Chapter Text
Three Years Ago —311 AC
Qohor
Tales about Qohor were as varied as they were fanciful. The maesters of Westeros thought it to be the most exotic of the Free Cities, and with its histories rife with stories of the dark sinister arts and beasts wrought from mists and shadows, it was easy to believe it to be so. Lhazar might have been home to the forbidden sorcery that could have ripped Lexa from her mother, all those years ago when the Dragon Queen was but a wife to a dying khal, but even that witchery wouldn’t stand against that of Qohor’s. For Qohor was home to the unholy pursuits of blood magic and necromancy, and along its streets lay secrets protected with both slaughter and alchemy.
Qohor was the easternmost of the daughters of Valyria, with mysteries that ran deeper than in Norvos and Lorath, and Lexa could admit to being inordinately intrigued.
And so she found herself wandering its roads and alleyways, observing the people running about in their daily business. It was easy to blend here, with her dark hair and green eyes, and not for the first time did she feel grateful that she didn’t inherit her mother’s pale features. Sure, it would have been easier to assert her lineage if she looked the part, but Lexa found that having a dragon served that purpose far more effectively. And in situations in which she wanted to be a mere observer, well, she could achieve seamless anonymity without any trouble.
With this anonymity it didn’t take long for Lexa to ingratiate herself in Qohor’s busy marketplace, haggling with merchants or simply scrutinising their wares. Her eyes missed nothing—Arya thought her better than be careless, especially when in search of information—and her natural gift with languages allowed her to speak the Qohorik tongue smoothly and fluently, as if she were born there and had always been one of them.
Her bloodriders were somewhere across the city, with errands of their own that they would dare not disregard despite wishing to be by her side instead. It had been a source of friction between her and Anya lately, for the latter believed such distance would invite more harm than necessary.
“What is a bloodrider without a khal?” Anya had said. “We are your weapons, and we are to stand with you against your enemies!”
“I am Blood of the Dragon, Anya,” Lexa had pointed out. “And either way, if I cannot remove the enemies from my path myself, then I have no business being my mother’s Heir.”
It was enough to quiet Anya’s dissent, at least for a time. Lexa was sure that sooner or later, she would again insist on allowing them to accompany her, regardless of the fact that Lexa was not a khal anyway.
(But then again, there was no arguing with Anya regarding her duty and her position.
Lexa’s father had been dead for years and all his glory had been rendered worthless the moment he fell down his horse. But his blood had remained and his legacy had been reforged with silver and dragonfire, and now his offspring was on her way to be the Stallion of the prophecy.
She was the daughter of Drogo and the last of the Dragons of Valyria, and her destiny was to be the vezh fin saja rhaesheseres, as proclaimed that day by the Dosh Khaleen.
She had united all the khalasars of the Great Grass Sea, and the Dothraki horde, for the first time, had given their loyalty to a khalakki. The entirety of Vaes Dothrak had fallen on their knees before this girl with green eyes and the command of a fire beast, and that had been enough for Anya to decide that khal or no khal, Lexa would accept her as a bloodrider.
Never mind the part where tradition dictated that only a khal could ask a Dothraki to be his bloodrider.
Lexa, for her part, had been far too exhausted and confused to debate the matter, until such a time that it was too late to do anything about it.)
For the moment, however, Lexa would content herself with the knowledge that she could do as she pleased so long as she returned to their agreed meeting place by the end of the day. But, of course, watching how Qohor and its people thrive was not her sole motivation.
It was almost a game, learning more about the Ice Queen’s plans. Lexa took almost as much pleasure in unravelling Azgeda from within as in solving the riddles of Qohor. But where in the latter there’s only a childish fulfilment of her curiosity and fascination, the former held something a little more potent.
She wanted the Ice Queen’s head on a spike, and she would have it.
(“King’s Landing is but a nest of vipers, Your Grace,” Tyrion had told her mother. “And you shall be prepared to behead them before they can sink their fangs and work their venom.”
“Well, Tyrion,” the Silver Queen had replied, “the scales of a dragon are far stronger than vipers and their venom, do you not think so?”
“Let them bite and do their worst,” Lexa had then said, before Tyrion could speak. “A nest of vipers, no matter how large, is nothing compared to dragon’s breath.”
She could still remember her mother’s proud smile.)
Vengeance was never something House Targaryen treated lightly, and aside from the actual breathing dragons, this facet of her lineage was another one that Lexa had no trouble getting behind.
Fire and blood were the words of her House, and to fire and blood the Ice Queen would fall.
Young Crow enjoyed working in the forge. When she was living in her father’s house, she had always found joy tinkering with metals and dismantling whichever objects fall within her reach, but that paled in comparison to what she felt when she’s working the bellows or hunching over the workbench she had only just earned.
(Jacopo, called Sinclair in the blacksmiths guild, was strict and stern in his rules, but he saw her potential and saw it a worthy cause to polish her rough skills into a shine. After years under his unyielding tutelage, he finally deemed her capable enough to actually have her own workstation in the forge, and Young Crow was resolute to use it as much as she could. She certainly would show Sinclair that she was deserving of his trust.)
The metal sang each time she brought her hammer down, and she barely felt the strain in her arms as she swung harder and harder. There was a certain peace, here in the forge, the only sounds her laboured breathing, the crackling fire, and the metal ringing. It was almost a dance, each step measured and each movement calculated to form something magnificent and lasting and strong. It made the blood in her veins bubble with satisfaction, seeing her creations take shape the way she intended.
There’s no place she’d rather be than here in sweltering heat, her shirt and breeches damp with sweat and the salt stinging her eyes. Young Crow was sure of it.
“A lost crown of your bloodline. It was seen somewhere in Norvos.”
“Are you sure about this?” Lexa asked Anya beside her, and she had to bite back a grin at the latter’s indignant glare.
“Of course I am sure,” Anya replied, obviously vexed that she would be questioned at all. She leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed. “I am no novice to make silly mistakes, Zaldrīzo Ᾱnogar, especially about a silly crown.”
“Of course,” she said amicably. She turned to Luna and Lincoln, both seated more formally across her. “And what news do you have for me?”
Luna slid a piece of parchment across the table. “We heard whispers of Nia’s plans in getting support from the Triarchs of Volantis. She seeks to marry off her only son to a triarch’s daughter, solidifying an alliance.”
“No wonder Volantis is keeping quiet despite my repeated requests for their cooperation.” Lexa’s lips curled in distaste, her eyes narrowing. “It appears they have picked their side now.”
“The Volantene emissaries have always been vague in their promises, filled with false platitudes, and you know the triarchs themselves never truly accepted the khaleesi’s rule.” Anya scoffed. “A city of cowards, they are, ruled by the most cowardly of all.”
“Is there any information on this son of hers?”
“None except a name,” said Luna. “He’s called Roan, prince of Azgeda.”
“A false prince to a false queen.” Lexa smiled dryly. “How terribly quaint.”
“I can’t wait to carve him up,” said Anya predictably, and Lexa was already shaking her head.
“Not yet.”
“What do you mean ‘not yet’?” Anya pulled a face, clearly baffled. “Would you want to wait until, what, you’ve talked and braided flowers in each other’s hair?”
She raised an eyebrow at Anya, who merely looked more petulant. “He’s Nia’s most important pawn right now, but a pawn all the same. I wish to understand his mother’s game first before making a move.”
“That is not the way of the Dothraki.”
“No, it is not, but I am not just a Dothraki,” she pointed out. “You have known this even before you knelt and pledged yourself to me.”
“Even so.”
She shook her head again, letting Anya grumble, before turning forward once more. “There’s no indication that a wedding is going to happen any time soon, which means, though Volantis is inclined to resist my mother’s sovereignty, their alliance with Azgeda isn’t yet set in stone. It hardly seems like Nia is someone who’s keen on being kept waiting.” Lexa hums thoughtfully. “We have been here a while, as well. So why haven’t we heard anything yet? Why are the triarchs not playing their hand?”
“I, uh, I heard something, down in the square,” Lincoln said, speaking up for the first time.
“What is it?”
“The guilds are quarrelling with each other. Something about spies in their midst.”
“There are always disputes amongst guilds,” Luna said.
“True,” agreed Lincoln, “but this is something they take more seriously. It’s something to do with the secrets of forging Valyrian steel.”
That intrigued Lexa. “That’s the most closely guarded secret of the blacksmiths guild, is it not?”
“Yes. And it appears that one of the blacksmiths have chosen an apprentice to whom he’d pass on his trade.”
“That’s what usually happens in guilds and smithies,” Lexa said, confused. “How is this in any way connected to the matter with Azgeda?”
“The chosen apprentice,” he began, haltingly, “according to the whispers, is the daughter of the Tiger Triarch of Volantis.”
His words rendered them silent as the implications settled.
“That’s why the triarchs aren’t doing anything?” asked Anya. “The daughter is here in Qohor?”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Luna. “The Tiger Triarch wouldn’t have let his daughter step foot outside of Volantis without guards, much less work the forge. And if this daughter was chosen to inherit the secrets of Qohorik metalwork, she would have had to be here, as a pupil and aide, for years.”
“When was the last time Malaquo Maegyr appeared in public with his family?” Lexa asked, already knowing the answer. The triarchs liked flaunting their riches and their properties, and despite how repugnant Lexa found it, the fact was that here in Essos, daughters were seen as nothing more than their fathers’ bartering chips. And during all the discussions she’d had with the triarchs in recent years, she could not remember ever seeing a daughter nor hearing about one.
“It’s been years,” Lincoln confirmed her thoughts. He’s frowning in that pensive way he had, and Lexa could almost see the threads he was trying to weave together. “There were some who spoke of a missing kēli in the Tiger Triarch’s household. The second time that happened, they said.”
“The second?” Anya said. “How many daughters does he have?”
“I don’t know. But if the first one went missing and the second one somehow found herself in Qohor, then maybe that’s why he’s so adamant to keep it under wraps.”
“Indeed,” Lexa said. “The fact that he managed to lose two of his properties won’t bode well, would it? It would also explain why they’re not giving Nia an answer yet. Perhaps they plan on . . . retrieving this kēli to do as they bid.” She sighed, already dreading just how deep they would have to dig to get to the bottom of whatever scheme the triarchs and Azgeda had devised.
“And what did you mean ‘spy’?” she asked Lincoln. “There’s a spy in the blacksmiths guild?”
Lincoln nodded. “It appears so.”
“Do you think the kēli was the spy, then?” asked Anya.
He shrugged, clearly at a loss.
Lexa ran a hand through her hair. “I think it not likely at all,” she told them. “As Luna said, Malaquo Maegyr would never let his daughter leave Volantis like that. And working the forge would be seen beneath his station too. No matter how much they want to learn the secrets of Valyrian steel—and believe me, I know how precious that knowledge could be—he still would not send her here for that. The risks are too great, and the uncertainty of the endeavour too immense to wage on.” She fell quiet, then, thinking of her cyvasse board in Meereen. Pieces were scattered across the continent, each faction with their own plays and their own goals.
The blood of the dragon growled. Lexa would enjoy undoing them all and driving them to ruins, just as they deserved.
Anya was drumming her fingers on the table, watching her intently for several seconds. “Well?” she said, finally. There’s a glint in her eyes that said she knew what Lexa was feeling. “What would you have us do, Commander?”
Lexa smiled the smile of a Dragon of Valyria. “Let’s find ourselves a spy,” she said.
Weeks later
An altar for the Black Goat, god of Qohor
Young Crow was struggling against the ropes, sobbing around the cloth used to quiet her. Her wrists were throbbing where the bindings got too tight, and there were cuts along her arms from when her captors tried to slash her open. She couldn’t see anything through the black fabric tied around her head, but she could hear scuffles and muffled screams. There was the clanging of metal on metal and the slice through flesh, and she could feel something warm and sticky pooling on where she was kneeling.
And then there was silence, but the echoes remained in her ears.
Someone gripped her arms and she startled, before flailing and trying to get them to let her go.
“Ah, graddakh!” a female voice yelled. “Settle down!”
Was that Dothraki? Young Crow struggled harder. Gods, the Dothraki were not supposed to be in Qohor, and Qohor was supposed to pay them to keep them from getting in the city. What was happening? Were they being invaded? Dread pooled at the pit of her stomach. It would not do to be held prisoner by the Dothraki, despite what the people were saying about their changed ways.
“Calm down, will you!” the voice yelled again. “I can’t free you if you keep struggling like a pig to be slaughtered!”
“Anya!” Young Crow heard another voice. “Do not harm her.”
“Harm her?!” the first voice—Anya?—said, incredulous. “She’s the one likely to harm me!”
There were quiet mutterings as the second voice seemed to be cursing, and then there’s a sword being unsheathed.
Young Crow braced herself for whatever they were going to do. Her throat hurt and her eyes were stinging, but she’s not going down without a fight.
And then she’s sinking forward as the rope was cut from where it’s tied behind her, and she was saved from falling by a gentle hand holding her shoulder. Then the fabric covering her face was lifted, and she blinked against the bright lights from the torches.
She gasped again—or tried to, what with the binds still on her mouth—when her eyes adjusted and she finally processed the scene before her.
She’s in a temple of the Black Goat, that much she could glean, but there were bodies of his disciples littering the floor. All unmoving. All dead.
She noticed the pool of blood around her, and she realised she was on some kind of altar. Her heart stuttered in an uneven beat, and then she’s flinching from the hand still holding her up, but the grip grew stronger, forcing her still. The odds were not in her favour, and she’s scared out of her skin, but still she tried to steady her breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
They could have killed her already, right? And the fact that they hadn’t yet meant that they must want something from her.
Her eyes turned to her captors, and her heartbeat became even more frantic.
One of them, a woman with sharp eyes and even sharper cheekbones, was glaring at her. Her long hair was arranged in intricate braids. Blood was spattered all over her clothes.
Young Crow thought she was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen.
She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. If Death finds me now, I would have no regrets, she thought, a far cry from what she was thinking earlier.
She wasn’t given a chance to examine that further, for then another of her captors stepped before her.
This one held herself differently, but with an air familiar enough to Young Crow that she couldn’t help but stiffen. That was the air of a ruler, someone who expected her every word to be obeyed. There was a red scarf around her neck, and she’s loosely holding a sword still dripping with blood.
“I won’t hurt you,” this one said. “Jemot kivio ñuhe tepan. But I need you to promise that you would listen to what we have to say and not struggle anymore.”
Young Crow scowled. Not happening.
The beautiful one spoke. “Perhaps you should explain first before removing her bindings.”
Ah, her voice. So she was Anya. Young Crow tried to dispel the hot spike of guilt she felt at giving her a hard time earlier. She was still their prisoner, after all.
“Very well,” said the other one. She fixed her eyes on Young Crow’s, gaze steady and voice gentle. “I am Alexandria Targaryen, descended from Old Valyria. My bloodriders and I are here to rescue you, Morgana Maegyr.”
At the sound of her old name Young Crow could help but whimper, the sound pitiful around the cloth. Alexandria winced, her eyes full of sympathy, and she nodded to the one beside Young Crow, who then removed the cloth carefully. Then her wrists were being unbound too, and she sighed as she finally had freedom of movement.
There was another woman on Young Crow’s other side, offering her a leather flagon. Young Crow was thirsty, and the gentle nod of encouragement from Alexandria was enough to convince her to take her chances. She shakily gripped the flagon and raised it to her lips.
The water tasted marvellous on her parched tongue.
When she’s finally done drinking, nearly emptying the flagon, she met Alexandria’s gaze again. “How do you know that name?”
“There were spies here in the city,” came the matter-of-fact reply, “and some managed to infiltrate your guild. They were quite ready to offer you to their god, for you have the blood of a Tiger Triarch.”
“That’s not an answer.” Young Crow weighed her words. “Why are you rescuing me?”
Alexandria shrugged. “No one deserves to be sacrificed to a god, especially if it’s a god one doesn’t even believe in.”
“Is that all?”
“No.”
“You killed the followers of the Black Goat and practically tainted their sacred ground.” Young Crow rubbed at her sore wrists. “If you are who you say you are, then you know that Qohor would take it as a grave insult. They will seek recompense and declare enmity with you and the Dragon Queen.”
“They will,” Alexandria said. She swung her sword, flicking off the remaining blood before wiping the blade off her cloth vambrace. Her eyes glinted like darkened emeralds, and her voice was strong with the authority of her forebears. “I am looking forward to that.”
That surprised Young Crow, and her alarm and interest both grew the more she learned about this dragonlord’s plan.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I think that you will help me achieve my goals.”
“And why is that?”
Alexandria’s eyes held secrets and death, but her smile was wrapped in light amusement. “You want to move forward,” she said. “But to do that you have to look back. But you’re scared, are you not, of what you will see? Both in the past you’re trying so hard to escape and the future you’re desperate to run to?”
Those words could have been swords with how quickly they cut through Young Crow’s thoughts.
“I offer you a way to do both, and it would be in your own terms.”
“And what is your price?”
“Nothing you won’t be willing to pay.”
“You assume too much about me, dragonlord.”
“I don’t assume, not really. I know.” Alexandria met her eyes. “You are Morgana Maegyr, and more than anything, you want to see your family across the Narrow Sea.”
Young Crow near stopped breathing.
“I can give you that. I can show you Rhaesh Andahli. And more than that, I can help you meet her.”
There was the roar of blood in her ears. “Konir sagon kostos daor.”
“Ah, but I assure you that it is.” Alexandria offered Young Crow her hand, arm outstretched. “Come with me, Young Crow, and you shall finally find that which you desire.”
It was an easy choice.
“If I do this,” Young Crow said, “I get one more thing.”
“And that is?”
“I get to behead my father myself.”
Alexandria grinned. “The honour will be yours.”
Young Crow clasped Alexandria’s arm, and for the first time in years, Morgana Maegyr smiled.