherbed, looking slightly amused, but curious at her new look.
"Gods, what has she done to your hair," he tugged at the ends of the hair. His remained the silver-blonde, but shorter and cleaner. "Does that woman still insist on you calling her mother?" She nods. Madam Lyria had made clear that Daenerys did not have to in private, if she wished.
His lips are set in a fine line. "I suppose I cannot blame her reasoning. If it keeps us safer from hired knives and the Usurper's grasp. But, Dany, you must never forget your real mother. She died to bring you into this world, you should be grateful," He walks to a chest in the corner of the room, retrieving a small satchel and taking it a mirror opposite his bed. "Come here, I wish to show you something."
From his bag, he retrieved an item wrapped in the finest black and crimson silks. "Our mother's crown," she said quietly. It was Viserys' most prized possession. Many a night, she would find him simply staring at it. It gleamed always, as he never allowed a single piece of dust nor dirt touch it. And it was beautiful. A thin, silver-black circlet adorned with three slithering dragons that encircled each other, red gemstones in each eye. Any man could see its worth from a single glance, so Viserys kept it hidden, even from her.
He looked at her oddly for a moment, tucking her hair behind her ears, before raising the crown above her head. He was always gentle with it, as if it were a newborn baby made of glass. It came down and felt cold against her head. He turned her towards the large mirror, his hands squarely on her shoulder. "Aside from the hair, you look rather similar to her." He smiled faintly before staring at her in the mirror distantly.
The crown looked too large for her head, Daenerys thought. And it looked odd against her raven hair, the black of its steel fading away beneath her locks. It was forged for a queen. A ruler of kingdoms, and friend to many. Daenerys didn't feel like a queen. She felt like a little girl playing dress up.
He snapped away from his reverie, letting go of her shoulders and carefully retrieving the crown from her brow, wiping it with a small cloth and wrapping it again in the silks, placing it deep in a chest in his room. He kneeled there for some time, his hands resting on the locks.
"Before she died, she brought me before her bedside. I remember how pungent the sheets smelled, drowned in blood. I could hear a storm raging outside, and you, a tiny little thing, wailing in the maester's arms." His voice was barely a whisper, and Daenerys felt strange. He rarely mentioned their mother's death. When she had asked once, he flown into a terrible rage.
He stood up now, returning to the mirror, staring at himself. Daenerys watched from behind, keeping her gaze locked on his face. "I was scarcely a year older than you are now. She brought me forth, commanded me onto one knee. Mother looked so gaunt, so frail," and his eyes blazed, "But there was a fire in her eyes, Dany. The dragon. And she placed her crown atop my head, and named me heir to our Father's throne."
He turned to meet her, taking her hands into his own. "I promised her then that I would avenge her. Avenge Father, and Rhaegar. I promised her that I would protect you." And his jaw was set as he nodded to himself, brushing his fingers across Daenerys' softly. "Soon enough, we will return home. You will wear our mother's crown, and I will claw through any man who denies me our father's own." And he seems strange now, as if he were lost in a distant dream. "I will reclaim the Iron Throne. And when I am King, I shall bring about a terrible justice against our enemies. Against the turncloak Lannister, who slaughtered our father. Against the Usurper, who murdered Rhaegar, and drove our mother to such despair."
All Daenerys could do was nod, her heart stuck on a single word. Home. Home had been Ser Willem, and his soft, leathery hands, and fierce voice. It had been the lemon tree, and the large red door. And now, home was... home was the garden that blossomed behind the kitchen window. It was the moonlight that streamed through the courtyard on a starry night. It was a woman's gentle smile, and her reassuring hands. At least, Daenerys wished it to be. For Viserys also, although she knew that would never come to be.
Will—" She stammered, feeling awkward. "Can you tell me more about Mother?" She waited for his rage to come, but it did not. He only smiled for a moment, before sitting beside her on the bed.
"Of course, sweet sister, of course." And Viserys spoke of her crown. Of her servants and her regality. He spoke of the smallfolk adored her, of how the knights trusted her every command. He even spoke of her frailty, and how the Usurper's rebellion had driven her to weakness and sickness. But he did not speak of her eyes, if they were the colour of Viserys, or hers. He did not speak of her smile, or her voice. He did not tell Daenerys if she had sung songs for him as he slept, or if she had held his hands as he cried. He spoke of a queen, and yet Daenerys had asked to hear of a mother. He spoke until his memories became sour, and his bitterness drove Daenerys away.
She found herself in the kitchens soon after, standing half covered and mute behind the open door, watching Madam Lyria fill a large bowl from a basin and carry it to the garden beneath the window. She followed her outside quietly, not wishing to interrupt the woman's hobby.
Madam Lyria catches her soon, coming to the door to usher Daenerys in. "Gods, you look.." she stammers and stops, brushing her fingers through the ends of Daenerys' hair, her face grim serious, before turning to a soft smile, "You look beautiful, dear."
"Do you not feel beautiful?" Daenerys shrugs, turning her face away awkwardly.
The Madam turns Daenerys' chin back towards her, "You look so much like me. So much like my sister. Gods…" Sister. Daenerys didn't know she had a sister. She cling to the Madam's every word, wanting to know more, wanting to hear more.
"Do you not wish to look like me, dear? Would that be such a bad thing." Daenerys opened her mouth to retort, only for the Madam to place a finger upon her lips, "Perhaps I am too old and wrinkly," she said, smiling brightly.
Daenerys scrunched her nose and frowned, lightly smacking the Madam's hand away. "You're not old! You're pretty!"
And the woman pinched Daenerys' cheek softly, "And so are you, little one." Daenerys blushes, taking the Madam's hand and following her into the gardens. She let go and stopped as soon as she walked in. She had never been in this room, but she was glad of it now.
The smells were overwhelming and obsessively sweet. Daenerys felt like she was dreaming. She could see beautiful roses swirl in large ceramic plots scattered across the garden, their thorns carefully cut. Clusters of lilies, coloured white and pink and orange, some even adorned with stripes resembling tigers. Twisted wires of ivy were sprawled across the wall and ceiling, with a dozen hanging pots reaching for the floors. Sprinkled throughout were tulips, and so many other flowers Daenerys barely recognised them. They were beautiful all the same.
Madam Lyria caught her dazed staring. "Half the reason I bruise my knees in this garden is for a reaction such as yours." She smiles, and beckons Daenerys closer. Her hands were darkened by soil. In front of her were empty ceramic pots and a small wooden wheelbarrow of dirt. "I take it you have never grown anything of your own?" Daenerys shakes her head, staring at a rose at her foot, brushing her fingers absentmindedly against a lily near her waist.
Madam Lyria handed her a small shovel. "Come, dear. I have need of young hands." Daenerys rolled her eyes, which the man woman certainly caught, for she snorted loudly. Together, they filled a large pot. After, she took Daenerys' hands, placing dark brown pods that felt icy to the touch. She smelt them, and looked back at the older woman's amused face. "Lilacs. They grow far better when the seeds are frozen to the touch." She guided her hands as Daenerys buried them across the pots, before levelling the soil.
Daenerys cleaned her hands in a bowl of water, looking over all the flowers. "How long will they take to grow?" Soon, she hoped. The garden would look splendid with them.
"Oh, years. I will likely have to move them elsewhere once they grow too large for the garden." Daenerys did not like that. She did not know if she would be here for years. Though she silently wished she would.
"All the others will be long dead by then." Daenerys said morbidly.
"Of course," Madam Lyria replied nonchalantly, as if it were no serious thing, to see such beautiful things wither away, "But one day, they shall grow again. Or perhaps something equally beautiful shall take their place."
Daenerys frowned, staring at the freshly potted plants, and the smallest pieces of dirt still stuck beneath her fingernails. "I wish it would grow quicker."
Madam Lyria chuckled briefly. "I have found myself equally as impatient. Especially in the beginning. Yet," she looks down into Daenerys' eyes, holding her hand, "You will quickly find that all things have their time. These lilacs come later. But, they last longer. They smell a little sweeter, and a little stronger." The Madam begins packing all her tools away, leaving Daenerys to mull over the pot and her words.
"How is your brother, dear?" Madam Lyria asked, cleaning her own hands in the bowl.
Daenerys hesitated for a moment. "He is well. We were speaking of my mother this morning, and," she bites her lip, "and of my hair."
The Madam smiles. "He was agreeable, I hope?" Daenerys nods. "Good. There are more important matters to dwell on than hair."
"He wishes to go home. I think.. I think he is afraid that they think him a coward for running so far. For begging." Those days had been the worse. They were few, and short-lived, but engrained deeply. She shuddered at the thought of what they have became, begging on the streets for years on end. "He does not want to be weak again." She did not know why she said that. It was a private thought.
The Madam looked at her thoughtfully, before turning to the flowers. When she spoke, she seemed distant. "Yes, that is of no surprise. I only hope that he will soon realise that who you are trying to become is far more meaningful than who you once were."
She takes Daenerys' hand again. "Come, all this work has given me quite the appetite. And I know for a fact you've not eaten all day." When they returned to the kitchens, The Madam stirred a large cauldron that sat upon the lit fire pit, soaking in the savoury smells. "Just in time," she murmured, taking large iron prongs and sliced bread, toasting in the fire and setting it aside, before taking a ladle and preparing a bowl of slow-cooked venison stew for Daenerys. She finished by placing another board of cheeses, grapes, olives and dates in the centre of the table, taking a few for herself.
"Surely you would not start without me." Another voice said in Valyrian. The woman— Ayah, that was her name, entered into the kitchens, a wooden tray of glass jars full of herbs and different liquids in her hands, a comb rested behind her ear. Daenerys grimaced inside. She knew little of the Bastard Valyrian they spoke in Volatnis and the city states. Viserys continued to teach her High Valyrian, and Madam Lyria the local dialect, but it was difficult, and her confidence in speaking was painful.
The Madam snorts. "Please, how am I to stop you? You would smell my cooking from Volantis and be here before I could nigh blink." She replied in Valyrian, also, Daenerys listening carefully and hanging on to every word.
Ayah shrugs, sitting across from Daenerys. "Well, frankly, that says more of your cooking than my appetite."
"Was that a compliment I hear, somewhere in that tart tongue yours?" Madam Lyria replies.
"I've not a clue what you speak of." Ayah says, feigning ignorance. Though Daenerys catches her lips twitch every so slightly. She pulls a deep golden liquid from her tray of jars, dipping into a small mortar, crushing it with rosemary and lavender, before mixing it thoroughly. She pulled a wide comb like Daenerys' own, using it to detangle her damp hair before slathering the mixture into her scalp, massaging it down her hair.
Daenerys sips on the scalding stew, finding it pleasant and satiating, watching her intently from the corner of her eye, fascinated, but not wishing to make Ayah uncomfortable. Though, Ayah caught her eye all the same. "You have never oiled your hair?" Ayah asked, in Valyrian, glancing at Daenerys for a moment. Daenerys shook her head, feeling embarrassed.
"There is a merchant from Volantis who sells a most luscious olive oil. We use what we can in our hair. I for one do not wish to be bald and thin in old age." Madam Lyria said in the common tongue from behind Daenerys.
The Madam turns to grab a curl of Daenerys' hair. "Perhaps I will show you." She says, before jumping slightly at the sight of a large ebony man. He wore a gleeful toothless smile, and chuckled deeply at the Madam's startled state as she slaps his arm. She turns to Daenerys quickly, "Well, later." The Madam winks at her, and Daenerys smiles.
"How fare our fortunes, Moraq?" The Madam asks him in Valyrian. The large man was a friend, she had learned, who the Madam had saved from an 'unfortunate situation,' saying little else, much to Viserys' dislike.
"Strong winds lead the General home, victory upon his belt." He says, handing her a sealed scroll, before taking a date from the table and eating it whole.
The Madam reads it intently, frowning slightly. "I suppose there will be a feast in honour of it. I will need to prepare a gift for the General's wife."
"Forever a socialite." Aya says, tying her oiled hair into a neat, tight bun, before wrapping a soft cloth around it, covering her hair completely.
Madam Lyria chided her. "Appearances are important. And flattery is a useful talent."
Aya rolls her eyes. "As you say." Daenerys watched their conversation silently, a twinge of jealousy of being unable to join.
"Better to heed your mother's words. May save you from trouble one day." The large man says, sporting a cheeky smile that showed his glittered golden teeth.
"Thank you." Madam Lyria says, sharing the same cheeky smile.
Aya turned back to slap Moraq's arm playfully. "You are not supposed to take sides." He laughs, before bowing and leaving. Madam Lyria opened the scroll, reading it with furrowed brows, while Aya cleaned the droplets of oil on the table and pulled hair from her comb. Daenerys sat still, caught on Moraq's words, staring between the two women. Mother. The word made her feel uneasy. She was meant to call Madam Lyria the same, and she wondered if to do so was an only an imitation of the two.
Daenerys played with her food, watching the bread turn stale and the warm stew slowly grow colder. Madam Lyria stood in the corner scrubbing old plates and greasy pots, singing a song in the common tongue Daenerys did not recognise. "High in the halls of the Kings who are gone," Her voice flowed through Daenerys' ears as she threw awkward glances toward Ayah, fuelled by the sudden urge to start a conversation, yet unable to find something to talk of. "The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most."
The stew in front of her was unappealing. Strong in smell, and no doubt delicious. But the knots in her stomach made her feel nauseous. Daenerys bit the inside of her cheeks, feeling tears coming on. Stop crying, she chastised herself silently, annoyed that she would cry over nothing. "Swung away all her sorrow and pain. And she never wanted to leave…" The Madam's singing faded away as she dried her hands beneath a damp rag, before taking the rag to clean the tabletops beneath the garden windowsill.
"I must ask, dear, have you given any thought to a name?" The Madam asked in the common tongue, her back still turned to Daenerys.
She shakes her head, stirring her stew and watching the swirls absentmindedly. "Nothing.. feels right."
The Madam looks to her now with shrewd eyes. "It is odd, isn't it? Picking your own name. You parents pick it for you, and it stays with you forever," she pursed her lips, rubbing at her wrist, "Your name is your own, it is who you are. To pick another.. it can be a discomforting feeling. More than a game of pretend." It was only at that moment did Daenerys realise she did not know the woman's name.
In truth, Daenerys did not want to have another name. Dany, was still her. The idea of a new name entirely? Her mother had named her. It felt wrong to stray from it.
Madam Lyria takes a seat between them, deep in thought, her own food left untouched. "Many years ago, a friend, one I could call sister, told me a story. In the land of your family's home, Westeros," Daenerys sat up straight, arms crossed and listening intently, "in the Kingdom of Dorne, lay the Water Gardens. They were built by the Prince Maron of House Martell, for his bride, the Princess Daenerys Targaryen. The woman, I imagine, you are named for." She was taken aback. Daenerys did not know of the Princess. She knew little of her family, aside from her father and the stories of the conqueror Viserys shared.
"The Gardens were built for the nobility of Sunspear. But, one day, when the sun was blistering against the Dornish sand, the Princess looked upon the gardens and its servants and guards, and decreed that all would share in its waters, no matter how noble nor lowborn. A tradition was thus born, one so beloved that a painting of her likeness still adorns the halls of Sunspear."
"It sounds amazing." Daenerys says quietly.
The Madam smiles sadly. "It is. You can smell the blood oranges that surround the flowing fountains, and the breeze and salt of the ocean is never far. At least, that is what is said."
She looks Daenerys head on, a half smile on her lips. "The Princess' mother was said to be a beautiful woman. With striking violet eyes. And though her life was.. sadder than one would hope, she remained a gentle soul, with a kind heart. A queen in all her right."
Daenerys eyes widen before looking down at her hands. "What was her name?"
"Naerys. A rather fitting name, I think. For a girl as gentle and kind and strikingly beautiful as yourself." She smiles, and Daenerys blushes profusely, again.
Naerys. Daenerys found.. she liked it. It was the name of a Queen. And it sounded like hers. It was like keeping apart of herself alive, to never shed herself whole. Like the strands of hair she kept secret, twined together in shades of union.
When she looks up, Daenerys sees Ayah distantly gazing at the Madam. A sudden rush of courage comes to her, "Ayah?" she asks. It was the first time she'd ever spoken her name. It felt.. strange. "Did.. did you pick one? A name."
"No." Ayah says bluntly, returning to her hair.
The Madam looks at her, and Ayah relents. She puts the comb down gently. "My mother named me. I have held onto it for many years, no matter how long they tried to tear it away."
Daenerys jumps at the word. "Your mother?"
Ayah's dark eyes find her own. Daenerys looks away. "My mother was a slave. Born to a slave, born amongst slaves, fathered by a master. She was resigned to it. I was not." It is said simply. But their is pain behind the words. Daenerys is young. But she knows what pain is.
"Oh, I thought…" Daenerys trails off, unable to speak, glancing at Madam Lyria briefly who sees the question in her eyes.
"No, dear. I did not birth her. But, I wonder, does that make me less of a mother?" The Madam says. There is a sparkle in her eye, and Daenerys does not know if it is teasing or sad.
"No," says Ayah, who locks eyes with the older woman, her eyes slightly wet.
Daenerys did not know the answer. "What.. what makes a mother, then?" She had never felt more like a little girl, and less like a dragon.
Madam Lyria raised a brow at the question, moving beside Aya. "I do not know. it folly to believe blood is all that begets family?" She caresses Aya's cheek, her thumb brushing against her jaw. "Are mothers only born in the suffering of childbirth? Or do we exist for any child of the world, alone in the wild?" Ayah leaned into the Madam's hands, her eyes closed, savouring the warmth of her skin. Daenerys' stomach twisted at the sight, simmering with a growing envy.
The Madam smiled to herself. "She was such a thin girl when I found her. And a troublesome one, too. Used to bite at my fingers when I offered her food, and spit out any drink I have."
"Poisons in the water, poisons in the tongue," Aya whispered. Madam Lyria hums in agreement, still looking at her with an unbidden warmth.
"The world had thrown her away. What else was there for I to do, but pick her back up?" She said.
"Why did they throw you away?" Daenerys asks, frowning.
Ayah snarls. "Because the masters believed 'this one' was too petulant. Because 'this one' had dreams. They could not break me, and I would not let them kill me." And she says it with venom, with a ferocious fury that scares Daenerys. She feels an immense flow of sympathy, and a shared sense of loss. Of what it meant to be thrownaway. To be disposed of.
Madam Lyria squeezes Ayah's shoulders, returning to her diced vegetables "There is frighteningly little humanity left in the world. And love," she diced a large cucumber in half forcefully, "love has never been a popular choice."
"It is for some." For me. And Daenerys says it with hope. Hope that feels desperate, like a child reaching for their mother's arms.
The Madam looks at her thoughtfully. "Yes. It is. And perhaps.. perhaps that is enough. Perhaps that, is what mothers are born of."
And she thinks of Viserys, and her mother. The ghost that held her in her dreams. "Would.. would you tell me of your mother?"
Madam Lyria laughs briefly. "Oh, my Mama was.. she was," she suddenly fell quiet, and Daenerys felt the need to apologise, "My Mama was myMama. I cannot fathom another word that would truly capture how I felt of her." She sits down, her hands in her lap, biting her lip and staring distantly.
"She used to pinch my hips when I'd indulged myself a tad too far, and smack me when I would slouch," she said, smiling sadly, "And when I was a girl, my Mama and I would sit by the sea. I loved the way the waters rippled in the wind, and the smell of salt in the air. I could feel the sand beneath my toes, and the sun against my skin. She would scrub my hair with herbs and oil, and wrap it in a cotton scarf my grandmother had sewn for her."
The Madam stared out the window into the garden, a wide smile adorned her face. "I remember her garden. Far greater than mine. More useful too. It sat directly beneath my window, painted with every shade of green imaginable. I could have sworn she loved her plants as much as her children," she chuckled, and Daenerys smiled. Ayah smiled faintly too, staring down at the table, listening intently, "She had a thousand of them, I swear it. Cayenne pepper, red pepper, yellow pepper, dragon peppers, oranges, lemons, limes, pomegranates, a dozen different flowers. I had never understood why she did it herself. Hours planting the seeds, walking to the river to gathering fresh water, reaping them herself. 'We have servants, Mama,' I would say. But she never responded. Not even a word. Only a sad smile. I lost her, soon after. All we found were her sandals, strewn across the rocks of the riverbank."
She looks to Daenerys, and then to Ayah, tears flowing down her cheek and onto her smiling lips. "I had never known, then, what it meant to.. to nurture something. To watch it grow, and blossom." Ayah quickly ran to Madam Lyria, enveloping her. The Madam squeezed Ayah in a tight hug, kissing her forehead, brushing her hand against her back.
Daenerys stood there awkwardly, watching the display, unsure of what to say. But the Madam looked to her, outstretching her hand. Daenerys hesitated, but saw the woman's nod, and took it eagerly. She wrapped her arms around her warm body, the woman's hands played with her hair as she hummed a slow tune, and Daenerys found that she never wanted to leave their embrace.