The Meereenese sun was a cruel thing; a despot of heat and light. Quick to rise, quicker still to burn. There were times when it seemed as if it took the entire night for the streets to cool, only for dawn to come again not moments behind and begin the day anew.
And yet, fields lined the horizon, viewable from the top of any number of the city's stepped pyramids. It was certain why they prospered. Just as it is known that an olive cannot ripen in a soil unsuited, grain cannot liven beneath a cold sky.
There were half a hundred reasons to be thankful for a hot sun and only a half a hand's worth for the opposite. For one such as herself, one not burdened by a certain susceptibility to the summer heat, those reasons were fewer still.
And yet, despite all these facts, there was not a word of thankfulness upon Daenerys's tongue, nor a thought of gratitude in her mind as the dawn's light shone through the shuttered windows of her chambers. Her eyelids fluttered as she rose from her bed, clutching her bed's covers to her chest. A cursory glance around the room found it to be empty, though she imagined it would not remain so for long. Soon enough, handmaids and servants would swarm around, doing their part to ready her for the day.
And what a day it would be. One she had hoped in vain may yet never come, but had resigned herself to all the same. Days bearing its likeness have been all too common, as of late. Though the feeling had never been quite so potent.
She sighed as she moved to stand, sliding out from behind the canopy that surrounded her. The stone was chilled beneath her, not too dissimilar from her sheets. Her husband, dear as he were, had not deigned to join her for some time. Her eyes rolled as she stretched. Such a shame it was. Her heart remained ever broken by his lack of interest.
The cold caused her feet to arch until she stood on naught but her toes. She walked to the shutters and opened them, stepping outside onto the balcony where her gaze turned to the west. To the object of her early thoughts.
Daznak's Pit was grand, no matter how small the distance made it appear. The largest of Meereen's fighting pits held a particular beauty, as did much of the city proper, one any would be able to appreciate if only their histories went unwritten and unread. Daenerys knew not how many slaves had fallen in the pits during days long since passed, nor how those that lived had fared. Investigation would only lead to heartache and second guesses, a luxury a queen could not afford. But the red sands of the pit's grounds spoke stories and told tales upon the matter of which she'd rather not hear.
From her perch above it all, she could see the colosseum in its entirety. Gladiatorial statues stood steward and sentinel on either side of its entrance; arches and pillars bordering the stands in every direction. If a number existed for the number of patrons the stadia could accommodate, Daenerys expected only a maester of Oldtown to know it. From the base to the top, circles of varying colors expanded outward. At the lowest were seats red as the sands – meant for only the noblest of the Meereenese masters, no matter how oxymoronic. Each layer thereafter home to a different caste – orange, yellow, white, green, blue, purple, black – all the way from the richest and proudest to the lowest and poorest of the city's denizens. Slaves and their ilk used to sit at the top, furthest from the action. She expected those who occupied those seats in years past would not change much in years present, even if they no longer came clad in iron.
The skin of her lips blanched as she pursed them, turning from pink to white the longer she watched. Men and women were already on the grounds, toiling beneath the rising sun, preparing it for the day ahead. Small flecks of color ambling around as they went about their duties, appearing as insignificant as their former masters would have one believe they were. She wondered how many of them, if any, would earn a fair wage; how many would be able to eat tonight; and how many would be fighting today, too.
A knock came from within and she turned. A group of finely dressed women passed through the door and the Unsullied on guard; Irri, Jhiqui, and Missandei most notable among them. The queen had eyes only for the youngest of the three as of late. Black of hair, flat of face, and gold of eyes, the young scribe made for a queer sight in a room otherwise full of Ghiscari and Dothraki. She rivaled only Daenerys herself in rarity of feature, though her skin remained several shades darker. The queen always wondered if all from Naath bore the same features, or if they were a family trait; the child's brothers did and did not, but that could mean anything.
She'd heard from Missandei that the Naathi were a people devoted to peace, preferring to spread music over misery. That even a man starving and surrounded by brush plucked clean so cherished life that they would sooner starve than hunt. T'was a wicked act then, she thinks, to steal Missandei's brothers away and forge them into Unsullied; forced to choose between their values or their lives. Crueler still that forsaking one could never guarantee the other.
Daenerys smiled softly at her dear friends as they entered, receiving encouraging nods in return, and allowed herself to be swept up in the organized chaos of the day's preparations.
It was not until long after her fast was broken upon goat cheese and olives that a dress was chosen for the day; and only moments further that she was left alone, save one.
"You have something you'd like to say." She'd noticed Missandei's eyes wandering to hers quite early in the morning, never staying for long, but always making contact. The moments were fleeting, but telling. "Your council is valued, Missandei. If you have words for me, I'd hear them."
Though the little scribe nodded, no words came. Whether she still gathered her thoughts or Daenerys's intuition had been wrong was yet to be seen.
In the silence that followed, Missandei worked tirelessly to clean her hair, combing it gently and cupping water from the basin to rinse it out. Oils and perfumes were added at the end, meant to keep its luster and scent for some time. Only then did the child's work begin in earnest.
Once, when she had been but a Khaleesi to her Khal, it would have been Irri and Jhiqui who braided her hair. But Missandei was a sweet child, and she could hardly deny her. The braid she wove was as complex as it was beautiful. And although she watched the girl work, just as she would every morning, she was unlikely to ever understand how the child managed it all.
"This one simply worries." Missandei's voice was soft. Faint. As if she'd forgotten she was no longer a slave, that she no longer had anything to fear in this world. Least of all from Daenerys. A few painted, leather thongs hung from her lips, and with each braid another would disappear somewhere amongst her curls. One small bell joined them, being added somewhere to the end of her hair. Daenerys had seen maegi perform lesser tricks on the streets of Qarth and be applauded all the same. It was a wonder she ever found a girl so talented.
Daenerys abandoned the mirrored glass before her, turning in her stool to face her young friend once her hair was situated, and grabbing the girl's hands in hers. "All will be well," she assured, "The reopening of the pits will appease the more volatile of harpies. It will grant us the time we require."
She watched as Missandei's face changed, shifting from hesitant, to confused, before landing on something undefinable. Her lips parted before she shook her head, as if she wanted to say something but decided against it just as it nestled atop her tongue. "And will it be enough?"
"No." It wouldn't. Nothing ever seemed to be with men such as these. Always wanting, never satisfied. "But with the peace it will broker we can build something new. Something better. And then, when the harpies finally realize they are unhappy with their lots and claw their way back out of their nests, we will be ready." She paused for a moment, trying to decipher the look in Missandei's eyes. When her friend turned to look at the closed doors and through them, she thought she knew. She gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and said, "Your brother will guard only our great pyramid and nowhere else. Marselen will be safe."
Missandei nodded, though she still seemed troubled. "He is Unsullied. It was certain."
She knew the girl did not believe that, as neither did she. Not when even her most disciplined soldiers were falling victim to the sons of the harpies' machinations. Mossador, one of Missandei's three brothers stolen from Naath, was killed by falling stones only recently. Taken away from the child far too suddenly. Now, only Marselen remained. Her first brother having been lost long before Daenerys freed them. Her heart went out to the girl, it did. For how could it not? She, too, had lost her family. Her home. If any knew the pain the younger one bore, it was herself.
Instead of putting words to any one of those thoughts, though, Daenerys merely nodded and stood. "Come," she urged, "Let us go, then. The day is yet young, and it shall not remain so for long."
Assuming the matter settled, she walked to the door. The ever dutiful guards who stood to either side opened it as her footsteps neared, bowing as she passed between. She gave each a distracted nod of gratitude, mind already occupied by stately matters. A few questions and requests were thrown out to her usual morning retinue as they followed close behind, each meeting scattered affirmations by their designated parties. The most urgent topics answered by retreating steps. It was not until several turns in the halls later that she noted the missing presence.
"Where is Missandei?" Daenerys's question was met with several wayward glances around the group followed by an equal number of apologies, but nobody had seen her. She frowned and turned around, saying, "You will all wait for me here," before departing down the hallway in search of the young girl.
She found her back in the chambers, still stood before the mirror, hands twisting around one another in nervousness. Daenerys called out to her as she approached, worried something might be wrong. The young girl jumped as a hand came to lay upon her shoulder, whirling around to face the queen as if she had not heard her at all. "Y- Your Grace?"
Her frown deepened in worry. "Missandei? What's the matter, why did you not follow?" She cast a cursory glance over what skin was visible, finding nothing out of sort. "Are you hurt? Head malady?" She checked with the back of her hand, but her forehead was no warmer than it should be. Nor did she have bruises beneath her eyes, dissuading Daenerys from asking her immediate follow-up on whether she had slept well. Missandei had appeared fine not long ago, but she understands how quickly exhaustion can creep up on someone. Not unlike a hrakkar in the Dothraki sea, silent and patient, deadly when left unacknowledged. The type of misery that will claim a life far too quickly for something so easily spotted. Though, she imagines the prey of the white lion would be subject to a far gorier fate. And far more ambivalent to the comparison, too.
Missandei shook her head softly, managing to dislodge the hand from her forehead in the process, though she had hardly seemed bothered by its presence. "No, your Grace, I am well."
"Are you certain? I can find another to herald court today if you are not feeling up for it. I know the proceedings are neither amusing nor swift. I would not fault you for taking the day to rest."
"I– " Whatever it was she wished to say was lost to the world as she cut herself off, chin dipping down as she looked to her fidgeting hands. Daenerys grabbed them, stopping her from tearing at a hangnail. The child looked near a statue. Pale and still. The image belied only by the sudden and dramatic rise of her chest. She sighed and glanced up through dark lashes. "Are you happy?"
"What?"
"Are you happy?" Missandei repeated her question, chin stuck out in a defiant manner that Daenerys knew the child had learned from herself.
Daenerys glanced from her to the window and then back again, bringing her hands up to Missandei's shoulders and giving them a squeeze. She smiled sardonically. "Do I seem unhappy?"
There was meant to be an obvious answer. In her mind, she could already here Missandei's immediate and confidant 'yes.' But, she supposed it would make little sense for the girl to ask, if she believed it so. "No. You do not seem happy."
She gave the contrarian a shrewd look. "Is there a difference?"
"Yes. Marginally."
"Marginally," she repeated with an ever-raising brow, waiting for Missandei to confirm her meaning. When the girl did, she pressed on, "A marginal difference is not much a difference at all."
"But," Missandei said, "there is meaning in that margin. You do not seem unhappy, but you do not seem happy, neither." A pause. "Are you?"
"You have such strange sensibilities for a girl your age." When Missandei did not reply, Daenerys sighed and looked away, dropping her hands from the girl's shoulders as she walked out onto the balcony once more. She felt the girl's presence join her at her side, a familiar, maternal or sororal affection stoked in her as they faintly brushed one another's arms, but her attention remained wholly on the fighting grounds. "Do you ever wonder if any of them are happy? If they are satisfied?"
Missandei turned, stretching up onto her toes to spy those to which she referred. After a moment of consideration, she turned back to the queen and said, "I think if you asked, you would find yourself surprised by their answer."
A trade galley approached the harbor in the distance from the south. She watched it approach the docks for a moment.
"How do you mean?" The more Daenerys thought upon it, the less she felt as if she could grasp Missandei's point. The people of Meereen had been freed by her own hand, but she would not delude herself in thinking she'd created a utopia for them to live in. Even if her marriage to her husband stymied any major discord, it was not a lasting solution. Not truly. Some day soon, war would break out once more. How could such a place be considered a home for happiness?
"This one thinks that every person yearns for happiness, so much so that even when their situation is undesirable, they can find it. This one was happy while in the service of Kraznys mo Nakloz. She– I," Missandei corrected herself when Daenerys gave her a particularly wroth look, already irritated by the slave master's name. It was one thing to remember the cruelty of the good masters of Astapor, it was another to hear a friend proclaim happiness beneath their thumb whilst still speaking as if they were not a person true. Missandei understood this, so she made the effort to change her speech. "I was well fed, well educated, and not oft beat if I performed satisfactorily. Some moons, I even saw my brothers. I am happier now, this is certain, but I was happy then, too."
If Daenerys could turn back time, if she could sack the city once more, she'd ensure a spectacle not even bards would dare sing their songs of for millennia to come. Til she'd died two deaths, just so they were certain her ghost would not come for their souls, too. The doom of Valyria, a hundred times over. A fate in which the only good the thrice-damned good masters of Astapor would contribute to this cruel world of theirs was to nourish future forests with their ashes. She'd been too kind to them. Too kind, indeed.
She pushed the thoughts from her mind, and turned her attention back to the one beside her. "That does not sound like happiness to me. It sounds like existence." And a rather meager one, at that.
"But we take our joys from the places we can. Some meals were preferable to others; some days bear prettier skies or kinder winds. And it is enough. Sometimes. Is it not for you? Can you not be happy too?"
No, came the immediate voice in her head, but it sounded far too close to that of one of the city's masters for her to accept. Two sides of the same coin, they were. One ornamented with a large man. He held whips and chains like he was born to hold them, bred to use them. His face was as cruel as cruel could be. The other held a woman, fair as her hair and just. Her hands, pale and empty and outstretched.
Yet, even in her mind, neither bore a smile. And each of their expressions read with the same desire: more.
It was an unpretty thought, and she liked it not.
"Come," she said abruptly, turning back to her chambers, "If you are well, we have our duties to attend to. The day has been delayed enough."
They met the attendants who remained in the hall without a word, making their way to the throne room as a single mass.
Morning bled into evening as Daenerys sat upon her wooden dais. Hosting court and hearing courtiers, sponsoring slaves and suffering sycophants. She found herself and her rulings at the end of many odd looks, as if none could understand her mind or why she ruled the way she did. They'd all smile, some more genuine than others, but all were equal in their confusion. Those looks wore on her, even more so when it was the slaves who gave them, but she said nothing.
It was a dull day full of duller people, but a boring day as queen is far preferable to the alternative. The last time her heart had raced, Missandei had lost a brother.
The monotony served a secondary purpose, too, staving off the coming quarrel as long as time would allot.
Still, the hour came in which the games were set to begin and her absence would not be missed, thus she must attend. A servant approached from a hall to the side to inform them it was time, and she glanced down to where her husband sat. Though he might fashion himself a king, they both knew they were not equal. By seating him below herself, she sent a message to any who might misjudge them as such. The harpy and the dragon were now one, but the world will always have its betters. And a breasted bat could never match fire given form.
Hizdahr zo Loraq was his name – King of Meereen, Scion of Ghis, Octarch of the Old Empire, Master of the Skakazadhan, Consort to Dragons and whatever other insufferable titles he might conjure from nothing. He was a placid lover. One more fond of his fighting pits and laurels than he was of his queen. She could not fault him for it, it was not as if she felt any greater stirrings for him, neither.
It would not be wrong to call him handsome, Daenerys supposed, he was of a slender build with flawless skin and gentle features, but a pretty face ever did little to make a man worth swearing to. Much less for a queen. It would seem that not even station was enough to free a woman from the burden of duty. All stand equal in their fate, cursed to suffer a loveless wedding and a pleasureless bedding.
He stood as she descended the steps to the main floor, extending an arm and an invitation. She linked hers with his and as one they made their way from the throne room with only a few platitudes to those who remained. Hizdahr served as her escort all the way to the courtyard, where they boarded a palanquin together. Missandei made to follow, just as she always would, but Daenerys stopped her.
"Stay, Missandei. Inform Marselen that he may rest for the day. Enjoy yourself."
The child's face scrunched up in confusion. "Your Grace?"
"Go, child. I will not ask again."
Her expression remained stoic as her friend departed, casting several, furtive glances back as she was escorted back to the stepped pyramid they lived within. Daenerys watched her go, ignoring the amused hum her husband let out.
"In the days of my father, and his before him, servants did not dare to question orders so flagrantly." Slaves, he means. His ancestors were slave masters, as was he himself before now. An important distinction. A slave was not a servant, but an item. A possession. They could not deny their master their service, just as a wooden doll could deny a child to play. Lest they risk being discarded. Daenerys sat up in her seat, turning her head slightly to peer at Hizdahr in her periphery. He was staring out the window, smiling at those lining the streets who cried out for them. "It is truly a worthy feat to empower the smallfolk so."
Daenerys hummed softly, unable to decide whether or not he was being genuine. It was no matter; she found she did not care much either way. Hizdahr's opinions of her and her decisions have always meant little and less. He was a tool. Incapable of producing heirs herself, the use of any man she takes to wed would always be political. In her royal husband's case, to pacify the realm.
With that, she thought their conversation over. Already he had spoken more to her than he had upon their wedding night, and it had lasted longer than what followed. She glanced through her own window, smiling softly at those who cried out 'mhysa, mhysa!' but her momentary distraction was ended by yet more words.
"I had a tokar made for you," Hizdahr mentioned offhandedly, "I thought you might have worn it today. Tis a special occasion."
Daenerys thinks of the tokar in question as she waves to those they passed, thinks of the servant who presented it to her, thinks of the grateful smile she graced them with before they had departed and it slipped from her lips.
And she thinks of it falling, fluttering, floating. Down, down, down to the city proper. She thinks of never seeing it again, and she smiles. To Hizdahr, it looks no different from gratitude.
"It was beautiful; I regret that it must have simply slipped my mind. I would not worry yourself too much for it, husband. There will be more gladiatorial matches to attend in the future. I shan't forget a second time."
He sighed, considering, and nodded, "I simply think you would have looked better, more Ghiscari, if you'd worn at least one of your own. These … these dresses you favor will endear you to none but the Westerosi," an unlikely thing, save the Dornish, considering the skin she showed, "for which there are very few here, and even fewer who matter. To the people of this great city, to my people, slaves and all, you are still so … peculiar. Our customs are as foreign to you, as you are to us."
Daenerys glanced over at him, ignoring the way that word needled at her. Peculiar. "I have lived in Essos my entire life, nothing about it is foreign to me."
"And yet, when you sail to Westeros, and their lords and ladies name you a whore of the east, you will say to them, 'I was born to these lands, just as you were, just as my father was before me.' It cannot be both, dear wife." He was not wrong, but she would not concede the point. "My noble brothers and sisters of Ghis will never see you as one of their own if you do not act like their own."
Daenerys turned away, leaning her temple against the edge of the window and took a deep breath, "Pity."
They stepped out from their sedan chair to raucous cheers. Shouts rose up from each and every direction. The bland smile Daenerys had slipped into for the remainder of their ride tightened into something more genuine, if not overwhelmed. She'd yet to get used to this. The love; the worship. She doubted she ever truly would. Not until a day came in which she can leave behind the girl within her who used to live in that red-doored house in Bravos; bright-eyed and ignorant.
The crowd hung around them in a loose circle, held back by the promise of her Unsullieds' spears and shavepates' short swords. She cast a short glance around, nodding to herself at each of the soldier's diligence and restraint. The men and women who made up these crowds were likely no threat to her at all, but she'd been advised to remain vigilant. The attacks on her people were largely opportunistic and could come at any time. It was better to stay proactive than reactive.
Another easily fills the space that Hizdahr left, her husband off to cajole some ornery nobleman, no doubt. His eyes, like hers, scanned the crowds on the streets, though their reasons were inherently different. Hers appreciation, his assessment. "Your Grace," he said, in lieu of a typical greeting. Always deferent. "Missandei not with you today?"
"Ser Barristan," she smiled, "No, I thought it better she avoid such things. She's seen enough of the evils of our world. How do you fare?"
"Well, though I will not lie and say I do not mourn my home even more today. I have walked among the crowds within and you were right for sending her back; many are already vying for blood. I miss the days of simple hedge knights and tourneys," he said, "Death was never preferable then."
Daenerys sighed, already feeling the tension leave her shoulders at his words alone. So, she was not alone in this. "Tell me of them."
"Of tourneys, your Grace?"
She nodded. "Of whichever is most memorable to you."
The older man let out a bit of a disbelieving laugh and shook his head. Rueful. "A rather momentous task you've given me, one I find more difficult in my twilighting years than even swordplay. My memory escapes me more oft than my grip. And I imagine that the former will be the death of me far sooner than the latter."
"You will not leave me quite so soon, Ser. I expressly forbid it."
He dipped in acknowledgement, hiding a smile and forcing a faint chuckle from her own lips. His expression quickly turned thoughtful. "My most memorable tourney, my most memorable tourney," the hum he let out was as long as it was teasing, and if Daenerys were any lesser woman she might have huffed with impatience. "In truth, there are only two options. With each one, my name got longer and my renown wider."
"Oh, enough with the suspense, Barristan, spit it out already or I shall search for entertainment in another." She began walking away, each of her guards forming around her as she headed toward the stadia. He was forced to jog to catch up and soon reappeared at her shoulder.
"Very well." They passed between the two large statues out front. The right bore the image of an armored man with a great, large ax; the left, a sword. "First, came Blackhaven. It was–is the seat of house Dondarrion and lays in the south of the stormlands. Rather contentious area, so close lay the keeps of the marcher lords and the Dornishmen, and the tourney reflected that. The prince was in attendance and competing, so all were welcome, provided a certain noble birth or reputation."
"The prince? My brother?"
His smile spoke of a sadness that could only come from past joy. A fondness crept from its corners and Daenerys felt her heart tug and eyes burn weakly at the sight of it. She blinked several times as old Barristan went on.
"No, no. Not Rhaegar. This was long before then. I speak of your grand-uncle, Prince Duncan."
"The Prince of Dragonflies." He'd told her of him before and she knew not what to make of the man behind the story. It was one of her favorites, to find love in the most unexpected of places, it was something she'd never admit to wishing upon a star for. She'd requested the knight tell it to her before, on several occasions. Yet, at the same time, despite her enjoyment of the tale, she thought his decision foolish. Costly. It was as Barristan once told her: Duncan loved his Jenny of Oldstones, and the realm paid the price in blood.
He sighed, turned to flash her that same sad smile, and nodded. "Yes. The Prince of Dragonflies. As you can imagine, a tourney in the stormlands, hosting the prince who recently spurned their liege's daughter and a crown for a commoner: tensions were high. Made only worse by the mystery knight who was performing so well."
That peaked her interest. Daenerys glanced over, the question already rolling over her tongue before she could stop it. The knight took the interruption well, not appearing annoyed in the slightest with her frequent comments and questions. "A mystery knight? Who was it?"
"That would rather defeat the purpose of the tale, would it not?"
She supposed it would. "Continue then."
"The first tilt began like any other. First and second sons of many nearby lords – minor or otherwise – had shown to demonstrate their martial prowess. There were those who were favored, of course. Wendall of house Wyl's position was bolstered by that of any Dornishman present, and he was not lacking in skill. He rode first against a landed knight of the Westerlands, not of a name I can recall. But he was portly in ways only a man who has only known peace could be. And it was unlikely he'd helped quell the Storm King's rebellion. Ser Wendall won his first bout in three passes of the list. Those in the stands would whisper and say the only reason his opponent had lasted as long was for his great size; the heir to house Wyl simply did not boast the strength needed to press him from his saddle."
She tried to imagine such a man. In her mind, he was larger than life, breasted like Kraznys mo Nakloz, yet not quite so bare. He wore armor, but even that seemed thin against his great size, stretched like a tunic that would never quite fit. And his horse—its legs splayed out just so, as if it were constantly straining against the burden. It made for an amusing sight. She found herself congratulating Ser Wendall in her mind for defeating such a creature; after all, giants traveling south of the Wall could only spell misfortune for her people.
"It became apparent rather quickly that many of those who'd entered the contest were not of the realm's finest stock. Each list was either far too long, or far too short, and rarely did a joust persist for skill of arms, rather than absence of it. A product of the times, I'd wager. For few men you will find who have tasted true battle wish to remember the sights. They would stay in their castles and send gifts to the prince instead, so their presences would not be missed, nor their absences taken as a slight."
"And would it work?"
Barriston shrugged before holding out a hand to help her up some stairs. She used her other to clutch her skirts, though they weren't truly long enough to justify the effort. "Perhaps. Duncan was not one to take insult, nor one to go seeking them out. He was a people's man, just as his father was. Just as you are."
The seat she was led to was central and low and Barristan kindly halted his tale to allow her to situate herself. A raised section of stone with banisters raised up from each corner to hold a silk awning over her head. A cursory glance around the coliseum proved Hizdahr's boasting at least bore some semblance of truth, the seats were all full or soon to be. The people of Meereen truly did love their fighting pits.
Her bench sat two. Unfortunate by design, as she'd be forced to suffer the pits and Hizdahr's company together for far longer than she'd wished or intended. Ser Barristan stood at her shoulder to her right and when she glanced at him eagerly, he began his tale anew.
"As I said, much of the joust lacked luster. Men fell from their saddles without contact, startled by an incoming lance or distracted by a spectator's beauty. An embarrassment, truly." Daenerys was not sure if she believed him in full. Surely, surely, some true men of arms would have entered the competition with a prince of the blood present. It could not be all bad. Barristan was embellishing, he must be. An attempt to bestir her heart and nothing more. "The third joust of the second round took place between the young Chelsey Ashford, an heir's spare and squire. He was tall for a boy his age, but he'd yet to grow as wide. His first match had been quick and he showed promise. His opponent was, somehow, a man yet smaller. One who was clearly a crowd favorite by the time they appeared for a second time."
"The mystery knight?"
Old Barristan smiled. "If you could have heard the spectators up above in those moments, you would have been witness to all manner of crazed theories. The man was born of Ibben, they'd say, and beneath his helmet he hid a pair of sunken eyes as well as jaws that could bite through steel and stone alike. A few would lean over the railings of the stands, trying to catch a glimpse of the rare folk, but his face was hidden by his helm. A few would turn to their peers, calling him Ifequevron. Wood walker. And for the remainder of the tourney, they'd awe those around them with tales of a people they'd only ever met upon the pages of a book." He huffed good-naturedly, but not without its healthy dose of bemusement, as if he could not truly understand their reasons. "And they'd knowingly omit from their storied words that the wood walkers were a shy, gentle folk not known for making war, even in play. By the second round, the damage was done, and children were running off to find leaves and pebbles fit for a mythical creature, gifting them over the arena's walls to receive blessings."
"Perhaps the most popular theory was not that the man was of Ibben or Ifequevron, but that he was the last of the children of the forest come to take their revenge upon the Andals. The children were squat, just as the men of Ib and the Ifequevron. Yet, unlike the Ibbenese, they were not identifiable by their heavy, broad shoulders; and, unlike the wood walkers, they were not known for their pacifism. You would have thought the contestant had come saddled atop a white stag with how the spectators leaned in for the tilt. Upon their first pass, both competitors struck shield, but their lances dipped, hitting harmlessly close to the edge. Then, for each they rode thereafter, spectators would lean ever-so-slightly more. By the fourth pass, I would wager half of those who watched had fallen from their seats, so enthralled by the match as they were that they had not even realized."
Daenerys's cheeks hurt from the subtle smile she bore upon her lips. He was most certainly embellishing, but she could not fault him for it, not when he produced a story so endearing. Especially not when she knew Barristan to be a man unconcerned with praise or plaudits. He was telling the story in this way for her own enjoyment, and she'd never fault him for that.
"It was later that Chelsey's opponent made a gamble. By then, both were certainly tired, arms heavy like lead with their exhaustion. With each pass their lances had targeted and struck lower and lower, never once shattering nor pushing the other from their saddle. And so, when they spurred their horses on for their seventh pass, the smaller of the riders beseeched his worn body for more. More strength, more time, and more endurance. He needed but little of each, and he was awarded it all."
"In the moment before contact, he urged his lance higher, taking as much as his body would give. And his lance did go high." He paused, and she let out a little gasp as he said, "Too high."
"So, after all that, he still lost?"
And Barristan chuckled, saying nothing. "His lance went high, and it left him open. The young Ashford seized the opportunity, putting all the strength he had remaining in his thrust, and struck true and strong, rocking the smaller in their saddle. But, such was the folly of youth, and in his attempt to capitalize, he forgot himself. His shield arm dipped. And the incoming lance glanced off the top, catching the shield's metal rim, before continuing past and into the helmet behind." Daenerys knew not what to think. She wanted to know if the boy was well, if he'd been hurt by the impact, but she feared interrupting the story so close to its conclusion. "It bore none of the power of Ashford's strike, but all of the positioning. And though it was perhaps the weakest of the hits yet so far, that was all it truly needed. And so, while the so-suspected child of the forest clung to their saddle with both hands, trying admirably to remain upright upon their galloping horse, their opponent fell heel over head from their saddle, tumbling down to the tourney grounds."
Much like the smallfolk and noblemen of Barristan's story, Daenerys found herself upon the edge of her seat. Her attention having diverted entirely from the coliseum and those still filling it as she turned to stare at her knight. So much so, she did not even notice the body slipping into the bench beside her until they spoke up, stopping her from hearing the end.
"Is ol' Barristan spinning more tales for you again, sweet queen?"
Daenerys jumped, spinning around to face the speaker. He was a man of nearly thirty-five name days, perhaps less, perhaps more. Unlike her husband, his was an austere beauty adorned only by hard-won muscles and scars. His face, too, was comely, bordered by long brown hair and a closely-cropped beard. "Daario!" She hadn't a clue how he'd gotten there so quietly, but she was not entirely disappointed by the company. "Yes. He was just telling me a delightful story of a tourney with a mystery knight. Oh, Barristan," she turned back to the knight, "would you mind beginning it again for Daario?"
The old knight cast a glance over her shoulder, lips pursed with obvious reservation, but nodded. That said, before he could even begin the sellsword beside her was already cutting him off. "Bah. What would be the point? Why listen to old codgers prattle on about boys playing at a battle you can not even see when you will soon have the real deal just before you!"
She was no longer quite so happy with his arrival. "You will not speak about Barristan that way. And I can see it. Some people simply use their imaginations."
By the time she finished speaking, she'd already turned to look at Daario once more, catching him just as he finished rolling his eyes. She let out an annoyed noise at the sight, and he quickly corrected his expression, shifting into a smirk. He thought it more charming than it was. "Daenerys," he reached for a strand of hair that had fallen from its place, trying to tuck it behind her ear, but she jerked away. She was starting to wish it was Hizdahr who'd sat down, instead, at least he understood when and how to be silent. "It's about time you got your head out of those stories and started focusing on more important things."
A ponderous hum. "Like you?"
If anything, his smirk only grew. He moved his brow around salaciously. "Like me."
Her eyelids fluttered as she rolled them, but judging by Daario's continued smugness, he saw only the former and not the latter. Subtly, she shook her head, sucking in a steadying breath and–
"You smell like a brothel." Like sweat, and perfumes, and sex. A rather nauseating combination, one that had her nose crinkling in distaste.
Daario let upon a hurt face to mask his surprise at the sudden change in topic. It was not enough to blind her to the way he subtly sniffed at the fabric of his tunic. "I have been cruelly banished from my lady love's bed so that she might share it with a eunuch. If she wished for me to deprive the fair ladies of this city of their pleasures, she knows where she may find me. And how can I be at fault for her own decision? I am but a leal servant to my beloved queen, following all she commands me to do. Why, if she begged of me to show her the greatest pleasure of her mortal life, I'd do it now before all of noble Meereen."
A claim of love with none of the actions to prove it. Daenerys thought to call him out for his words, for his attempt to twist the blame back upon her, but she found she did not care enough. Daario could boast and brag that he loves a queen and loves her tenderly, but when it came to proving it, he was a man of little action not carnal. He may keep his whores. "Hizdahr is no eunuch." Neither lie, nor truth. The perfumed king left much to be desired when it came to bedroom festivities.
He scoffed away the thought. "A man who cannot use his cock to satisfy his wife is as much a eunuch as any Unsullied in our army."
"Your."
"What?"
Daenerys turned her head, looking Daario right in the eye as she said, "It's 'your,' not 'our.' The army is mine. It belongs to me. Me; Daenerys Targaryen. And not any other."
She took some pleasure in the way the self-satisfied look in his eyes slipped away, even if only temporarily. It returned not long after as he puffed his chest out with bravado. "Am I not one of your most trusted commanders? Did I not bring you the might of my Stormcrows and Second Sons? Did I not bring you Yunkai and Meereen?"
"Indeed. You brought me men who know no god or sovereign but those made of gold. And it is not you who pay them, if I recall, so they can not be yours. You command them because I allow you to. Do not mistake the two." When he made to argue, she quickly interrupted him, sending him away. "That corner appears light on guards, see to it."
Daario followed her order, but was clearly displeased to hear it. Every few steps he'd turn to glance over his shoulder, as if expecting her to have only said it in jest. She never once looked back.
"Ser Barristan, if you would be so kind as to–"
"Great Masters!" Daenerys closed her eyes and sighed a sigh as her husband stepped up to the front of their platform. Her fingers yearning to rub upon her temples in a poor attempt to nurse the ache flaring up between them. "My queen has come this day, to show her love for you, her people. By her grace and with her leave, I give you now your mortal art. Meereen! Let Queen Daenerys hear your love!"
For all she could tell, all the world itself called out with her cheers, it was so loud. First it descended from the top of the coliseum, a quarter. Or half. Screams and yells, cheers and whistles. A hundred-hundred people or more. Then, the entirety of those within Daznak's grand pit were calling out to them, her and her husband both.
They did not call her name, which few could pronounce. "Mother!" they cried instead; in the old dead tongue of Ghis. They stamped their feet and slapped their bellies and shouted, "Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa," until the whole pit seemed to tremble. Dany let the sound wash over her. She was not their mother. She might have shouted back at them, saying, I am the mother of your slaves, of every boy who ever died upon these sands whilst you gorged on figs, but she would not. Could not. Their sound was too great, and the consequences for such a thing too fierce.
Behind her, the seneschal leaned in to whisper in her ear, "Magnificence, hear how they love you!" No, she knew, they love watching men bleed and die for their own enjoyment. Not her. And if that is what they love, she yearns not for its company. She'll find her love in the good men and women of Meereen, not their masters. When the cheers finally began to ebb, she allowed herself to sit again. Their box was in the shade, but her head was pounding. "Jhiqui," she called, "sweet water, if you would. My throat is very dry."
The games began quickly and with pomp, she had no more chances to hear from Barristan of her uncle or the mystery knight, and that pained her.
Hizdahr offered her a plate of honeyed locusts, but she waved it off. Her stomach was in a turmoil as she watched the first fight begin, and she did not wish to cause a scene. She watched the games unfold with a straight back and straighter face, her hands cupped around the glass Jhiqui procured for her.
As the hot sun blazed a path across the sky, she sat there, trembling. Man after man fell before her, prostrating themselves against the red sands made only redder by the blood that poured from them. Their victors would make them bow lower, crushing them beneath their heel to press the defeated's face further into the ground. And they would not fight it, for a dead man knows no battles worth waging. And the crowds would scream all the louder for it.
Pale Qartheen, black Summer Islanders, copper-skinned Dothraki, Tyroshi with blue beards, Lamb Men, Jogos Nhai, sullen Braavosi, brindle-skinned half-men from the jungles of Sothoryos—from the ends of the world they came to die in Daznak's Pit. "This one shows much promise, my sweet," Hizdahr said of a Lysene youth with long blond hair that fluttered in the wind … but his foe grabbed a handful of that hair, pulled the boy off-balance, and gutted him. In death he looked even younger than he had with blade in hand.
"One will die, or the other will," said Danaerys, holding her stomach. "And the one who lives will die some other day. This was a mistake." Agreeing to reopen the pits was a wrong that nothing could correct. Nothing would bring these men back to life, and nothing they could gain from fighting below could ever make their loss worth it.
She wished she could see those who sat the highest in the coliseum; she wished to know if she was alone in her disquiet. She wished to know if her freedmen saw nothing wrong with this practice, or if they were just the same as their masters, rotten to their core. Mayhaps they were too far up, they could not see that the one just killed was not yet a man. That if he were born a girl he'd not yet have even flowered. If they could see it as clear as she, would they still cheer?
In truth, she did not think she wished to know the answer to it at all. She fears what she might learn.
Another set of fighters stepped out onto the field as the boy's body was taken away. The first was large, muscled, and lumbering. He stood several heads taller than his opponent, a nimble-looking Braavosi water dancer. Their battle looked like a poem, full of sweeping edges and flowing lines. She saw Ser Wendall and the large landed knight in their shadows. In their swords. In their sizes. She thinks she preferred the story to the sight.
War was something she knew, it was familiar, and she hated it. But in war there was at least sense. Reason. She fought to free the enslaved, she fought to give them a better life. There was no sense in these pits. There was no reason. No greater meaning nor morality. It was violence. It was pain.
It was unnecessary. Archaic.
The water dancer ducked low beneath a heavy swing by the larger man, falling to his knees and sliding. Spinning. He twirled around to his opponent's back, digging a shallow cut across their flank. They shifted out of reach from the counterattack, allowing the blade to pass them harmlessly by, before striking both of the larger figure's heels.
The fight had migrated from the center of the arena to only a few paces away, just at the base of the platform she sat upon. She thought she could see the white of the man's tendons in the mess of blood, but she could just as easily be mistaken.
He tried to stand upon his lame feet, only to fall. The water dancer threw his arms into the air, celebrating his victory to an adoring crowd. When he walked closer to finish the job, his fallen foe swatted uselessly at his legs, trying to fight from his knees, but he merely spun away. He tried once more to stand, Daenerys wished he would not. It was disturbing.
When he fell this time, he fell into a roll. The Braavosi was not prepared for it and was caught by the leg. The larger pulled it out from beneath him, sending him onto his back, before rolling over top of him.
By the time all was done, the red of the sands was synonymous with that of his body.
A roar went up from the crowds, louder than the first, and the remaining fighter – the now true victor – let out one of his own.
But all of it – all the deafening clamor and heedless shouting – was drowned by the sound that answered.
It shook the heavens, rattled her to her bones, and a shape appeared in the sky. Daenerys saw it, as did the rest of those spectating. They thought it the legendary harpy coming to show her approval upon the games, and another cheer went up for it, but she knew. She knew.
The largest of her sons descended upon the festivities, drawn by the blood shed and noise, landing with a quake of the earth upon the recently slain. He feasted upon the Braavosi like a beast starved, tearing meat from where Daenerys thought only sand remained.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched and Hizdahr clutched her arm harshly, the pale skin dimpling beneath his fingers. He said something in her ear, but she could not hear it. She glanced at her husband, and she did not appreciate the rapturous look in his eyes.
The remaining fighter slowly made to stand, forgetting his injuries, before collapsing to the ground. The movement caught her child's eye and he turned his head, snapping testily at the downed man as if the man would try and steal the meat from this kill. As if any would be so foolish.
The man must have heard her thoughts, however, and decided to test her theory, for that was the only thing that could explain his stupid, stupid decision. "Don't," she said, but her words were lost to the wind. In an act of reckless bravery, he lunged for the Braavosi's discarded sword, holding it up between himself and the dragon as if it might help.
It wouldn't. A singular gout of fire spread out from the black dragon's maw, spiraling ever closer to the man before it swallowed him whole. And when it died only a smoldering body remained, looking small in a way the man was not, flames licking at its edges, and coated in molten silver.
And, with the shouting of those around her as her dirge, Daenerys Targaryen descended to the arena floor. Her sandals dug into the sand, coating her toes, but she saw only the dragon before her. Silence went the air, trembling and hot and fearful.
Drogon's long neck stretched toward her, and sanguine, boiled jelly seeped from between his great teeth. When he roared, remnants and shards of bone came with it, and Daenerys did her best to block them from her mind. His eyes were molten, a reflection of all of the seven hells, and a reflection of herself. She saw how she appeared. Small, weak. , not peculiar. A spot of light in a sea of color, her pale skin stood out amongst the red sands, her silver hair against the colorful bricks. She stood out against all around her, clear and separate and alone, but she looked right held within a dragon's eye, in ways she never had before.
She could hear another voice shouting, could see Drogon's large head shift elsewhere whenever those yells rose up, but she felt caught in the face of him. Adrift. There was a master's whip in her hand that she could not say where she'd picked up, or when. Its surface was rough and worn, but warm beneath her palm. Drogon roared at the sight of it, and she nearly lost her grip.
She struck him. Across his face, across his neck. It did little damage to his scales, but he liked it not.
She would scream at him, yell at him, command him to do as she bid. 'No,' she'd say in her mother tongue, 'no, no, no. Down! Get down.' Like a kennelmaster would to a disobedient hound, she'd strike him, again and again and again. Viciously. More than a displeased noble would ever dole out; more than a displeasing slave could ever suffer. A dragon was not a slave, and Daenerys no mistress, but pain was pain.
A spear caught Drogon in the back and they both whirled to the offender. Then, Daenerys was commanding them too. 'Stop,' she'd yell as more lined up to throw, emboldened by the first, 'stop, stop, stop!' She'd curse them if she could, damn them to every hell of every faith. But there was no time.
The fires across the arena floor only danced larger, more fiercely, more frantically, with the beating of the dragon's wings. The burn of the flames did not bother her, nor their heat, but the light made it harder to see. More than once she stumbled too close to a blaze and her dress caught alight. She'd strike it down with her palms each time, but it only served to worsen her temper. 'Down!' her voice would come again, shrill and hoarse and accompanied by the crack of a whip, 'down, Drogon, down!' She struck his scaled belly, back then forth then back again, until her palms were sore and raw and bleeding. He hissed at her and fire joined the warning, but she ducked beneath it, striking him again.
He snapped at her, teeth bared, and she tripped backward, falling to the ground. Another flare of heat rose up and she rolled away as a stream of fire brushed the skin of her arm. With her body out from under him, Drogon folded his wings and pressed his stomach into the ground, hissing. His eyes were slitted and angry, his spiked tongue dancing angrily in the space between his teeth. That tongue knew and spoke only one word in its chorus of hisses; and it sounded like: 'death.'
Another yell rose up from elsewhere in the arena, and Drogon's head snapped to it, his serpentine neck curling away as he tried to burn the perpetrator. She stole her chance, lunging to her feet and then to the pike embedded in the dragon's flank. She climbed to his back, abandoning her whip, and ripped the spear free from its scale prison.
Drogon screamed, another gout of fire rising into the air. Aimless and pained.
The metal was red hot and soft, it almost seeped from the space between her fingers where she gripped it. She dropped it quickly and grabbed a spine on the dragon's back. He twisted beneath her, as if trying to escape the pain or her or both, and then his wings were spreading, widening until her world had shrunk to nothing more than their black.
Then, with a mighty beat and a crack like thunder, Daenerys and Drogon rose into the sky, leaving a storm of blood and sand in their wake.
Drogon flew long and he flew hard. And though they traveled the skies and heavens as one, he listened to her not.
Meereen felt like but a thing of the past, a memory's memory's memory, one left behind with the setting of the sun. She spared not a thought to the city nor its people nor her child's impertinence as she delighted in the sound of her bell's chiming in the winds, in the sights below, and in the feeling of the clouds betwixt her spread fingers.
She had not known clouds could be wet, nor cool. In her dreams, they were crafted from the finest of silks. Like dozens of sheeps in the sky. And they were warm like the sun, warm like the heart of a dragon.
Daenerys imagined that she should feel guilty. For abandoning Hizdahr and Jhiqui and Irri and Daario and Missandei and Ser Barristan and all else, but she could not find the room for the feeling within herself. Not with the wonderment that seemed to fill her from fingertip to heel. So, she let it free, let it flutter down to the realms below. To Meereen, to Tolos, to Volantis and beyond. To wherever it wished to settle.
And she laughed as it went, something joyous and something bright, delighting more in the unexplored, open air around her than she had in anything for some time. She wondered how long it had been since another took to the skies as she was. A hundred and a half years? Longer? Her lessons in the histories escaped her in that moment. She could not recall any of her ancestors' names, nor that which they gave their mounts. Not if she tried. And she did not.
All that existed was herself, her dragon, and skies abound.
She knew not how long they flew; she could not even say which direction it was that they went. But, she could recount the stars in the night sky above the clouds from memory; and she could describe the kind of elation a bird must feel as it leaves the land for the first time; and she could see the sun setting over distant, unknown lands, casting the world in such a mesmerizing canvas of oranges and purples that it would move one to tears; and mayhaps that was more important.
It wasn't, in truth. Far from it. She came to regret those distractions as Drogon began to lower himself down into a dense fog. Morning had come and gone, but one could not say so with certainty from where she sat. The mist around them choked out the sun's light, painting the world with a dreary palette of grays, browns, and beiges. It was nothing like the bright colors of Mereen, with its colored stones and painted leathers, yet she found it the more truthful of the two.
She leaned to the side from her perch upon Drogon's nape, peering into the fog with squinted eyes. The gloom blanketed the area, covering what few legible obstacles existed, to the point where Daenerys could not tell which of the darker spots were trees or rocks, and which were entirely of her own mind. The fog settled in her clothes and hair, as well as upon Drogon's scales. Dampening all and making it slick to the touch. She readjusted herself, sidling uncomfortably over the bony spines that lined the column. His skin was warm to the touch, evaporating any and all of the condensing fog from its surface, but the bones lacked that innate heat. Dragons were fire made flesh; but flesh, bone was not.
She lost her grip, hand slipping on the slick spine, and fell forward. Drogon snapped testily at her, not caring for her squirming. A lesser woman might have startled or screamed, but Daenerys only narrowed her eyes at him in turn. He held her gaze for a moment longer, slitted, draconic pupils watching her intently before his head dipped.
They lumbered further into the fogs. Drogon cared not for the apprehension that seized her chest, nor did he seem to fear their surroundings in the slightest. It made sense. He was a dragon, and dragons had naught to fear south of the Shivering Sea. Occasionally, her child would send out a startling blitz of flame into the void. The damp air would snuff out any lingering embers far quicker than she expected, but each torrent of fire would illuminate the area just-so.
They had landed in a barren patch of dirt. How long it stretched, only the gods of these lands would know – whomever those might be. She spied not a patch of grass nor bramble in any particular direction, only the dry husks of trees long since dead and desicate. The earth beneath them, however, did not appear neither cracked nor dry. The damp fog was the most likely cause. Yet it did not explain the lack of plants. When was the last time these lands saw sun for this little to grow? And how could a fog so potent remain so still for so long? Could the winds not reach this part of the world?
"Drogon," she said after some time had passed. He did not react to her voice. She tried pressing more firmly into his scales, calling, "Drogon, Drogon," but he only snapped at her hand as she grew more insistent. A huff left her lips as she grew more annoyed, but there was little that could be done at present. The pitmaster's whip was gone, left back in the arena, and she did not know how to control him without it.
Nor would she risk the trip to the ground, not with him still moving, not with the air so damp, and not with the fog that covered the floor swimming at their feet like the ripples of water in a tub. The distance was impossible to judge, and the haziness of the air made it impossible to be sure-footed.
They lumbered on for what seemed like hours, the sights around her never changing. Her entire world existed in a state of grays. If not for the yellow of her dress, she feared she'd forget about colors altogether.
The fog grew darker as they went. She reasoned that it might be night and only the moon was guiding their way, but she did not think that was right. It was dark, but not pitch enough for that to be the case. And the heaviness of the fog did not cling the same above their heads. It was lighter where the sky should be.
Her next thought was that they'd entered a forest or some kind with trees on all sides, but that did not seem to be true either. The ground beneath them was as desolate as ever, no amount of brush ever breaking through the brume that clung to it. Daenerys strained her eyes as she tried to peer further into the bank. She tried to think of what she knew of Essos, tried to remember the lands and their geographies. The maps she'd scoured over for hours and days. But these lands had never been her focus, and the knowledge slipped from her grasp.
She murmured as she looked around, asking, "Skoriot aemagon ao maghatan nykēla, rūs?" Where have you taken me, child?
Something within the fog seemed to reach out to them, and she jostled when Drogon collided with something solid. He sent out a fiery attack, but the offender redirected it back at them. When it ended, a scorched rock face was revealed for only moments before it was reclaimed by the fog.
Later, they stumbled into what she can only assume was a large cavern where she dismounted. Drogon feasted upon shadowcat that night, and Daenerys did not dare risk garnering some for herself. It was only once the corpse was picked clean and its bones naught but cold ash that she dared move from where she stood at the entrance. Shifting closer to her dragon upon the stone floor. She shivered, her thin gown providing little protection to the elements, and tried pressing into his warmth. Part of his tail was all she dared. All of her bravery had left her, leaving room for only exhaustion. And she embraced the call to sleep with open arms and aching legs.
That night, she dreams of a bear. Old and pale and scarred, like those one hears about in tales of the white waste. And beneath the gaze of two large stone men, it petrifies.