AUTHOR's NOTES:
Hi, first author's notes for the fic. Hope you've been enjoying it so far.
For those confused, the canon divergence for this fic is Ned gaining greensight after the rebellion. I make an effort to drop hints rather than rely on exposition, but it is definitely there in the Eddard chapters (regarding Benjen too), and more will be explained as continue.
If you would like to speak to me or chat with others about the fic directly, you can find links for the fic Discord and my Tumblr on my profile.
This is a very long chapter, enjoy.
"Not a cloud in sight. How lovely," Madam Lyria murmured, heels loud against the cobbles of the street. Clear skies left the city open to the summer sun's rays, streaming through every little crevice of the city, painting it every colour of sunrise in blotches of yellow, gold and orange. The city sprawled like a cascading mountain, streaming down from the pristine and spired white walls of the Upper Gardens where the General's palace and acred property sat, domed palace towers shadowing even the depths of city slums, the peaks of the Valyrian remnant visible from even behind the city walls. For Volon Therys was a city of age, built when spell and flame took charge over chisel and hammer. The Upper Gardens were as large as the Red Keep of their home, Ayah had said, the stone clean and unblemished and seemingly unchanged from the days of millennia prior. In quiet afternoons, Daenerys would catch herself staring out the arched balconies of Madam Lyria's manse, taking lead to parchment, squiggling any spiral stalk or spherical beauty she spotted from afar.
Beneath the Gardens came The Ivory Ring, mazed and massive and traversable only by the well-remembered. Though some called it the Tiger's Foot behind closed doors and careful whispers. Here, the wealthiest merchants, masters and well-favoured dwelled, a place where even slaves adorned the finest silks, jewels and robes. Lavish establishments opened shop, welcoming only the deepest of pursed. Effortlessly clean with cobbled streets coloured beige, greys and even green, moss enveloping the underside like wrapped bread. Here, the mosaics of the city's glittered and gleamed, built upon the old architectures of the Freehold, but blended neatly with carved decorations, gargoyles and statues of all manner of beast. Daenerys skipped through the coloured buildings, villas and many manses, all staggered and irregular in height, flowing aqueducts cutting through and above, her eyes searching for a fat tabby cat, striped shades of grey and white that lurked near the Madam's manse on the north of the Ring.
"Did you find him?" Madam Lyria called from behind, holding her deep purple dress by its sides and pacing to catch up. She would often find it funny, for the Madam wore intricate designs and jewellery and headdresses that looked a pain to carry behind Daenerys' heels.
"No," Daenerys huffed. The cat was devious, popping out from quiet corners to chase her, running away in glee when she fought back.
"Well, next time. He has a penchant for you." He's too sneaky! In truth, Daenerys did not even know if the fat cat was a boy, but it was always frowning with a white chin, so she decided it must be.
She ended her search down a winding street that branched off into the magnificent White Road, forged in dragon flame and entirely unmarked, running directly from the base of the Palace to the giant arched gate that opened to the port and the Rhoyne. From here, she could see the Merchant's District breathe, even smell its sweet foods. She almost jumped in excitement. Today was the market day! Daenerys thought gleefully, for the General of the city would return by nightfall, the merchants and sellers and hagglers all alive and ready to sell their wears and their goods to a city of more than a quarter million. The Madam only shook her head in amusement, finally catching up and taking Daenerys' hand as they passed beneath the gates of the Ring.
"How many mazdōna shall we buy today?" The Madam asks cheekily.
"Too many!" Daenerys replies, squealing as the square came into sight. It was her favourite pastry sweet, and she never ignored any opportunity to venture into the city and buy a dozen too many. Even Viserys enjoyed them, in secret however, for he would never ask for his own share, but was hardly reluctant when she brought them anyway. Daenerys felt a little twinge of sadness, wishing Viserys would have joined them. But her brother enjoyed his books and his business and barely spent a moment to explore the city in earnest. The paranoia still lingered above him, curtains shut and pale lilac eyes shooting and suspicious at every visitor and passing stranger.
"You are impatient today, aren't you little one," the Madam remarked with a crooked smile.
Daenerys huffed, "They will all be gone by the time we get there! I wish we had a carriage."
"And who shall pull it for us? Better those young legs of yours work, little Naerys, lest you forget how to use them." She somehow huffed even more, feeling strange to hear the name Naerys once more, but saying nothing of it.
"Come, give me your hand." The Madam must have quickly regretted the offer, for Daenerys sprung to life with a young girl's fervour, pulling her through large crowds, jumping over stray feet and sidestepping stray lizards and tomcats, all the way to the edge of the white market square. There, bakers setup shop upon a large cart carriage, so large you would need ten men to even dream of wheeling it. It was decorated in long overlapping banners from each free city; each banner adorned in silver and iron pins for all the towns in between. There were no signs, for every spare compartment and inch of space was stacked with half-a-hundred different pastries, breads, sourdoughs, cakes, biscuits and puddings. Steam funnelled from a makeshift oven, wide enough to fit Daenerys thrice over.
She groaned. The line was too long! The crowd around the cart was thick, each happy customer standing in circles and sitting in groups, or munching away on lone benches. After an agonising hour — though, Madam Lyria swore it was scarcely ten minutes — she'd reached the front of the cart, the line no shorter than when she'd started, but behind her at last. Beside a wide bench in the wheeled-kitchen, Daenerys could see three burly men serve customers beside her, all wearing thick twirled moustaches and shiny bald heads the same colour as their aprons.
Daenerys frowned. The baker, the main one that is, was a thin man with a large white hat called Cha Han. He was from Yi-Ti, Madam Lyria had said, with his shrill voice and strange accent and thin eyes and wide smile. He'd always have a spare treat for Daenerys, taking his time to serve her separately with no care for the crowds behind her. Today was no different, but it was not Cha Han who served her, nor any of the three moustached men. Today, at the edge of the cart carriage, leaning against a wooden beam was a strange looking man, with long shiny hair, straight as a needle, but coloured white on one half and deep red the other. His nose was strong and his skin was tanned. But his eyes were full of mirth, sweet and steely and odd.
"Go on, dear," Madam Lyria urged her, pushing her forward with her hands tight on her shoulders. A furry cat sat atop the blue roof of the carriage, not the tabby she was searching for, but still as large as a bobcat, grumpy looking, almost like an old man with his striped furs different shades of grey and white. Its long tail swung back and forth across the strange man's face.
"Sweet girl," he said, smirking faintly, "How can this man serve you today?" She opened her mouth but the words would not come. Why was he talking like that? He seemed to understand her confusion, leaning forward over the cart with a grin.
Madam Lyria spoke for her, "It is a busy day, too busy it seems for my dearest. Stolen the words right from her tongue," she snorted, pinching at Daenerys' cheek, "Two ludōna, fresh. Four mazdōna on the side and another two dozen to be sent to the Lady Mellario's manse, on the second floor of the city. You know the place?"
He nodded, throwing a quick glance toward Daenerys, "This man does, I will take but a moment." Daenerys counted every second until he returned, her stomach's ire growing greater each second.
A loud bell rung with his return, the cat hissing and huffing and prancing off to quieter corners. two tin dishes on his palm and wrist, cream cloths beneath them. He handed them to Daenerys' hungry hands, ringing another bell and winking at her as they shuffled to a small table behind the cart carriage.
And the ludōna was warm, Daenerys thought gleefully. Circular and golden, it was an ancient dish said to have been made in the days of the Old Rhoyne; layered of thin buttered dough and white cheeses, topped with baked pistachios and a sweet syrup soaked in rose water and sugar. The top had the perfect amount of crunch Daenerys loved, the layered filling melted and so warm she groaned in delight.
Madam Lyria enjoyed her own, but smacked Daenerys playfully to stop her from choking it down in under a minute. "Enjoy it," she said pointedly. Daenerys stuck her tongue out, blushing when she realised she'd yet to swallow her last bite.
When they'd finally finished, the strange man returned, free of his apron, but holding a small cloth that covered four small desserts.
"The rest, lovely girl." Daenerys accepted them hesitantly, Madam Lyria thanking him on their behalf.
She bit her tongue, "Where is Cha Han?"
The man collected their empty dishes, shrugging, "A baker's mother grew sick. The city of Jinqui called a man home. This man serves in his place."
"What's your name?"
He smiled cheekily, his hand over his chest, "Name? A man has many names. Each day he may take another."
What? Daenerys didn't understand, and Madam Lyria only watched curiously, "What about today?"
"Today this man's name is the baker. And what of a lovely girl? What name does she wear today?"
My name. She frowns. Daenerys, she thinks. "Naerys," she says, "Why do you talk funny?" The question comes with little thought.
"Naerys, that is hardly a polite question." Madam Lyria butt in, breaking the dessert into half pieces. It was another layered Rhoynish treat, made of a special dough and many different nuts, buttered with sugar and a cinnamon syrup, baked until crispy. Daenerys eyed the mazdōna, but clung to her courtesies as the man continued.
He bowed faintly, "A man takes no offence. In the Free City of Lorath, all men and women speak as a man does. If the lovely Naerys were born there, a girl would know."
"Sorry," she replied abashed.
He waved away her concerns, "A man is happy to teach. Where did a girl grow, if not the cities of Volantis?"
"Tyrosh," Madam Lyria answers, her voice calm, but careful. Daenerys smiled politely and nodded. She could hardly remember Tyrosh, recalling the days upon the ocean and Viserys' endless complaints more than the city itself. Its walls had been painted a glittering orange by the setting sun, and she could hear the crashing of the waves against the fortress city. She remembered dyed beards and strange hats and hairs, but more viscerally, she remembered Viserys' desperation and paranoia, never remaining on a single street long enough to recall any stone.
"Ah. This man knows Tyrosh. Would he be there, a man may run into a girl once more, selling pastries by the sea side," he smiles faintly once more, placing an silver coin for the baker's order in Madam Lyria's hand, before vanishing back into the cart carriage. Daenerys frowned. That was odd.
"Eat your food," Madam Lyria said, pushing the cloth forward. Daenerys giggled, biting away hungrily as her fingers grew sticky from the syrup, licking at them as the Madam shook her head amusedly. She called over a tea peddler with a long moustache that fell well past his chin, but thin and grey, haggling the man for a small clay cup of hot rosemary and sage, paying perhaps a coined honour too much. She even threw him a silver honour for the cup as a keepsake, and it was hardly even that pretty! The Madam only scrunched her nose and stuck her tongue out like a little girl, claiming she liked it and that was all that mattered.
Down towards the port, a loud horn rang once as the crowd seemed to cheer, a large swathe of people rolling like a river rainbow across the White Road. Hair and dresses and hats and shields and beards like a draper's fantasy, blotched across white paved streets. It was such a marvellous thing! Like a gemstone mine come alive, or the flowers of the Madam's garden worn by a thousand different people in a thousand different ways. From the port, a troupe of mummers rolled through the streets, flailing their hands in small dances and throwing treats into crowds. One of them had a beard braided so long, the ends were wrapped in sewn cloth as it dragged on the ground in front of him! Another woman had ears with enormous discs in them, as far down as her shoulders at least, the men behind her all painted in the oddest shades of violet, indigo and green with circular symbols and silver piercings across their faces.
"Look!" Daenerys tugged at the Madam's dress softly, unable to look away from the dazzling assortment of the strangest people she'd ever seen, stranger than Tyrosh!Every mummer was stark against every dancer. But it made her think of the baker's queer look, the little glint in his eye that seemed almost pale, but sparkling, as if there was another person behind him. She frowned, Viserys' tale of ancient maze makers ringing through he ears.
"Is Moraq from Lorath?" She asked Madam Lyria, "Is that why he speaks so strange?"
The older woman snorted, "Moraq is from Moraq, my dear. A great island east of the shores of Qarth. He once told me his mother loved their home so much, she named her son for its forests and hills and jade-coloured waters." She sipped her
"He is hardly around in these quiet days. But corner him, the man is a two-faced rotten liar when he tells the world he cares little for stories. Gods, what was that tale… of golden grass. Oh, yes, you will like this one. Well past the eastern shore, Great Moraq has these flowing fields of simply… grass for leagues upon leagues. But no ordinary grass, no, no. Taller than I, as gold as melted jewels, glossy and shining, oh, the illustrations must be an injustice. The sprout so high, but soft, like silk brushing against you. Imagine that flowery velvet I gifted you a week past, wrapped so gently around you as you frolic." It sounded magical. "I hear the men are very tall, too," Madam Lyria adds, chuckling to herself.
"Wouldn't you get lost?"
"Oh, yes. I can imagine. I will show you when we return home. In the grass fields, there are these tall, tall creatures with long necks and spindly legs, with these protruding mouths that look awfully similar to horses. You recall Moraq's dagger?" Daenerys nodded. His dagger was made of a deep yellow skin, blotched with furry browns like a giant leopard, "It is made from the same beast. Sacred, given in gift only. They have these fat flat horns that poke from their head. In older times, they say the creature wished to eat the tallest trees, and laugh above the tallest grasses. And one day, even reach to kiss the stars themselves. So the Gods granted them their wish, so they would learn that such a gift was only for the birds and the clouds above. So Moraq says, at least." She finished with a toast of her tea and a shrug, her story bouncing in Daenerys' head, baked sweets bouncing from her hands to her mouth.
A stranger appeared before them, draped in fine maroon silks with little falling crystals bordering every the entire bodice, a small scroll tied with a white ribbon in hand, "Madam of Lyria?" She asked, her face covered in a dark shawl, the black ink of an elephant's trunk peaking through with her sharp black eyes and strong nose
"Yes?"
"My Mistress Vaelaros bids you well. She has come to the Honeycomb and asks you attend to her." The Madam read the scroll quickly, smiling gently with a roll of her eyes.
"Ha. Asks. That woman. Now?" She asks to the stranger, a slave, Daenerys realised. Scarcely an inch taller than Daenerys, perhaps even the same age. Her eyes watched her intently, curiously, little pits of longing and pity and bitterness creeping through that left Daenerys shifting uncomfortable beneath her gaze. There were few children that were not unmarked, she had noticed quickly in their excursions in the city. Few children at all, rare in the Merchant's District and rarer in the Ivory Ring, but teeming behind every corner, crevice and compartment in the bottom slums, or even in the great temple of fire where priests and priestesses welcomed them openly.
She frowned, looking around properly. The shackled ones were teeming in numbers, riddled throughout the streets. But draped in their master's silks, adorned in their master's colours and their master's symbols. Fine clothing, soft, expensive, half of them covering the iron cuffs that were moulded into their wrists or their necks. If not for the streaking ink across their faces, it was almost as if they were master's themselves. In the stories, Viserys had talked of slaves as if they were animals, chained and dirty with mud for clothes and grass for hair. It felt wrong. It felt sickening. But it felt even worse when she realised she hardly saw them, the coloured fabrics blended so perfectly into the crowds of thousands, into the city of many thousands more. Her stomach turned awkwardly, the syrup of the sweet soon turned sour, too strong and less satiating than before.
"It seems I have a visitor, my dear," the Madam said. Daenerys swallowed her frown. Madam Lyria was a popular woman. Each week she entertained another guest. An artisan, a noble, a sailor, a merchant, a magister, a commander. The list grew aplenty, and though Daenerys was rarely present, Viserys' anxieties lingered in her mind. Vaelaros most intensely, for such a name was only granted to the Old Blood, Viserys said. Lineages traced back to the dragonlords themselves, though petty and squabbling now, so he claimed.
"Oh."
"It shan't take too long. The house is even closed for the morning, I believe." Daenerys accepted begrudgingly, trailing along now, her steps slower and heavy. Madam Lyria was a talented seamstress, sewing even the most fantastical ideas Daenerys had imagined. Her work kept her sleepless through the night and tired in the mornings, the sparkle of a finished dress a greater reward than any gold coin. All from the manse, no less! Often, Daenerys would peer over her shoulder and ask a thousand questions and even dare to needle her own little projects, half of them ending with scrunched fabrics tossed aside with a huff, perhaps even a pricked finger. Though, she would never try to watch once the sun had long fallen, for Madam Lyria was prickly, and the moonlight seemed to drain her patience.
But "the house" was not a dressmaker's dream. It was the Madam's other work, the work that earned her the title Madam, Viserys had claimed with a sneer. "A brothel," Ayah had once put bluntly, amused at Daenerys' flushed, sickly face. The brothel was were men went to know other women, or even other men. She had hardly known what it meant, learning only through the drunkard chatter of streets and the angered remarks of Viserys. Sometimes, they even used the word fuck, which usually made her giggle, but here it was wrong. "Vulgar," the Madam said, but she hadn't seem annoyed, smiling at a thought Daenerys couldn't place. The men and women seemed to touch each other in the places that burned or should be kept hidden! They made fell sounds, loud and painful, with sweat and smells that were pungent and horrid. It made her skin itch and tingle and her face feel uncomfortably warm, but she did not know how to tell the Madam no, lest the woman grow cross.
The walk is a short one, the house situated at the height of the Merchant's District beneath the shadow of the Ring's walls. Madam Lyria hummed a gentle tune, still sipping from the cup, lukewarm and without steam. The… slave girl followed closely beside her, glancing at Daenerys. Daenerys wanted to tell her she was sorry, to ask her a thousand things about this life she didn't understand. She wanted to hold the girl's hand. She wanted her to go away.
"Has your mistress been in the city long?" Daenerys asked quietly. The girl only shook her head. "Does… do you, live here?" The girl did nothing this time, only watching Daenerys peculiarly, eyes slitted and untrusting.
"Are you one who serves?" She finally asked, barely even a whisper, in a crude Valyrian Daenerys only just caught. Daenerys shook her head awkwardly, suddenly anxious to speak. "Are you a master?" She asked again, slower with a drip of poison. Daenerys' eyebrows shoot up as she raises her hands defensively and shakes her head frantically. "No! No, never!" The girl says nothing more, walking ahead of the pair as Daenerys falls back to take the Madam's hand, squeezing tightly.
The word slave was a twisted thing here, across every tongue and tale. "To be taken in hand," was the meaning they claimed. But Daenerys found it old. It was not the same as a mother taking a daughter's hand in a market crowd, she mused. Not a lover taking his maiden's hand for a swirling dance, nor a father pulling his son's bloodied fingers up upon a battlefield. But this was the story the murals told, the mosaics and paintings and books and the master's themselves. Even the priests who tolled in the streets and fed the masses and spread herbs and medicines to every level of man alike. To serve was a righteous cause. To serve was a holy cause, ordained in fire and forged into iron.
The house was hardly even a house. Rather, it was a fat stone block, carved and curved and chiselled into wonderful shapes and statues and arched doorways. Thrice the size of the Madam's manse, built in an old rustic white stone that had a faded fresco of a flowery garden of pinks and blues and yellows and greens. In the centre above the large archway, mossy and draped in beaded vines, was a large stained glass window, as thick as Daenerys' wrist, coloured a pale rose with a woman naked and sprawled across a tree branch, with golden honey covering dripping down her body and covering her special parts. Daenerys looked away, fiddling with the blooming plants and flowers the covered the bottom of the house and wrapped up the walls into the ledges above, a beautifully bright green against faded pastels and sparkling whites.
Inside, the air was warm, almost hazy. The floors were amazingly soft with silk rugs, every walkway built with marbled white pillars surrounding a giant courtyard in the centre that opened to the sun above. A streaming fountain, velvet covered benches, even a great oak tree that crawled into the air, the branches rubbing against the the ledges above. Small wooden stools were placed around the tree with straw upturned baskets fastened tightly, a faint buzzing ringing from with them. Each room had a sliding door embroidered in different scenes, some too gross for Daenerys to even glance at, others pretty with gardens and forests. They walked right past them, empty and quiet, across the far end of the courtyard garden to a different room, built in a dark mahogany with long wooden and silver and gold beads covering the entrance as a poor door. She nearly tripped at the small steps leading into the room, caught by the slave girl who said nothing as she helped and nothing as Daenerys silently thanked her.
"Madam Lyria!" called a tall woman from inside, tanned a deep bronze with silver-blonde hair fighting with streaks of dark blacks and browns, her large eyes a pool of dark purples that seemed black. She greeted the Madam with a deep kiss on her lips, whispering something Daenerys missed. She wore a long shapeless dress woven in the pale decorated greys and whites of the Elephant clan, fastened at the sleeves by ivory cuffs and ivory bracelets, ivory rings across half her fingers, with ivory tusks carved small with Valyrian inscriptions hanging from her ears, a crescent-shaped headdress of the Volantene traditional style atop her head, etched with pearls, ivory and glinted gemstones. Daenerys could almost hear Viserys behind her. One of the few Old Blood, and brave it seems, to be touting her tusks in a tiger's jungle.
"Now who… is this?" Her full, wine red lips smiled at Daenerys, her dark eyebrows were furrowed in a curious lust, straight nose scrunched in study as she put her finger beneath Daenerys' chin, titling it up.
Madam Lyria put a steady hand upon her shoulder, "My daughter, Naerys." She says it with a smile, pulling Daenerys closer against her body.
"Another daughter. You seem to building yourself quite the army," the lady snorts, her gaze tracing Daenerys' body, lingering on her and eyes, "And look at her! By the Lord, are you certain you did not pluck her from the past? What a wonderful little mirror."
"My dear, this is the Lady Nyessa Vaelaros. An old friend."
"The word old is slander," she jests, sharing a curtsy between them, Daenerys' far less elegant, "Oh, look at you. How cute. If you are any bit like your mother here, you will no doubt grow to be beautiful, loyal, pragmatic, and a very large thorn in my side," The Madam faked offence, slapping at Lady Nyessa lightly. Daenerys only gave her blushing thanks with a tight lipped smile.
Lady Nyessa found a flagon of wine a tall cupboards beside them, brushing her fingers against it before silently gesturing to the slave girl to pour two glasses. Madam Lyria led them to a smaller room sunken into the ground, veiled by a circular beaded curtain painted with colours that drew the faint outline of a woman. With her chair and her drink, Lady Nyessa swirled the goblet with her legs crossed, watching Daenerys and Madam Lyria with a smirk. "Her father… is it…?" The woman asks questioningly, her brown half raised in amusement.
Madam Lyria snorts, shaking her head. "No. Thankfully. Though, he certainly tried."
"Hah, he will likely try again. It is abhorrently annoying that he is so…" Lady Nyessa huffs, biting her lip.
The Madam takes a goblet from the girl, "Persistent?"
The woman giggles, "I was going to say attractive, but I suppose that works just as well," she leans back into her soft chair, head hanging back, "If you hear from him, do tell him I wish to see my daughter, will you? Her letters are hardly enough."
"Vipers are difficult to catch," the Madam says.
"Harder to get rid of once their fangs have latched, believe me," Lady Nyessa mutters, "Did I tell you I had to force him away at sword point?"
"You did. Even the parts best left as keepsakes."
"Can you blame me? The minute details are the best parts? And they were… good details," Lady Nyessa retorts with a crooked smile, soon turned into a frown and sigh and a dejected look unbecoming of a lady, "Unfortunately, I cannot name this a social visit. Not entirely, at least."
Madam Lyria nodded sharply with a click of her tongue. She leaned down to poke Daenerys gently on her nose, taking her by the shoulder to lead her to the gardens outside. "Naerys, dear. It is a beautiful day. Enjoy the gardens, I will not take too long, I promise." Her dismissal was not as brash nor blunt as Viserys, but Daenerys found it hurt far more. She could steal only a glance or two more at the pair before the beads covered them, her clenched fists and red-flushed face leaving her she stomping off to sit beneath the oak tree.
It wasn't fair! Her scalp was set aflame, hot tears pricking at her eyes, palms rubbing them dry with a fury. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! All she wanted was to spend the day with the Madam. With this woman she was supposed to call… Mama! Mother! She wanted to pull the bark from this tree and rip the beads straight from the door, letting them roll on the floor in a frenzied mess. She wanted to smack away this other lady's hand every time it came close, so cold and powdered and unwanted! Unneeded! Instead, she huddled on the roots of the tree, shaking as her bit cheeks tasted blood and her palms stung from the edge of her nails. The faint buzzing of the benched baskets drew her from her tantrum, almost rustling as moved towards it slowly.
The slave girl was stood by the door like a stone statue, watching Daenerys intently.
"Do you know what they are?" Daenerys asked with an awkward smile. The girl said nothing, deep dark eyes flickering to the basket and back to her.
"Do you—" Is this my fault? She had to wonder. Ayah seemed to dislike Daenerys too, always cordial but almost grated by her presence. Is something wrong with me?
"Do… do you have any friends?" She turned away sharply, clenching her teeth hard in frustration. Why would she ask such a silly thing? Slaves do not have friends. They are tied to their masters. Daenerys could almost hear the clink of the cuff around the girl's skin. Ayah said little of her days in chains, but the hard stares given and the few stories told were enough. Callous, even in the quietest of moments. Cruel, even when freedom is by your fingertips. She mumbled her apologies and returned to the buzzing basket, ears blaring with an overwhelming ringing, wondering, hoping, that a sinkhole would consume her any second now.
"I would not touch that, little one," called a voice loudly from the bushes behind her. A short man came over, so pale she swore he might be a ghost, draped in emerald green silks with fancy green leaves embroidered across every inch, sipping on a warm tea, his hazel eyes glinted with amusement, floppy brown hair covering half his face. His accent was Lyseni and thick, but he spoke in Common, "You've such lovely skin. All those little stings, it'd be a shame to ruin it."
Daenerys stepped back quickly, hands raised, "Stings?"
He raised a brow, tapping at the basket gently, "Bees."
"Oh." That made sense. She shuffled her feet, looking around for the Madam, finding only the girl with a confused stare. Daenerys resisted the urge to smack herself in the forehead, standing by the tree, deciding she would be better placed with the mummer's in the market.
The man snorted, "What are you doing over there? Come on then, you might do well with a tour. Young girls seem to nest nicely in this place, more so with a mother's approval." Nest? But this was a brothel, a… whorehouse. She accepted his tour reluctantly, but declined his offered hand with a shrug.
"Your name?"
"Naerys," she mumbled. He took her through a long corridor with beautiful tapestries she did not look at adorned against every wall. The slave girl did not follow, and Daenerys was half-tempted to beg she did, finding each room they passed empty, peering through open doors quickly to find neatly lit rooms with large featherbeds and odd long items strapped to the walls and left on desks and small tables.
"Naerys. How quaint," he stopped in front of a large room, pungent smells of lavender and rosemary seeping through, his hand extended out to her, "Dandelion." Dandelion? Daenerys shook his hand, soft and powdered slightly. From here, she could spot the faint silhouette of dandelions sewn into his silks with golden threads. The Madam's manse had a flurry of dandelions growing wild from the small patches of dirt in the gardens and out the front. She used to pick at them and blow away its tiny little wisps, until they retaliated with a fury and left her with a stuffy nose.
"You'll find the Madam's hourglass runs slower than the rest of the city. That conversation? With that woman? Ha. You'd do with some better entertainment than a tree and a slave. I am certain the girls will adore you." She frowned deeply, peering behind him slightly to see what lay behind. He opened the door with a slam, chuckling at her displeasure, "Look at you, such a young thing yearning for a wrinkle well before your saggy days. Worry less. The girls, they are harmless. Otherwise I'd I've hung myself from that tree you're so fond of." He paused, rolling his lips for a moment, "Ah, is that too grim? Do forgive my mouth. I am not used to apologising for it."
She smiled quickly, half-listening and understanding even less. The room behind him was modest, the walls painted in beautiful murals of ponds, beaches and flowery fields, leather seats and chaises and tall wardrobes scattered across. Vines and beads hung from dressing screens, candles lit and burning strongly. A blonde woman hung her hair over the edge of a seat, legs raised upon another, smiling at Daenerys with an upside-down frown, brown eyes as dark as her silk robes. Another decorated her face with pink-rose powders in front of a looking mirror, sparing only a short look for Daenerys, her bright yellow dress pooled on the floor around her. Dandelion smiled tightly, leading her to an empty seat which she declined, staring at a woman moaning from a steaming hot bath across the room, hands draped over the edges, golden bracelets and rings dripping wet.
"Fresh meat?" called the powdered woman, her midnight black hair obscuring her face, accent quick and odd in the Common Tongue, "Well wishes to any fool who thinks a girl like that will seduce a priest."
"A priestess?" Dandelion asks with a smirk.
She snorts, "You, Dandelion, have never seen the underside of their red robes. And you never will. Not an ounce of charm, or courage, I say."
He shrugs, "The courageous burn and the cowards live."
"I hear they're to put on a play for our Lord," the blonde woman murmurs, sitting up to look at Daenerys warmly.
"A play? Oh. Will they send the mummers our way?"
"It is not the mummer's we want," says the powdered woman.
The blonde woman scoffed, "You are upsetting the poor girl with your politics, Lotus. Have some manners." Lotus? They were all named for flowers, she realised. Lotus was from the east! They bloomed from the muds and river waters, opening and closing with the sun and moon, splayed in beautiful colours of white and dark reds and sunset pinks. In Yi-Ti, the emperors wore the lotus in joyous communions of birth and grievous commemorations of death. Her brows furrowed, in these same stories of the Madam's books, the stories she warned Daenerys not to read, the water demons of Yi-Ti swam beneath the lotus, luring prey with scents of mist and flowery lust, horrors lurking beneath the still waters.
Lotus points at Daenerys, "I am dutiful to the task her mother set for us. Seducing nobles is hard enough. But religious fanatics?" She says with snark, lying on her side upon a long chaise. "Do you want a drink, girl? Tell us a tale, sing us a song," Daenerys said nothing, "Did your mother not teach you to be less boring?" Daenerys frowned. I do not like you, she wished to say, but held her tongue wisely, plopping down on a leather settee with her legs tucked and arms crossed.
The blonde woman grinned, "You are the Madam's daughter?"
"Yes."
"It is quite obvious. Your hair is lovely," she took her own hair to one side, sitting beside Daenerys and running her hands through her golden waves, "Your locks curl wonderfully. I am rightfully jealous." She look a stray curl from Daenerys' side and wrapped it around her finger, tugging very gently as Daenerys watched with trepidation.
"Oils," she replied. They smelled strong, but Daenerys kept to her routine rigorously, washing her hair with the new oils the Madam had bought from the Summer Isles at least thrice a moon. It kept the dark of her hair darker, blacker, less need for constant dyes, old oddities in the looking mirror fading away with each passing day. It had been sad, at first, and she still kept the silver blonde clumps deep in her drawers, but found she looked at them far less.
"Oh?"
Daenerys nodded, "Made from a special bean, Mad— Mama said. I leave them in my scalp for at least a day."
"Well cared for! I could learn a thing or two from you," she hummed, "Guess my name." Daenerys sat up, pouting her lips as she searched across the woman's dark robes for a hint, a thousand different flowers embroidered in, half of which she did not know. Hmph! Her hair was a golden blonde, her eyes dark. But sunflowers were yellow, not gold. And lilies came in a hundred colours too many. Daffodils only grew in the west. Tulips…
Oh! "Marigold? No! Uh, buttercup," she answered eagerly.
The woman deflated slightly, "Rose. For the hair. Unoriginal, I know. Buttercup is far better," she turned Dandelion, "Can you imagine? Why'd I not think of that." Daenerys giggled quietly. Rose was a boring name. Sheleaned back, pointing at the other women, "That charming woman is Lotus, named for the river plants of her village, and Ivy… named for the Naathi florals."
Lotus scoffed, shining her nails in a dark paste that smelt like old beeswax. The woman in the bath, Ivy, was silent, but turned her golden gleaming eyes to watch them. Dandelion seemed uninterested, picking grapes from a branch and tossing them into his mouth whole.
"Why do they call you Dandelion?" She asked.
He raised an amused brow, leaning forward, "Why do they call you Naerys?" That was a dangerous question, she realised, her eyes glancing to each of their eyes. Each of them wore a different name and a different face with it. She did not know the slave girl's name. She did not know Madam Lyria's true name. Even the baker with the strange hair and stranger accent coveted his name. A name was a secret the tongue kept tightly sealed. Some as simple as a flower, some as perilous as a Queen.
"Take a guess. He looks like a dandy, and fucks like a lion," Ivy called, water flowing on the floors as the stretched her muscles wide, all while naked, before wrapping a thin silk cloth tightly around her body. Daenerys blushed. Madam Lyria was always very modest and private. Ayah seemed to value skin more than life, covered completely in decorated cloths and scarves much like the slave girl outside. She averted her eyes, even if the others did not, finding her thumbs and painted nails a safer sight.
It offended the dark skinned woman deeply. "Oh, we've a newcomer with sensibilities. What do you know about brothels, girl? Your mother is the Madam, no? She ever care to ordain you in our holy art?" Daenerys kept her silence.
She jumped as the woman clicked her fingers in her face, "Were you born with your mouth sewn shut?"
"No," Daenerys replied quietly.
"Then answer."
Daenerys looked to the others, their gazes all shy. "Mama said nothing."
The cruel woman shook her head, "Nothing. You've not a clue as to the game and gamble your mother plays? Well then, best we teach you. You are more than a pretty face, no? It would poor courtesy to mingle with your mother's rabble and not spare half an ear for them."
Daenerys shifted awkwardly, scratching at her arms. She didn't think they were rabble. That was rude.
"If you mother neglected your education, then take this for a lesson, girl. Why do whores work?" The woman asked, sitting across from her, chin in hand, staring at her unblinking.
Daenerys shrugged. "Gold?"
"Gold? Ha! There are many masks men can wear to earn a petty honour. Do we toll our bodies in empty service only for coin? How fickle. We are not mummers, nor minstrels, nor a master. It's a whores' game we play, and we start younger than even you. Tell me, how old are you, girl?"
"Eight." Only recently. She'd spent her entire eighth nameday at the manse, at her own request. The Madam had braided her hair, brushed and oiled and washed prior. She'd run to the markets to order a platter of treats and a small cake despite Daenerys' protests, cooking the warmest stews Daenerys loved. Viserys had read to her the stories of their family, without a single frown or bitter remark! He'd even complimented her dress, and kissed her sweetly on her forehead. It had been a good day. She could only hope for a thousand more.
Ivy snorted. "Eight? I've seen little boys with breasts heavier than yours."
"Ivy!" The blonde woman cried.
"She's flatter than the stone," Ivy said, laughing while stomping her foot against the floors. Daenerys could feel her skin itch terribly as goosebumps rolled over her in a storm of warm embarrassment and cold cruelty. But her flushed face and wet eyes only fuelled the woman further, her cold eyes keeping Daenerys still through her stare, "Look at that, I'd not a clue Madam Lyria could birth such a prude. You should do better than to be so offended. Breasts are natural! Round… soft. Men may spare half a stare for a medal, but these?" Daenerys looked away as the woman unwrapped the silk from her chest, letting her heavy chest hang freely. She laughed at Daenerys' dismay, moving closer as she squeezed them tightly, "Do you want to hold them? They don't bite. Oh… I used to spend my evenings gathered around those braziers, praying to the Lord to make them round, and firm. Supple. I could teach you to fill a man's hunger. In a few years, of course. Even the tasteless will not spare a glance for a thing as thin as you."
Rose stood up, throwing the silk cloth back at the other woman, "No manners. I have seen little boys with better brains than yours. You would look and serve better tongueless."
"Sit down!" hissed Lotus.
The dark woman laughed softly, brushing her finger across the woman's face, resting it on her lips to silence her, "Your tongue is as poisoned as mine. She brought her here to learn, no? Learning is hard. Tough. We know as well as each other how far naïveté will take us in this world. A woman's name is woe, but what of a flower? You pay for its nectar, not its name and its worries." Her gaze falls on Daenerys again, but this time with pity. "Nothing, truly? Not a word for why she keeps a whore's wisdom? Not a word for why we speak Common? You say Madam and believe it is but a title? Are the mummers the only ones that wear masks? Or do mothers do as well?"
"Leave her—"
She snickered, "Did she even tell her what those bees are for? The venom is potent. It can turn a sausage to steel. Do you understand, girl?"
Dandelion stood up, Daenerys' heart bouncing as he opened the door wide, "You frighten the girl with your frivolity. Leave her alone."
"Are you a whore or a wetnurse? She wanted to know our names. To know this place. I am simply informing her. How can you play in a house, a city, a life like this if you do not even know the game?" She takes Daenerys' face in her hands, holding tight as Daenerys squirms and squeals, "A honeycomb serves secrets sweeter than any other. Many nectars here. A lick of wine, a warm cunt to grip, a tit to suck. Slather it any way you wish, men can hide no secrets naked. And a whore's eye sees much. This one learned that well, and this one learned that true. Now this one's name is Ivy, be glad that this one was not you." Daenerys smacked the woman away, rushing for the door as the tears began to swell and trail on the floors behind her. "That's your mother's game, girl," the evil, stupid horrible woman called after her, "Secrets. For the longest time, you were one of them too."
She ran with her palms pressing her ears deep into her skull, salt upon her lips and cheeks aflame. I hate this place! I hate these people! She wanted to tear those stupid sliding doors down and scream into the stupid faces of those stupid people until they cried and squirmed. But she had no claws, nor could she breathe any fire. All she could do was cry like a stupid little girl and complain to the Madam. Why would she bring me here? Surely she would have known how horrible those women were? The answer could only be yes, the pit in her stomach and hole in her chest stabbing sharp. Would her real mother have brought her to a place like this? She was a Queen, a dragon. What does it matter? She is dead. Dead, dead, dead! Her blood left somewhere in the pink of Daenerys' flesh and the cold of Viserys' blame.
Her hair itched terribly, like bugs scuttling beneath her skin and inside her skull. She pulled at it hard, the pain making her tears stronger, the black strands running between her fingers enraging her. All the little secrets piling up. Why could no one be honest? But they were. That horrible woman and her words echoing loudly. House of secrets, city of lies, mirror of shame. All she could hear was the name Naerys fluttering in the air, cackling with the wind. She hated this game. She hated this game. And her anger led her to the Madam's rooms once more, seething as the beads swayed slowly with more secrets.
Their voices were sharp, carried loudly in ripples of anger from the Lady Nyessa's spitting face. Danerys breathed deeply, and then again, and again, and four times more, calming herself before poking her head around the beaded curtain, careful to keep half her face obscured. She had never done something so bold, so brash, the slave girl hovering behind with a muted stare.
"—when a fear-mongerer's sage counsel outweighs his own family! It is outrageous, foolish! But I cannot dare utter such profanity in his face," cried Lady Nyessa, her headdress strewn across the seats, crooked, ivory stones cracked.
"Your grandfather is prickly," the Madam replied, sipping at her wine gently.
Lady Nyessa snorts bitterly, pouring herself another goblet of wine before taking it one go, far more dishevelled than before, "Prickly. Prickly! Blind, bow-legged and rat-faced, and yet he thinks his words carry weight in the enclave. I want to piss in his wine." The Madam comes to console her, rubbing her shoulders. But the Lady pushed her away sharply, grunting as her wine spilled across the bottom of her dress. "Blind, Lyria. Blind! Enamoured so foolishly by the Triarch's stripes. Malaquo Maegyr is no puppet-master. He has three, three priestesses' in his personal counsel. And yet, the Elephant's search for a plot to unravel as if it were some great mystery. And now… now my grandfather invites the same conniving zealots into our home."
"The wedding came as a shock," the Madam murmured.
"Shock, yes, what a surprise. Parquello Vaelaros, Elephant candidate, and he remarries to a fire worshipping fanatic. Not a soul saw this scheme? Hm?" She laughs sarcastically, throwing her goblet aside and falling into the chairs. Daenerys frowned. The woman was almost melting onto the floors, unravelling like the silk yarns of the Madam's workshop.
"I did not attend that communion, did you know? A sudden… illness took me. I should have… yes. If only to take her by the teats, flog her and then throw her from the Black Walls. Let that tattooed mongrel Benerro have her hide. It is a divine jest, Lyria. Some cruel jape the Fourteen have deemed I enact against my will. A blind man cannot see the colour of his woman's robes, so why should he care?" She sits up, breathing deeply as her long enamelled nails pierced her temples, quiet with a venom that made Daenerys shudder, "He does not listen to us any longer. My sister, my brother, my uncle! That… bitch! She whispers poisons in his ear, caressing his lap and his cock and pretending she is but a free-spirit. Am I some accursed troubadour, Lyria? Do I sing the same song until madness?" Her voice roses again, shrieking, "Half the magisters in Myr have taken a red priestess in counsel! Vaelorys Maegyr takes one for a concubine, Belicho Staegone the same. But if I refute the word coincidence, my grandfather will name me naysayer and charlatan."
Elephants? Red Priestesses? The woman's ramblings made little sense as she continued, Daenerys' patience wearing thin. She looked back to find the slave girl standing even closer, barely two inches apart, worried and weary.
"—word travels, I hear they have been reached the Seven Kingdoms of west," the Madam said, packing away the empty bottles of wine into a large cupboard close to the door. Daenerys scuttled away for a moment, cursing the creaking of the floor, but exhaling with relief as they continued.
"You hear, yes."
"The General will return by sundown with his red-robed compassions, and my girls will learn more."
Lady Nyessa scoffed, "It starts with one. It starts with one. Like weeds, Lyria. I believe in you, in Lady Mellario… and your girls. But it is a fruitless task. Carnal pleasures… I swear, beneath their red robes they are sculpted like the gods and goddesses of the Summer Isles. And yet their cocks and cunts will only glisten for their Lord. Perhaps they spurt sermons when they finish. Or fire, or some other—"
Daenerys moved the beads aside to finally enter and leave this place. But a tight hand grabbed her first, pulling her back hard into the open gardens as she squealed quietly.
"No," the slave girl said, sharply, swiftly. Without her hand on her arm, Daenerys would have sworn she imagined the girl speak. She let go, returning to the edge of the door, as still as stone, words level. "Mistress does not like to be interrupted." But you let me listen? Her eyes did not blink, not once, locked with Daenerys who huffed but relented, pacing between the gardens and the doors.
What were they talking about? Why did the Madam ruin their day to talk about religion? It annoyed her ceaselessly, sitting for supper, stags and wolves and vipers thrown across the table in hushed whispers she could not hear, in hidden words she could not decipher. They always excluded her. "Worry not, little one," they said. "Eat your food," they said. "Be quiet, sister," they said. Why? In the stories under the covers of her brother's featherbed or in the morning light of the gardens, Daenerys had learned that Daeron the Young Dragon had been four-and-ten in his conquest of Dorne. His father, Aegon the Third, had been ten when he sat the throne! Ten! There was little difference between eight and four-and-ten, and even less between eight and ten. She was a dragon! Like Daeron! Like Viserys! But they treated her like some stupid little girl. But I am a little girl, her mind said in whispers of betrayal, and it only made her angrier.
The slave girl watched her fury from afar, soundless with her hands tight by her waist. A twinge of shame fell over Daenerys, for she wondered if the slave girl had a mother to miss, a protector to complain of, even a day to cherish or to ruin. Frowning, Daenerys dug her fingers beneath her nails, digging out any grime absently and biting her lips tightly. She watched the girl avoid her look, sitting gently on the grass of the courtyard, leaves gently falling, branches gently swaying. Talk to her, her mind implored. But what would she say?
The same foolish question, perhaps. "What's your name?" Daenerys asked the girl. She said nothing, looking at Daenerys like she was some attraction in a mummer's play. It made her feel small and impatient.
"Tell me your name. I don't like calling people nothing," Daenerys huffed, turning her eyes to the oak tree, whispering her pleas, "Names mean something. Tell me yours, please."
"This one has no name," the girl says after a long pause, her voice even. Daenerys jumps at the sound, confused.
"Everyone has a name."
"Everyone is not everyone," the girl replies, her voice wavering, "Not this one."
This one, the girl said. This one, the dark woman said. A name without a name. "No better than a number. No better than a thing," Ayah had said in hatred. Even animals had names. Even monsters.
"I'm… I'm sorry." The silence took them both again, Daenerys mulling her words and her trespasses and the little insults she realised she had given. Ignorance or malice, did it matter which one? The Madam dismissed her in caution, not cruelty. She found the girl avoiding her again. But it hurt no less, no.
"The Madam is always keeping secrets," she murmured. I am one of them too, that woman had said. She came close to the girl, offering her hands a moment before realising the mistake, tucking them behind her back tightly. "If… if I tell you a secret, will you tell me one as well?" Daenerys searched the girl's eyes frantically, tracing the flecks of brown in dark pools, the light shining with a glimmer of trepidation, with a glimmer of hope. Eventually, the girl nodded. Only once, sharply, but hard to miss.
Daenerys swallowed deeply, sweating ever so slightly, unable to keep her legs and her fingers still. "My name isn't Naerys. It's…" she breathed deeply, "Daenerys. Targaryen." She wanted to hide, run, watch the door to this house and the listen to the marching of knives in the streets and discover if the world had truly disappeared. It did not, and neither did the girl, still as stone but with eyes squinted. Not in shock, but confusion.
"Do… do you know what that means?" Do I? The girl shook her head, raising her hands slowly to the covering wrapped tightly around her face. She stopped, hands shaking, and Daenerys smiled, stepping back as she pulled the covering down to reveal her face. It was… young. Soft. With thin, dark lips, and two moles on the edge of her cheek. Daenerys' gaze traced the edges of the black ivory inked into the folds of her skin. It was glaring, darker than any burn but brighter than any star. How had she ever dared to never notice it? How could she be so blind? When Daenerys finds the girl's eyes again, they are wet. Is it fear? Or is it courage? The Madam will say it is the same, that the two cannot live without another. And Daenerys believed her, somehow. She offered her hands now, and the girl took them eagerly, hands cold entwined with hands warm.
"I will tell you two," the girl whispered, "One for the first, Daenerys. One for the second, Targaryen." Daenerys nodded, squeezing her hands gently. "My Mistress plays with secrets. They are worth more than any gold honour. This one knows it well," she open Daenerys' palm, drawing a circle again and again, "the elephant chases the tiger's tail, the tiger the elephant's. This is the story the minstrels sing, the histories the heralds write. But this one knows it false. The tiger wears an elephant's tusks, and his fortune is ivory, his prey is his family's stripes. But in the shadows of their game, our shackles come undone. He… He will free us. This one knows it true. That is the first," she draws a circle around her heart, again and again, "Secret. Secret… this one's secret is that she dreams. That He will come. That He will free us."
"He?"
"He. Her. Them. This one hears much. The Breaker. The Burner. Hiding in the waves of the Rhoyne, in the ruins of our old places and our old names. The General claims his hide, and has promised his blood. But this one knows it false. He lives, He waits. They say He was one of us. They say He will kill the masters. So this one hopes in silence. That is the second," she places her finger soft against her lips, and leans so close Daenerys can feel her warm breath, "Secret. Secret… this one's secret is that she dreams. Of a name, Moirai, never to hide again."
Moirai, such a pretty name. Daenerys did not understand this "breaker," nor if he was even real. But it didn't matter, no. The girl— Moirai, did not understand her either, but she did, in a way. And Daenerys, her, in another way. She nodded again and again like a fool, rubbing the sweat and away and breathing in and out a dozen times, smiling and frowning and everything in between.
"Friend?" Slave girls had no friend, that she knew. But Moirai could.
"This is the third. Secret… secret, friend." She points to Daenerys' face, "Naerys," she says, pointing again to her heart, "Daenerys," she whispers. Her eyes are wet, but her face is steel, her coverings returned.
Daenerys nods, finally understanding, repeating the same gesture. "This one," she says, "Moirai," she whispers. Moirai smiles beneath the scarf. Daenerys could tell by the way her eyes squinted and the lines around them deepened, and so she smiled back, even as the tears fell slowly, even as Moirai brushed them away quickly, returning to her post, and Daenerys the tree.
The Madam cut through soon after. "Behaving, I hope?" She jested.
Daenerys did not share her smiles, tugging at her hand tightly, "Can we go? Please."
Madam Lyria nodded slowly, frowning, turning back to meet the Lady Nyessa, dishevelled but with her headdress and jewels returned, albeit crooked and cracked, goblet in hand. She did not seem the good noble lady. Her name seemed to carry her better than her own bones.
"The minstrels and mummers will be teeming. Care to join us?" The Madam asked.
I do not want her to come, Daenerys thought. "No," she whispered furiously, the Madam squeezing her hand in acknowledgement.
"Perhaps another time," Lady Nyessa says, moaning lightly, "That Naathi woman… with the amber eyes and the long fingers. Is she…?" She makes a pouty face Daenerys doesn't understand, leaning against the door frame, the beads falling upon her shoulder and head.
The Madam snorts, "I believe so. Take a gander, and try to be quick. I do have a business to run."
"No promises," she replies with a half-smirk, walking slowly with her hips swaying to the main rooms, goblet in hand. Moirai follows wordlessly, bringing her hand over her heart for a moment. She waved back, the Madam watching intently.
"I want to go," Daenerys said as they turned the corner, "Now. And I do not wish to return here ever again." Madam Lyria pursed her lips tightly, but remained wordless, the walk to the White Road quiet.
The festivities were endless. Illusionists in long top hats with braided beards rolled in groups, playing cheap party tricks that earned them silver honours and even a bearing from disgruntled watchers. Musicians carried lyres and harps and drums, one boy with a fiddle in one hand and flute the other. By the market where the bakery had been, two men carried at least a dozen swords as tall as Daenerys by their nose! Balanced perfectly, one of them so short and stunted, he walked on stilts to reach the other's height. Another man wore colours as orange as the glowing sunset overhead, taking a sword from his belt and swallowing it from tip to hilt! The men and women around seemed to laugh at that one, though to Daenerys it seemed more terrifying than anything else.
"How wonderful," The Madam cheered, clapping quietly at all the little acts. Daenerys joined in, but felt her mood soiled.
Two women had setup shop with puppets, each woollen man and woman embroidered in flowers, lilies, sunflowers, even dandelions and roses. The crowd threw copper honours to the stage as eastern lightcrackers burst into the sky in a thousand colours of the rainbow. The colours seemed a lure, the puppets laughing and dancing in flowery smiles. Mummers cartwheeled from the port in droves, dancing and singing in high tones of Valyrian in songs she had never heard and could hardly understand, her eyes transfixed on their faces. Masks made of painted wood of sewn leather or waxed leaves stared back, shaded the deepest pits of black and white, the most blinding beacons of white, of blue and red and pinks and yellows. Some with their eyes covered, others with their eyes peeking through like the baker. Some with smiles etched in, others with confused looks and grins and snarls and leers and even frowns to match her own.
Daenerys pressed her body tight against the Madam, "Do you wear a mask?" She had never felt so warm inside, her blood almost boiling as her ears flushed with heat. It was a rude question, maybe, for the woman was taken aback, but composed herself quickly, smiling as a burly man offered overfilled mugs of ale from a great barrel he carried on his stomach passed by. She denied him gently, taking Daenerys' hand tightly.
"The girls?" She asks, and Daenerys nods.
"I often forget how overzealous they can be. All these years and I cannot teach a wh— people manners." She seemed angry, frustrated, but kept her chin high and away from Daenerys as they sifted through the crowds to a tall building, open at the roof. The Madam threw the guardsman a silver honour and muttered into his ear, passing through steep stone stairs, Daenerys barely able to keep up, scraping her shin silently at the top step. They found small seats, old and broken slightly, slumped against the rampart. From here, they could see the port and the White Road flowing up to the Great Palace.
"What did they say?" Madam Lyria asked.
Daenerys ignored her. "I don't like her."
The woman's head snapped to hers, eyes squinted but face even. Her tongue ran against her teeth and poked it through her sharp cheeks, "We will be seeing more of her, unfortunately. She has invited us to the General's exhibition, as I and the Lady Mellario expected." Daenerys knew little of Lady Mellario, and cared even less for her now.
"I don't like her." She repeated.
"You have never been so short with me. With anyone. Do not be so alight, Naerys," Daenerys bristled at the name, "I am here to listen, to protect you."
"You didn't answer my question," she murmurs.
The Madam sighed, turning away. The lightcrackers enveloped the sky, the glisten of a dark sky glimmering with a million stars too many streaming through.
"We all wear masks, my dear," the woman finally says, toying with the ends of her sleeves. She sighed again, taking Daenerys' hands and leaning close to her face, "I gave you one to wear as well."
"You know what is beneath mine. But… what about yours?" I don't even know your name. She kicked at a pebble beneath her seat. Why did it make her so sad?
Perhaps it made the Madam sad as well, for her voice was lined in an old longing, melancholy floating overhead like dark clouds, her thumb tracing Daenerys' palm absently. "You are a clever girl. I fear it may be the death of me." They said nothing else, watching the festival with hands intertwined.
Soon the fire breathers grew cold, and the illusionists grew still. Merchants sold their goods and waited on the edges of the White Road. Courtiers silently peddled in the shadows of alleyways, and the slaves knelt in rows of obedience. More than a hundred braziers burned beneath the night sky, the road glittering in the flickering flames, a hundred heralds waiting on pulpits. A procession moved in great waves from the port, two great black Volantene galleons shadowing their entrance. Lines of dark men, coloured like ebony, marched onto the road, their ears stretched wide with golden discs, shirtless and carved with a master's chain. Some held great horns of crimson, a commanding song echoing against city streets, deep and dark. The rest carried golden mallets and drums that hung from their muscled shoulders, and banners that flew roaring tigers with manes of endless fire.
As they passed the the market square, Daenerys spotted cloth dragons as large as longships held by half-a-hundred mummers. Slaved men pushed a wheeled cage, gilded on black iron and gold bars. A great golden lion lay dead, pierced and bleeding and withered to a pale yellow, still shackled at its feet and neck. A tall, bearded man passed through the centre of the procession, his words echoed by each of the heralds. His beard shined with silver hues, his robes long and black, a large golden collar piece worn from the edges of his collarbones to the rise of his neck. Gemstones and blinding symbols hung from his neck, his teeth adorned with the same finery.
"And so forth we gather upon the bastions of our eternal ancestors, ready and eager, for the greatest among us returns. In his hands, the blades of victory, and the lives of the fallen evil. I stand before you, as Herald of the White City, loyal servant to the Old Blood. The great city welcomes the return of its mighty son, the Supreme General Vaelorys, blood of Maegyr, the Tiger's Claw!" Roars of triumph cry in the wind, the chant of "Maegyr" echoing loud. And the General was a man to be feared. For his stature was great, standing taller and larger than any man Daenerys had ever seen, even Moraq. His armour was rippled with black scaled plates like midnight smoke, edged in red gold with whorls of ancient glyphs and carved symbols. His chainmail and greatsword was still slick with blood, his silver-grey hair flowing past his bulky cleft jaw, crooked nose, and eyes riddled with malice. She squeezed the Madam's hand tight, breathing deeply as a coldness swept through her.
Behind him, flames of red fell upon the road. Some wore maroon leather bound dresses, hair freely flowing, framing their delicate heart-shaped faces and fiery tattoos freely. The decadent amongst them wore jewellery finer than Daenerys had ever seen, their long crimson cloaks flowing like molten rock upon stone. They chanted an old story, repeated in the herald's perfect harmonies. Of the "shadow chaser." Of the "hero," with a name as old as the Asshai'i, written into tomes older than Valyria. Of a great journey, echoed in the General's hand.
The priestesses behind carried chains and cuffs and shackles each stained in dark blood, throwing them to the streets with an echoing clank. "See these shackles, see this darkness," they cry, "innocents, murdered by a betrayer, murdered by a monster. For thirty days, for thirty nights, our General did languish, his quest for this evil tempered by the waters of River Rhoyne, his quest befallen with the perils of the terrible night, but lit by the fires of his great belief." The braziers across flared like dragon's breath, all in one swift motion, onlookers whispering in trepidation, in delight, in shock.
The words seem to come alive from their tongues, red lips smiling, red eyes gleaming, red heralds echoing, spoken by many dozen in the voice of one, "But still, his quest remained heavy. And though his blade of quick triumph lay shattered, his resolve remained ever strong. The beasts come forth, snarling, driven by the destruction of a betrayer's wish; a night that never ends, of a cold that is cruel. And so, for fifty days, and fifty nights, this hero did temper his quest once more. See his victory that is owed to his blade. To his honest heart, to his sacred soul." Behind the red, came many hundred slaves, heads bowed in earnest honouring, muttering their mercies and their gratitude with their hands opened, silks draped from crown to heel to hide the shackles' shine.
Daenerys frowned, biting her cheeks so hard she tasted blood. Red blood. "To return in hand," was their name, uttered by Ayah in rare words of terrible sorrow. "Freed once, free never more." And Daenerys had never understood. "They are free," she had cried. "Why return, why go back?" The Madam's cheek had been warm upon her cheek. "A bird born in a cage will never truly know what it means to fly." But still, she did not understand. It made her stomach churn with nausea and simmering fire no less, nor the flush of shame and sorrow less painful. The red priestesses took each of slave's hands in one great link behind the General's procession, the crowds of freemen and slaves and masters alike joining in silent reverence, circling the processions, humming deeply to the tune of the beating drums.
"One final victory awaits, born in the quest of many failures, of many triumphs, of a single sacrifice. All that lead to a final dawn, led by a true hero," smoke rose in the air in shapes of war and death, salt strong of a teary smell rising with it, "Say his name, in love and in joy." Say his name, the heralds in voices of soft demand. "Azor Ahai," the people chant, "Azor Ahai," the slaves weep in worship, "Azor Ahai," the masters grinned. Azor Ahai. Daenerys had learned that name in the streets of Volon Therys. The hero, the saviour, the prophet. The priestesses saw him in the brow of the General, in his jaw and his scars and great burly bloodied hands. The hero of the helpless, the saviour of the slaves, the prophet of the poor. Born with a master's whip in hand, a master's jeer in tow, a master's name and blood.
The last of the procession was but a single woman, too lavish to be with any other, with dark robes blacker than night, and a thick golden neckpiece that sat from her throat to her chest, circular and plated. Her dark lacquered mask looked shrewd in the flickering torchlight, red as the robes of the priests chanting in front. She traced the city silently, a perfect smoothness to the turn of her head, as if her gaze was undisturbed by the mask she wore. Even in the many thousands that littered the streets and roads and roofs and alleyways, she found Daenerys, a smile on her expressionless visage, her eyes poking through, shining like stars upon an empty sea.