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“Kill the queen,” she whispered mantra-like in dull tones, and looked up into the abyss of a midnight sky. “Do as you’re told, and your orders are to kill a queen.”
She'd had a name once. It didn't matter. Names were for other people who belonged somewhere, to someone. A girl belonged nowhere and to no one, and in that, she was boundless.
(But belong you did, a voice had begun to whisper, louder by the day. And belong you still do, if you stopped hiding.)
She'd had a home once. It didn't matter. Home was a memory, a relic of a past she no longer claimed. This was the present and a girl cared little for ancient history.
(Needle and a beloved brother’s smile.)
She'd had a family once. It didn't matter. Family were a temporary comfort. A transient moment in one’s life. A girl had let them go and a girl had been set free for it.
(The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Hear their call, wolf child.)
Everything would be clear once she’d proved her merit, the kindly man had said. Do as she was told and a girl would find the truth she had been waiting for.
And there was one person standing between her and that truth she so desperately sought.
One person she was watching now.
oOo
Her first thought was: she does not look like a dangerous threat.
Her second was: neither do I.
The Targaryen Queen was a beauty, the gossips said. She was young and she was naive and she was the daughter of a madman. The Targaryen Queen had silver hair and purple eyes, she was gentle and she was fierce and she was a hero to thousands. The Mother of Dragons. Goddess and tyrant. Daenerys Targaryen was the heir of a ruined empire. Daenerys Targaryen was claiming her birthright. Daenerys Targaryen sought the Iron Throne.
The rumours were endless.
But a girl did not see her and think, goddess. A girl did not see her dragons and think, monsters.
A girl looked at her and thought, would you be different?
She had once known a queen and a throne made of iron. Had known the price of ambition and the sting of power. Murder and betrayal and deceit, wrapped in silks and false smiles and shiny crowns. The names changed and the faces blurred but the wheel kept spinning and the blood kept spilling and as a girl watched this Targaryen queen scorch away the rot and rebuild from the ashes, she wondered:
Would you be different?
oOo
And so, as fire and blood burned the earth, she burned with it.
The flames were in her heart these days, and it made her wonder. Wonder about their fierceness; with broken chains and chanting slaves. Wonder about their power; of birthrights and a queen who knew far too little of manipulation and far too much of mercy. Such soaring promise could only be followed by the hardest of falls, a rising star smashing into foam and dust: a girl was left confused and yearning, lost amidst the smoke.
She didn’t know when Daenerys Targaryen had slipped under her skin. The queen was nothing as the whispers had claimed: devious, power-hungry, mother of monsters.
(You have a monster of your own, you live beneath its skin)
Daenerys was a child barely older than she, vulnerable and bold, with a taste for justice and a desire for home. A girl looked for a demon and came away empty-handed.
Kill her, a harsh voice whispered in her head, sounding strange and unfamiliar, do as you’re commanded. Only then will you be what you have trained so long for.
Does she deserve to die? another softer voice replied, more like the Arya Stark she had once known. The masters deserve their fate. The slaves deserve to be free. Kill her and their chains will bind them forever.
Back and forth they go, in something she considered a game she could never win. The girl with no name and the girl once called Arya Stark - she undulated between the two, telling herself that one day, someday soon, one will conquer the other and she’d know what needed to be done.
Daenerys Targaryen remained none the wiser, watched and judged as she was from the shadows.
The time to act grew closer by the day, and a decision would be made.
oOo
Step into the room, calm and detached. No panic inside, only a kind of numbness that came with a mission. No sound, except for the faint, wicked whisper filling up the empty spaces inside her and the soft stirrings of her soul.
She passed by a mirror, her features flashing, and stopped; something new and exotic lay painted there, stark as hands clasped to a screaming face. She took a deep breath, and looked again.
The same borrowed face, surely. A very ordinary face, with a nose too long and lips too thin for her liking; no real beauty to the mishmash of features. Harsh black hair fell around her, holding her in eternal mourning. The same servant’s face she had worn for so long, she wildly wondered if it would ever come off.
Same...but different. Not as different as it once was; there was something familiar lurking. For a moment, she thought she saw another face beneath her mask, winter's face, with endless grey eyes that were fierce as a snowstorm, and shimmered like midnight's first breath. Long and solemn and so much like home -
She swatted at the mirror suddenly, as if that could brush away the illusion, and saw only herself.
Stupid, Mercy told herself, and turned back to her mission.
The queen was sat at a desk, one finger tapping the wood rhythmically as she read a letter. She was extraordinary to look at. Silver hair fell in sleek curls, framing an exquisite face in a caress. There was something strangely vulnerable about her; perhaps in the tired posture, a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders.
Mercy must have made a noise - stupid, she was trained for this! - because the queen glanced up immediately.
“Yes, what is it? I’d quite like to be left alone, if it isn’t urgent." There was a softness in her expression and though her eyes were a bright violet, shadows haunted them. Exhaustion made mortals out of conquerors.
Mercy felt a quiet discomfort beginning to brew inside her, and quickly smothered it. "I...came to see if there was something I could help with. Perhaps prepare a bath or some dinner before bed. Is...is everything alright, Your Grace?" she managed.
A pause, then a deep sigh. "It’s been a very long day, that’s all.” Daenerys surveyed her with interest. “But I wouldn’t mind a little company. Mercy, isn’t it? I don’t believe we’ve had a proper chance to be acquainted.” The queen waved a hand at a nearby chair and smiled warmly. “I like to know who’s in my service, you see.”
Mercy blinked and nodded carefully, watching for any flash of suspicion. “As you wish, Your Grace.” She moved to sit lightly on the edge, poised to attack if needed.
Daenerys’ eyebrow quirked. “Tell me something about yourself, Mercy. I hear you’re from Braavos. A long journey for one as young as yourself. Do you miss home terribly?”
Mercy cocked her head and appraised the other woman stoically. “There was nothing left for me there. It hasn’t been the easiest of roads, I admit, but moving forward is all we can do. So I am.”
“If we look back, we are lost,” came the wistful response, lithe as a sea breeze. The queen’s face glazed over. “I lived in Braavos once, for a time. It’s been years, I sometimes wonder if it was all a dream.” She sat back in her chair and stared out the window, beyond the city walls and into the abyss of memories.
Kill the queen. Do it now, while she is vulnerable.
“What was your home like?”
Mercy paused and slowly unclenched her hand, feeling her heart speed up. Something felt different; it was as intangible as winter’s first sigh, barely discernible, yet it was there all the same. She took a deep breath, and another.
“It was beautiful, Your Grace. It had stone walls you could climb for hours and woods to run through and a hearth always burning. And - and there was always someone to sit with. It was the only safe place left in this world.” She paused. “I just didn’t know it then.”
Daenerys’ face twitched and she turned away quickly, rubbing at her eyes. She looked weary, the weight of a dynasty resting on her too-young shoulders. “That sounds lovely. I’ve never truly known what home means. I’m hoping I shall find it soon.” Her violet eyes brightened imperceptibly with yearning.
The question was out before she could stop it. "What do you want with Westeros, Your Grace?”
It was highly improper, Mercy realised, and Daenerys’ gaze narrowed immediately. But she had to know.
The queen assessed her mutely, and Mercy almost thought she would be thrown out in an instant, but to her surprise (she was always surprised nowadays, it seemed), Daenerys shuddered. "Peace. Any kind of peace."
Something raw and brittle shone in her eyes, broken glass that promised to cut just as easily as she lashed at her enemies. "My brother and I spent years running, hiding, always afraid, always alone. The rebellion never ended for us.” Her face flashed with unreserved anger, fire simmering beneath the perfect façade. “Robert made sure of it. But now, I hear word that Westeros is in chaos and injustice has prevailed. Little boys and girls, children as Viserys and I had been, are being driven from their homes - just as we were. They are my people, Westeros is my home and it is my duty, as its rightful queen, to put an end to the chaos. If I don’t - who will?”
She sat absolutely still, but Mercy saw the flames burning through the dragon queen now. And yet - she reminded her of snowfall, forming and reforming at every instant. It was a wonder to witness.
So swallowing down her anxiousness, swallowing down her fear, Mercy took a deep breath and made her decision.
Her fingers reached up and tugged at the invisible line at her neck, slipping beneath the false skin. Slowly, she lifted away the mask and sighed with relief when she felt the warm air touch her own cheeks. The borrowed face lay dangling in her hands.
The sound of a chair clattering raised her eyes. Daenerys had sprung up in horror, holding out a dagger she had grabbed quickly from her desk. Her face was pale with fright but she held herself in grim determination. “Who are you?” she snapped. “What do you want? I’m warning you, one word from me and my guards will cut you down where you stand. Now speak!” Her voice was rough.
She was surprised with a smile. Palms up, her intruder stood slowly. Watching this queen of fire and her steely reserve, she felt only calm understanding, and realised that this was what she was waiting for. Someone to offer justice without apology, to understand tragedy and be stronger for it, to be unyielding but painfully human.
It had been years since she had felt hope again, years of passing through life in a haze, desperate to forget her past and her true self. And even now, she was almost afraid to reclaim it again, afraid it had been subdued entirely. Years of prison, years running from heartache because it was easier to erase than to mend.
Do as you’re told and you will find the truth you’ve been waiting for.
And the truth was this: it was time to remember. It was time to go home. There was something worth fighting for, at last.
"I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn," the girl who once had no name said simply, and knelt. Eye to eye, she carefully withdrew her hidden knife and laid it on the floor before the queen. “And I’m going to help you take the Iron Throne.”
Violet met silver, a winter sunset, and they stared at each other, their fates intertwining. The dragon’s daughter and the wolf maiden, children of war, forged in blood. They smiled at once, like there was a secret only they two knew and the queen would hold out her hand and the maiden would take it.
It's her last thought as a girl of no-name and her first as Arya Stark, awakened after so many years: that there is a great journey ahead upon this strange shadowed path, and that they will go together, in tragedy and in triumph.