A/N: Hey guys. Thankfully, I have moved into my new apartment. Settling in nicely in spite of the maze of half-unpacked boxes, and tomorrow I find out what sex my baby is. Stay tuned for my next updated story for the reveal.
Enjoy and comment!
Chapter 15: The Black Pearl
"Where did you get that?
Knife in hand, Daenerys shucked open the shell of a thick oyster, the mollusk's tasty innards open to her hungry appetite. "From a girl at the harbor. A little waifish thing, but they're good ones." Slurping up the meat, a few chews and it disappeared down her throat. "Had three already."
Sansa crossed her arms. "And you didn't buy any for us?"
"You've only started eating oysters at our dinner with Bellegere."
"And it was obvious that I liked them."
"You could've bought some for us, Dany," Jon remarked, only for Dany to toss one of the shells at him. "Hey, just saying."
Dany shook her head. "By the gods, I bought one for Ser Arthur since I went with him to secure our horse cart for leaving the city. You could've come with me."
Legs propped up on the bed, Jon chuckled. "Forgive me, aunt, but some of us had to secure packing our belongings." He grinned. "Two cute little darlings insisted on purchasing double the clothes they came to Braavos with… likely cause they traveled light… oh, I'm sorry. Snuck away light… hey!"
This time it was Sansa that struck him, slapping him about the head. "We've said this before, but if you think we were going to let you go alone without us then you're sorely mistaken."
He smiled again. "Oh, how I feel special."
"Of course you are special." Dany bounded to his side and hugged him. "Remember, you and I. The King and future Queen. You Aegon the Conqueror and I your Visenya and Sansa your Rhaenys."
"Sounds like you've thought of it for a while."
Sansa beamed. "Since we first learned to write and exchange letters. Why else would we not allow you to miss this experience without us?"
Hearing the conversation right outside the door to their chambers, Arthur shook his head. Smiling. Memories of Rhaegar's childhood upon his arrival in King's Landing rang true in his mind. A lonely Prince, deprived of all chance at bonding with family his own age - the Targaryens had so been decimated so that all was left being Rhaella, Aerys, and Rhaegar. One of the reasons he wished a big family, I suppose. Once the Queens began birthing babes they didn't stop, and none of them seemed upset at that fact.
Young Baelon had his life planned out for him. His title as King, even whom he would marry - most likely that was. A brilliant student and a great warrior, in need of seasoning but that's why he was here. The Princess and Lady though… Sansa is comparable to Elia but with a wolfish ferocity. Daenerys is like a dragonblooded Lyanna but with the grace of her mother the Queen Dowager. In Sansa he had seen a slight shift in her after their dinner with Bellegere, the Black Pearl's unknown advice having affected her greatly, but in Daenerys…
It wasn't just the Crown Prince that needed seasoning, it was her as well.
Having thought up at least some solution while they were still in Braavos, Arthur pushed open the door. "Your Graces," he murmured, smirking as they reacted in shock at his arrival. "I should hope you are getting along."
Slightly embarrassed at being caught in this manner, Jon sat up. "We are, Ser." Confident and princely though he was, Baelon always hewed to the formalities of his squireship. It separated his nature from the irredeemable sort of someone fully spoiled and arrogant. "We are all excited to continue our journey."
"However much we have enjoyed Braavos and its sights," added Sansa. Between their more mundane duties they had continued their exploration. Seeing the various harbors, witnessing more plays among the artist class, and ran around the markets admiring their wares - and none allowed another lapse in security as had luckily ended in their dining with the Black Pearl. Long-lost kin. "But there is far more than just Braavos."
"Agreed, but there is one thing left to do." Arthur moved to a battered chest and withdrew Jon and Dany's training blades, each forged specifically for them. "We're going to the fountains, so be prepared."
Taking her blade, Dany gaped in surprise. "But you forbid us from going there."
"I did, alone. But while your nephew has had me to train him, you've lacked a sparring partner." Usually Viserra or Rhaenys sparred with her under the watch of Queen Lyanna, Prince Oberyn, or Lady Brienne, but Dany's being a young Princess and a slight one at that precluded his ability to teach her well. "Perhaps we'll find one at the fountains, one that will not hold back as would anyone back in Westeros."
Taking in his words, a slow grin made its way on Dany's face. "Well then, let's get to it."
Oh, was this place familiar to Elia.
Working her way through the rear entrance, Chataya's brothel was not a place Elia visited for herself. Familiarity came with having to come here whenever Oberyn visited King's Landing. An unorthodox man to say the least, he was amused for his regal sister to meet him in such a place - that and Ellaria enjoyed making Elia greet her just after a whore squirted upon her face.
Hopefully Oberyn and Ellaria wouldn't stoop to that this time, arriving for her son's sake. But it wasn't for her brother that Elia journeyed here alone.
A simple smallfolk dress and a cowl pulled low over her face made clear indication of that. She was the Queen, but wished not for anyone to know… at least anyone but the one she journeyed to meet with.
The sounds of pleasure mixed with the pungent perfumes that wafted from the private chambers for those with enough coin for them, and little windows hidden from view for the pleasure of voyeuristic proprietors merited an occasional curious glance from the Queen. Flabby old men, haughty young men, or mature matrons writhing in ecstasy as the young whores of both sexes served to quench their lusts. Gyrating, moaning, and snarling in what was undoubtedly faked passion.
Elia rolled her eyes each time, suppressing a smirk. Even if the passions were genuine… it was formless. Quick and sloppy, lacking proper elegance. My loves… they could run circles among these amateurs. The climaxes these whores elicited from their marks paled in comparison to those Rhaegar and Lyanna coaxed from her… and the ones she coaxed from them.
Smiling, Elia Targaryen knew she couldn't fathom her brother's life. Why were others needed in her bed? Not when she had as close as perfection in her husband and wife.
In her youth, she always had thought good fortune passed her by. Now she knew the truth - it was simply waiting.
Feeling her cunt start to moisten, Elia shook her head. She could jump Lya, Rhaegar, or both when she returned to the Red Keep. Now was the purview of a different mission. One that required all her concentration… and finesse.
A specified chamber… the smallest and undoubtedly the least expensive, was where the rendezvous took place. Elia pushed open the door and was greeted by a finely dressed figure - the one woman here with any sort of modesty. Not much though, given her profession. "The Crown Viper returns," she said in a soft voice.
"Aye," Elia nodded, her Dornish lilt contrasting with the heavy accent of the Summer Islander. "It has been a long time, Chataya."
The madam for the most expensive brothel in King's Landing snorted. "You've conversed through intermediaries for the last year or so."
"Never did you claim to have such vital whispers for me." Varys had whomever his 'little birds' were. Elia had hers as well. Men and women tended to loose lips after a night of passion, and whom would be quite likely to overhear such pertinent information when it came out?
Oberyn had been key to arranging the first tendrils of her network, but it was the Queen that managed it. Few knew - she was careful.
Chataya, still beautiful in spite of mothering two daughters and a son since retiring from directly sleeping with clients, nevertheless was also one to keep her wits about her. "First, I shall require my compensation." Loyal, but for coin rather than genuine support… Summer Islanders though, when they were bought they stayed bought.
Elia raised her brow. "In what manner?"
"A new player in the game… a competitor."
The Queen smirked. "You have competition? Certainly your beautiful girls can outwork anyone."
"This person, he has generous benefactors and is quickly recruiting among the independent whores. Baelish is his name."
"Petyr Baelish?" Elia remembered that name, someone who floated around the circles of court with the sponsorship of the Tullys and Arryns. "He is a highborn, and one known to many. I cannot simply disappear him."
"I simply need to maintain a steady supply of the wealthiest clients to here, as opposed to him. That will enable me to stay ahead of all others."
Elia narrowed her eyes, but nodded. "I shall make sure your place receives the most patronage from those in court." All it would take was a few to visit here, and the rest would follow. Oberyn… Tyrion Lannister… and my goodbrother. Loathe was she to ask Viserys for a favor, but Chataya never requested something for which she had nothing to reciprocate. "Now what whispers did you hear of?"
Chataya, sighing, gestured for them to sit down next to each other upon the bed. It was clean and neat, but who knew how many sweaty bodies of both sexes had coupled upon it. In any case, Elia did, folding her arms over her lap and waiting. "My half-sister… she runs a brothel in Pentos."
"The family business, it seems."
Snorting, Chataya rolled her eyes. "Seems to be, I suppose." She continued. "In any case, she handles the tastes of men desiring both women and girls… and men and boys."
"I wouldn't expect anything different." Best to maximize profit.
"She… recently fulfilled a request for a lean, Lysene boy with long silver hair for a certain client that wouldn't give a true name. Only an alias, though a very good one. Anyone different wouldn't have thought anything amiss."
"Another trait the family shares, a keen eye." Whores, at least the successful or long-living ones, tended to have such crafty minds. Same with royals, the industrious ones that is. "Who is this client? And why would I care?"
Chataya smirked darkly. "The man had fire-red hair, and insisted the lad's features matched that of his Grace."
Elia's eyes widened in surprise… and clenched her fists in rage. Connington… Varys had divulged he had been a drunk trying to join several sellsword companies even as Targaryen agents hunted for him - Jonothor Darry managed to, after all. "What else about him?"
"He was in the company of Harry Strickland, a captain in the Golden Company."
"Oh?" That was not good. "Anyone else?"
"Aye, someone who also had silver hair… a little older than Princess Rhaenys, and with tastes completely divergent of his companion, demanding lithe girls his elder." Chataya clasped her hands together. "Additionally, one of the girls noticed a dragonglass amulet he wore… a black dragon on a ruby field." That truly gained Elia's attention for a second time.
Finally departing a quarter-hour later, Elia further pulled the hood over her face just as another cloaked figure approached. "Are you alright, your Grace?" murmured Alliser Thorne.
With no one of her own blood here - or related to her by marriage such as Benjen or Dacey - Alliser was one of the few she could trust to operate this with discretion… and not to be noticed as someone like Ser Barristan would "I'm fine."
"Anything of note from that… woman?" The last came out as a near obscenity.
Elia shook her head. "No, nothing," she lied. Could be a coincidence… or more proof that there are Blackfyres remaining. Perhaps she could finally crack the mystery she'd been chasing without result for ages. Not that the result would be anything she wished to transpire.
"Never seen him spar with only one blade before," Sansa said, nevertheless entranced as her cousin fought as if the sword were an extension of his arm. Wish I could loose arrows as well as he fights. Seven hells, as well as Dany fought.
"Believe me, he's clunky at the moment." For someone that learned how to fight with two - given Arthur Dayne was his teacher - transitioning back to one was far harder. "Though that's only what I can glean by observation. He'd never admit it."
Sansa smirked. "Boys."
Dany smirked back. "Aye, boys… and Rhaenys." That made them giggle.
The Moon Pool was beautiful at night. Illuminated by hundreds of oil lanterns kept lit by persons in the employ of the Sea Lord, it sat astride the Sweetwater River south of the Sea Lord's palace and underneath the even grander colonnade of the Iron Bank. Certainly shows the true ruler of Braavos, either the courtesans like Bellegere or the bankers. The latter… they'd need to come under their true identities to meet with them.
The place was crowded normally, but at night it was the sight of one of Braavos' more infamous traditions - dueling. Prospective warriors from all around the city gathered there to fight, most for fun but sometimes to the death if both agreed upon. But among the youth of the city… the location proved to be the premier area for budding warriors to gain skill by sparring with each other.
Under the supervision of the alter ego of Ser Arthur Dayne, one of those was Jon. Vanquishing another of the young students of a prominent swordsplay instructor in Braavos. The proprietor of an academy only two city blocks away and according to him, the former First Sword of the Sea Lord of Braavos. "Another one, Ser Syrio."
Arms crossed, Ser Syrio Forel was a slight man with olive-skin and curly hair. Nevertheless, he possessed the observant gaze of a warrior. "Your lad is strong, Ser. There's no doubt about that." But he pointed his finger at Dany. "You've told me your girl is a warrior though. That you taught her how to fight."
"Not me, my wife in Westeros," Arthur replied.
"Let's see her skills."
"Alright. Larra, you're up!" Daenerys gleefully drew her blade and entered into the impromptu ring at the western edge of the Moon Pool, sparkling in the light of the hundred lamps. It became apparent that Syrio's Braavosi pupils were quite embarrassed as Dany vanquished each of them. None so brazen to accost her though, likely Syrio's skill in teaching them. "I must thank my wife then," Arthur grinned.
Syrio though, he raised his brow. "I see… potential. Allow me to spar with her." The girl had fire, but fought like a man. That worked for some, but for her… "I shall be gentle, I promise."
Arthur shrugged. "If Larra is up to it. Larra?"
Daenerys nodded eagerly. "I'll be gracious when I vanquish you."
Beginning to circle round each other, the perceptive eye scanning around each other. Sizing each other up. "Now we will begin the dance," Ser Syrio remarked, twirling his blade. Not in the dexterous manner of Arthur, but in a sort of artistic flourish. Reminiscent of water coursing down from a pump. Nothing like any knight she had witnessed fighting.
"Need not be so dismissive, Ser Syrio," Dany chuckled, voice mimicking that of her goodsister, Queen Lyanna. "I am a good dancer."
Assuming his stance, the supposed First Sword of Braavos raised his blade. The finest of polished wood, which lent credence to his claims. "Remember, child, this is not the dance of the Westeros we are learning." He smirked. "The knight's dance, hacking and hammering, no. This is the Braavos dance."
"The Water Dance," I assume. "That's what your pupils call it. Their stance that leaves them vulnerable to my attacks." Lunging, she charged, fleet on her feet just as Rhaenys and Lyanna taught her.
Only for Syrio to glide out of the way. To her credit, Dany didn't overcharge or skid at the lack of contact, instead spinning herself and reforming her stance. "Very impressive, young girl. You've been taught well, in the vein of the warrior ladies that have emerged in your land." Dany thrust at him, but Syrio parried the strikes one-handed. Striking quickly and cleanly without any sign of struggle. "I sense much of Queen Lyanna in you."
Dany's brow rose, a slight fear forming in her gut. Does he know? "You know of how she spars?"
"Aye, I have seen her fight in Braavos. As I did her daughter, Princess Rhaenys. Strong fighters, tall and toned, able to overpower a knight with enough skill." Again did Dany attack, and again did Syrio sidestep out of the way, not a hair out of place. "But you are not tall and toned. Full of fire, but still slight and slender." When Daenerys snarled and charged for the final time, Syrio spun out of the way and smacked her hard upon the back. Sending Dany to the paved ground.
"No!" Jon almost called out her name, but managed to stop himself. He attempted to run to her, but a hand stopped him.
"Easy, lad," Arthur said. "This is a lesson she must learn."
"She's hurt," Sansa remarked to his side, gripping her hands together and biting her lip.
Arthur shook his head. "Only her pride. Trust me." He'd seen truly vicious hits in sparring. Ser Syrio was… quite restrained.
He was right. Sword at her neck, Dany pursed her lips and was close to screaming. "I yield… let not anyone say that I do not follow the doctrine of chivalry." If Brienne found out then she'd be carrying water for the horses for two weeks.
Reaching down, Syrio yanked her up and patted her on the shoulder. "You have skill and are spirited, never doubt this."
"And yet you easily defeated me."
"I am sure your knightly companion could as well, by the looks of him." He sighed. "You are skinny. That is good. The target is smaller, but that also means you cannot hope to try and fight them on the terms of strength, which is the path of a Westerosi Knight."
Sulking, Dany kicked at a pebble. "So what should I do? Give up the blade?"
"Not at all, sweet thing. The perfect form for you is the form I have mastered." Syrio gestured to his blade. "The Water Dance, it is swift and sudden. All men are made of water, do you know this? If you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die." He smiled to her. "And it requires speed and agility. Uses the foe's bullheaded strength against him. I think you would excel at it."
"Truly?" her mood soared.
Nodding, Syrio guided her back to Arthur. "Is there any chance that you would allow your girl to join my academy? I have no female pupils but that isn't by design - her skills and spirit are extraordinary."
"Your words are flattering, but I am afraid tonight is our last night in Braavos. But I will keep that in consideration if we return."
"I shall keep the both of you in my memory, then." He bowed. "Pupils, what do we say to the God of Death?"
"Not today!" they called out.
As soon as they were out of the fountains, both Jon and Sansa hugged Dany. "We're glad you aren't hurt," Sansa remarked.
"I'm fine, I'm fine, I promise." Daenerys brushed them off, smiling and laughing. "May have lost, but I had the best time."
"How do you figure?" Jon raised his brow and crossed his arms.
Dany grinned. "Don't care what I have to do, but that man is going to teach me to Water Dance. I will be Visenya yet."
"Careful then." Sansa giggled at her thought. "If you become an expert at it, it'll be you Arya will seek to badger and emulate rather than Rhaenys." The three children all found amusement at that.
"Remember, niece. Eyes up, back straight…"
"Aye, aunt Cersei. Chest out. Smile on my face."
Cersei chuckled as she watched her husband shake hands with Lady Barbery Dustin. Oh joy… her. "While that is something that will gain attention, best save that for when you are trying to find a husband." She looked down at her niece by marriage, someone whom she hoped would take Sansa, Joanna, or Arya - perhaps Arya would be best, given her wild nature - as a lady in waiting when they came of that age. "You're trying to appear more serious and regal. Sensual appeal… that can distract."
While flowered into a beautiful young woman, Rhaenys' northern gown in Targaryen colors hid enough to be called modest. "Understood." Remembering the face from when Cersei pointed her out early on, Rhaenys met the curtsey of the newest arrival. "Lady Dustin."
"Princess Rhaenys," Lady Barbery replied sourly - Rhaenys didn't take it as an insult, for she was this sour to everyone. "Forgive my husband for not being able to attend. He took the… summons to a woman's court quite literally."
Rhaenys couldn't help but snort with a smirk. "Well, I am sure you can give me an indication of his loyalty to my father's crown."
"Of course." Curtseying again, the Lady of Barrowtown made her way into the great hall.
Ned leaned in to kiss Cersei on the cheek. "Willam is a loyal bannerman of mine, niece. I wouldn't take offense at his not being here."
"I won't take offense, yet I won't forget either - uncle." She watched Ned sigh while Cersei mouthed 'Good job,' with a wink. If there was one that could match her own muna in political skill and intrigue, it was her aunt Cersei. Rhaenys felt quite fortunate to be able to learn under her. Not as fortunate as uncle is in that regard. While it drove Robb to distraction, Rhaenys was quite pleased to see that the ardor by which her aunt and uncle approached their marriage was as strong as her own parents.
As her grandmother told her once, happy relationships beget well-adjusted children - a cycle that both propagated itself and of which the converse was true.
Uncle Ned's voice drew her attention back to the task at hand. "Lord Karstark, welcome."
"Ned!" Rhaenys saw her uncle embraced by a lean, wiry man with a scraggly beard half red, half grey… and even the red was starting to fade. Nothing like his handsome son albeit the red hair. Torrhen must take after his mother. He was there too, slightly behind his father and smiling at Rhae. Rhae gave him a small smile in return - something Cersei noticed but failed to comment on. "When I was told the Princess here was planning to emulate Good Queen Alysanne, I immediately believed it." Lord Rickard took Rhaenys' hand in his and kissed it respectfully. "Don't believe the Seven shits when they speak, for you are Lya's daughter and thus my kin."
"Queen Lyanna, or her Grace, papa," Torrhen explained.
"Mind your manners, boy," grunted Lord Rickard, turning back to Rhaenys. "Mind him not. He's… impetuous with youth."
"I am well aware, my Lord," Rhaenys replied. "It is no issue, and welcome to Winterfell." She remembered he had a daughter. "Is Lady Alys to join us ladies?"
"She is." Rickard waved over a young girl about Rhaenys' age, hair kissed by fire and pretty in a cute, lanky way. Freckles dotting her cheek. "Lass, mind your words and only speak when spoken to, understood."
"Yes, poppa," she replied, quiet, though she did smile slightly when Torrhen kissed her forehead affectionately.
Rhaenys frowned, though let the emotions pass underneath her mask. "Lady Alys."
"Yes, your Grace?"
"I am here to hear the concerns of all women taking part. Feel free to say whatever is on your mind." The girl only nodded and curtseyed, heading inside. If Rickard Karstark seemed irritated at the deliberate counter to his command, he didn't show it. "Is that all, my Lord?" Rhaenys asked, feeling that her uncle and aunt were letting her take the reins.
But apparently it wasn't. "Torrhen here says that you were going to take him south to be your sworn sword."
Cersei's brow rose. "Is this true, niece?"
Rhaenys looked to him before clearing her throat. "I'm considering it." She was fond of Torrhen, but wasn't ready for anything permanent.
Rickard beamed as well as he could with his yellow teeth. "Wonderful, and may I ask for a favor… if you'll be so kind to grant me leave."
"Please ask, my Lord."
"We are kin, Karstark and Targaryen through the wonderful marriage of Queen Lyanna to King Rhaegar. As such, perhaps you could take my dear Alys to be your lady in waiting, and present him to your father the King as a potential bride for Crown Prince Baelon - to reaffirm the ties of kinship and alliance between us."
It was out of her mouth before she could stop herself. A chortle, Rhaenys' hand slipping up to cover her lips. Marriage… Jon and Alys Karstark… In the slim chance that Dany or Sansa would have anyone else in his bed, the girl that would be the consort to Baelon, First of His Name wouldn't be Alys Karstark - however nice the girl was. Unfortunately though, the laugh pretty much said that out loud and from the flash in Rickard's eyes and the wince from Torrhen… the damage was done. "Forgive me, my Lord, but Lady Margaery Tyrell is my lady in waiting. I cannot take another without permission of my munas."
"As a Princess, she can only have one," Cersei cut in, hand on Rhaenys' shoulder. "However, I am confident that Baelon will be fostering here within the next few years. We could have Alys foster here as well, and see if there is any spark between the two. Discussions could be made then."
Pursing his lips, Rickard nodded. "That would be acceptable, Lady Stark." He bowed again. "Ladies, Ned." Taking Torrhen by the arm, a chance for him and Rhaenys to share some words before the court wouldn't be occurring.
When they were out of earshot, Rhaenys turned to Cersei. "Aunt, it just slipped out…"
"Later," Cersei insisted. "You don't want to keep the women waiting… go…" Taking a deep breath, Rhaenys hugged her uncle once more before holding her head high and entering the great hall.
The written tales of Gyldayn, Barth, and Prince Baelon the Brave were ones that Rhaenys poured through as a child, influenced by her dear muna Lyanna and her love of Targaryen history and lore. Queen Visenya was her favorite, as she was Dany's, but the tale of Queen Alysanne wasn't glossed over. A woman loved rather than feared, yet never doubted or disrespected. Strong yet loving… perhaps as much a role model as the warrior women - Visenya, Rhaena, Rhaenys the Queen who Never Was, and Daena. And the stories told of her in the North that Lyanna also spoke of to her… those had stuck hard for Rhaenys.
And here she was, in the middle of what made Alysanne so loved even centuries after her death among the most isolated Kingdom in Westeros for the longest time. The women's court.
Only the guards were men, watching over Rhaenys in Benjen's sake, Lady Cersei in Jory's sake, and for the sake of the others watching over the various highborns that they came with. Yet they weren't allowed to speak, instead the forum allowing for the women of the North to air their desires, grievances, and opinions without fear. Rhaenys sat at the chair meant for the Lord of Winterfell, Cersei and her aunt Dacey flanking her, while Ashara, Obara, and young Joanna were seated at the ends of the head table. Watching over an entire hall of women. Highborn to smallfolk alike, though they tended to segregate.
Sometimes, Rhaenys smiled and enjoyed the back and forth as women of all stripes proffered their suggestions of where the crown and Winterfell could focus on. Improved roads, larger smithies to forge more farm equipment for plowing, a school for the growing population of affluent merchant children in Wintertown, proper training for midwives and healers… Wynafryd Manderly even suggested funding for a sewer system in White Harbor modeled after that in King's Landing that the Queens sponsored. Those were happy matters to discuss.
There were moments where Rhaenys felt like pulling her hair out. Many among the women - led by Barbery Dustin and Lady Glover, though Lady Whitehill was nearly a ringleader from loudness alone - cast disparagement upon others remaining nameless for failing to maintain northern customs. I feel that the targets are obvious. The Manderlys obviously, the Forresters for seeking to foster Mira with the Tyrells. The Umbers for marrying Westermen… list went on, and for this Rhaenys spent much time trying to placate matters.
She reserved much time for later to think on the issues. On how to bring the customs of the First Men to parity with that of the Andals that dominated the North in both men and cultural power.
And there were moments that brought the Princess close to breaking… the moments that made the stories of Alysanne in the North truly come alive - and not in ways she would've desired. "Your… your Grace," murmured a woman… no, a young girl rather, likely no more than a few years older than Rhaenys herself. "I… I…" Her gaze fell to the ground.
Rhaenys bid her to look at her. "Please, my Lady, look to me." The girl did, tears welling in her eyes and trembling. "What is your name?"
"R… Ralla…" she murmured. "I live… near Dreadfort, your Grace."
House Bolton. "What is it that you wish to petition me about, Ralla?"
Sniffling, the girl took a few steps closer before falling to her knee. "Your Grace… I git married moons ago… my husband, my love… he a good man. We're farmers, poor and stuck in a snowstorm so we married quickly. I… Lord Bolton wasn't there… I wasn't able to ask his leave to wed…"
Leaning over to her aunt Dacey, Rhaenys whispered, "I thought first night was abolished by Alysanne's law."
"It was," Dacey replied. "But the custom of requiring a Liege Lord's leave to wed if one is sworn to him still is enforced. It isn't merely a matter in the North, but across Westeros… at least outside the populated regions."
Biting her lip, Rhaenys feared the worst. "Where is your husband?"
Ralla sobbed softly, hands covering her face. "In the dungeons at Dreadfort, your Grace… we only had the one night together… I fear… I fear…" the sobs grew out of control…
Standing from her seat, everyone standing as she did and bowing slightly, Rhaenys approached the crying woman and pulled her upright. Giving her a tight, comforting embrace. "Aunt Cersei?"
"Yes, your Grace?" While as a Princess, Rhaenys outranked her, she knew her aunt Cersei wouldn't follow an order that was impertinent or foolish. And Rhaenys wouldn't ask that of her.
"Inform Lord Bolton that Ralla's husband is to be released."
"At once."
"Shhh… shhh…" Rhaenys comforted. The more things changed, the more things stayed the same apparently - there would always be fights to fight.
Even if she wasn't traveling the world as a smallfolk, there were still realities for Rhaenys to face where she wouldn't within the Red Keep - safe and sheltered with the Targaryen name. She welcomed it.
"Right lad," Arthur spoke, wrapping his chainmail in a clean cloth before setting it in a large chest. Not small, yet not overly bulky at the same time - perfect to be carried on a small mule cart. "You only get one case on the cart, so everything else goes on your back or in your arms."
"Don't worry, Ser," Jon called back, bowing respectfully… though in his eyes were a twinkle of modest mischief. "It is not I among us that refuses to travel light."
His comment got a balled up sock thrown at his head. "Shut it, nephew!" hissed Dany, herself forced to coordinate with Sansa in how to pack their recent purchases. While quite circumspect in comparison to their jaunts to the Street of Silk back in King's Landing, it was nevertheless a significant addition to their threadbare baggage. Arthur had wished for a simple pack mule for their landward journey from Braavos to Pentos, but the girls' needs made him spend for a cart.
Arthur planned for circumstances like these and had the coin, but it still irked him. "The same applies to you two, ladies."
Sansa snorted. "You wanted us to explore the local culture as simple smallfolk maidens, so we did."
"Not the point. This is not a pleasure trip."
"My hands have handled enough lye soap to last a lifetime." While for no means idle, fine leather gloves kept Dany's hands rather soft even through swordsplay and dragonriding. "Qyburn better have a salve for this cracked palm."
"Robb used to say that the washerwomen dipped their hands in piss," Jon spoke.
Daenerys blanched. "Truly?"
Next to him, Sansa smacked his arm. "Don't go telling lies."
"Oww… what lies? That's what Robb said… I didn't believe him though."
"Who would be dumb enough to believe that?"
"I dunno, but Artie kicked his ass later in the day so I guess he bought it enough to try." The three kids laughed merrily at the thought, continuing their packing with smiles and a much brighter demeanor.
Watching with a chuckle, Arthur slipped out as best he could. Closing the door and walking down the rickety stairs of their rooming house. Blade at his side, he wasn't worried for them given the direwolves and Jon's skills could keep them protected. Dany's too. The Sworn Sword of the Sealord's words rang true… Daenerys may have been Lyanna's pupil much as Rhaenys was, but she was delicate. Fierce, but nonetheless delicate. Regardless of her dreams and choices of weapons, the Princess would need a better technique more fitted for her style. Perhaps Ser Syrio could be tempted to come to the Red Keep? Couldn't hurt to ask once the journey was over.
Thankfully, the cart was outside along with the previous owner. "Ere' you are, Ser. Right on time," he told Arthur, gesturing to the mule.
Arthur nodded. "Keep an eye on it for me while I get my children." He gestured to the blade on his belt. "And don't try anything foolish."
"Not a problem," he replied, paling a bit. Even incognito, the Sword of the Morning could intimidate any man.
Walking back inside the inn, a young, shapely woman approached him. "Care for an hour of your time?" Her accent was Braavosi, but sultry. Less refined than the girls of Lady Bellegere's courtesans but nonetheless just as part of the trade as theirs.
What Arthur saw was a woman that couldn't come close to Dacey's beauty. "Not this time, love." Eying her over though, he nevertheless removed something from his coat. "But tell the Crown Viper my regards."
Taking the scroll in her hand, the whore snuck it in the folds of her dress. "I shall be sure to tell her of that, handsome." With that, she turned and glided out in search of her newest fare… and to complete the task that paid ten times as much.
Best that their Graces' do not get worried. Who knew? Lady Crane and Ser Syrio could be in King's Landing by the time Arthur returned.
A/N: Seems Dany found her style of fighting.
Elia is giving Varys a run for his money.
Poor Rhaenys. At the cusp of one of her triumphs, she makes a big mistake.
Till Next time :D