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Chapter Text

Viserys was angry. 

That was why Daenerys Targaryen stayed where she stood. She hovered just outside of view, but she could see her brother was close to waking the dragon. Their host Magister Illyrio looked up from where he was lounging in his chaise, unbothered. He snapped his fat fingers, and the servant who had been fanning him went back to work having been startled by her brother’s outburst. 

“It is unexpected,” Illyrio popped another grape into his mouth. At his elbow on a silver platter was an arrangement of fruits for him to choose from. He had more food on his plate that she and her brother would sometimes get in a month before they were welcomed into his home. He had been nothing but kind and generous to them these past few weeks since he took them in. 

“We should send this messenger back without some of his fingers,” Viserys’ own fingers were coiled around the hilt of the sword Illyrio had gifted him. “This is an insult to the Royal House of Targaryen.”

It was only then that she saw there was another in the room. The one who had taken the brunt of her brother’s ire. He was not as finely dressed as her brother or the Magister. He was dressed like one of the many sailors she would see from the port. 

“The King japes,” Illyrio let out a chuckle. “We would be honored to accept your lord,” He pressed forward before her brother could say anything further. “Please inform him that he is invited tonight.”

“I will, m’lord,” The messenger cast a wary glance at Viserys, but didn’t address him. The lilt in his voice did not sound like he was from Pentos or Braavos. It was only after he was escorted out did, she realize his accent: Westerosi.  

“You let filthy sailors sit at your high table?” Viserys scoffed, offended as if it was his table and not the Magister’s.

We were beggars before Illyrio let us in, brother, but she didn’t say anything, wanting to remain hidden from him. She could tell Viserys’s grip on the dragon was tenuous. 

“Dagon Farwynd has made a lot of gold in his travels,” Illyrio said smoothly, “He has a small fleet, Your Grace,” He then added to try to appease her brother. “It would be wise to listen to him, indulge him,” His smile cut through his golden beard, showing yellow teeth. “We may need his ships to ferry your soldiers across the Narrow Sea when you retake your throne.”

Viserys puzzled on that for a long second before nodding, and muttering. “Yes, yes, very well,” as if he had an actual say of what happened in the Magister’s Manse. “But seriously,” He chuckled, “The blood of the dragon married to such a minor lord?” he laughed harder, a harsh sound that made her wince. 

The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her that a hundred times. Ours is the kingsblood, the golden blood of Old Valyria, he’d say with a manic glint in his eyes. It was our Blood that ruled the Seven Kingdoms. Even at their lowest, her brother would remind her of their family’s past glories, at what should’ve been theirs. It was a fire that burned inside him, far brighter than inside her. He knew Westeros. He could remember King’s Landing or Dragonstone, but to her they were just names. She wished to see them, but when she closed her eyes, she could not picture the Red Keep, but the big house with the red door. She thought of Braavos not Westeros, but even that home was a distant memory to her. 

We don’t have a home, she and Viserys had gone many places, seen many people, but they never stayed long. Some grew bored of them, treating her and her brother like ornaments, something fun to display to your guests, but something that lost its luster in time, and to be replaced by the next shiny bauble they could find. Other times, Viserys made them leave, claiming the Usurper’s assassins were hunting them, determined to end their noble line because the Usurper still feared them. 

He knows what we are, she remembered Viserys dragging her away from the small room they had been staying at in Myr for the past fortnight. We’re the true royal blood and he knows our people are waiting my return. 

Blinking out of her reverie she noticed that Illyrio had spotted her. His eyes glittering with surprise delight, but she suspected he had known she was there for some time. Aware, she could no longer stay hidden, she cautiously stepped forward fully into view of her host and brother. “What is happening?” She asked softly, sparing a glance at her brother, who had taken a seat on a different couch, pulling a girl into his lap. Doreah, she remembered her name, she was from a pleasure house in Lys, and with Illyrio’s leave allowed Viserys to bed her. 

Doreah had not been asked, but Daenerys knew the ugliness that lurked behind the painted veneer of Pentos. Illyrio’s servants were slaves in all but name, a mask they wore to honor their treaty with Braavos that outlawed slavery. 

“A suitor has come seeking your hand, princess,” Illyrio answered with a small indulgent smile, “From your home.”

“Westeros?” She said, but it was not the first name that came to her heart. Our land, that was what Viserys had called it. Where they ruled as kings and queens for nearly three centuries. Before the Usurper and his dogs threw down her father and her valiant brother. 

“Hardly,” Viserys said snidely, “It’s a pile of rocks with seals and walruses,” he waved a dismissive hand, “A poor and pathetic house.”

“And yet you still know it,” Illyrio said in awe, as if Viserys’ knowledge of the Seven Kingdoms was a true wonder. “A good king knows all his subjects, rich and poor,” He continued in his honeyed tone that never felt quite right to her ears. Viserys, however, took to the Magister’s words like kindling to a growing flame, preening slightly, looking pleased with himself as he fondled Doreah on his lap. “But onto the matter of our guest, he has carved a name for himself as a second son from a far less notable house,” Illyrio said delicately.

“And he wants to marry me?” Her fingers were pulling at the hem of her dress-another gift from the Magister. To take me to Westeros? She nearly asked, but stopped herself, realizing the foolishness in her question. It seemed the thread that the minstrels would tell, weaving a story about the exiled princess who got to return with her new husband. It sounded so silly, but she would’ve read it all the same, and enjoyed it too, like all the other songs and stories she grew up learning.

“Of course, he does,” Illyrio looked incredulous at her surprise. “You are a royal princess,” He gestured to her, “Beautiful and of proud Valyrian stock. I imagine you will have many suitors while you’re my guests.” 

Princess, he had called her that again, as if it was a great honor, an envious title to covet. To her, it was a name that she hardly understood. It did not feed her or Viserys during their lean years. A princess to her, was in the songs, many sung about her ancestors who rode dragons, and held great courts. Beautiful and powerful, it wasn’t used to describe her. Now, they’d use it to display her for a man she did not know, and according to her brother would never wed.

Is that why we’re here? For the first time seeing the sliver of light that tried to cut through the mystery of why Magister Illyrio had sought them out and now hosted them. He treated them lavishly with expensive gifts and great foods, never saying or asking for anything in return. She thought at first, that he was merely like the other nobles who had taken her and her brother in. However, as the weeks passed, Illyrio had shown no disinterest in them like the others had.  Those who discarded them when they proved too much of a burden. If anything, he appeared to grow more attached to them, wanting to help them, always willing to spend his gold on them. Does he wish to profit from our marriages?

“Oh,” she finally said, realizing she had been quiet for too long. She could feel her brother staring at the back of her head, but she didn’t turn to face him. 

“She’ll be married to someone who can help secure me my throne,” Viserys’s voice pulled at her, an insistent tug that made her turn to see he was still staring at her. While his fingers were busy rubbing Doreah’s breasts, a bit too roughly given her face, but he didn’t see it. His sharp face and lilac eyes were on her, a feverish look that made her turn away first. “But the Magister is right, part of being a king is hosting those beneath you, to make them see you and feel appreciated,” He slapped Doreah’s buttocks, who let out a soft noise of surprise before hastily standing up. “So we’ll be starring in our own little mummer’s farce,” He didn’t spare either of them a second look, grabbing Doreah’s hand and leading her back to his chambers. 

“Such noble insight,” Magister Illyrio said to the retreating form of her brother, before turning back to her, and gesturing for her to join him. His silver platter of fruit had been taken away with still much of it left to be replaced by another bejeweled platter. This one was covered in various cheeses and small meats. 

She did, taking a seat far enough from him to still be considered close without giving offense. “What was his name again?” She had already forgotten in the excitement of this unexpected news.

“Dagon Farwynd,” Illyrio answered with a fond look in her direction. 

“He is not from the Great Houses?” She furrowed her brow. Viserys had implied as much, but she was hoping Illyrio would provide more satisfying answers. 

“No,” Illyrio chuckled, “But I dare say, he has amassed enough wealth to rival one or two of them,” with an imperious gesture, a servant who had been waiting at the other side of the room, came forward to bring her a glass of wine while a second came forward with a different fruit platter. 

The goblet in her hand was bespeckled with colorful gemstones. I hold more wealth in my hand than either myself or my brother had seen in years. She thanked the servant, a young boy who gave her a shy smile before demurely dipping his head and retreating back to his position.

“How?” She asked, still looking at her expensive goblet, having not yet taken a sip from it. 

"Expeditions,” Illyrio said, “Trade,” he added when he saw that she had still been confused. “Like Corlys the Sea Snake and Alyn the Oakenfist. Those you do know?” he asked with a knowing smile.

She knew those names and said as much. “Does that mean he’s traveled the world?” 

“He has made two very profitable expeditions these last few years, one to Qarth and one to Yi Ti and Leng,” Illyrio slurped from his cup, “Each one making him, his men, and his backers very rich.” The glint in his eyes made her know that he must have been one of them. “You must understand, Princess, the seas are dangerous and lost cargo can be quite expensive even with the proper precautions in place, but our good friend, Dagon Farwynd, doesn’t lose ships.” Illyrio said proudly, “Which means his ships always return brimming with all the wealth the exotic east has to offer, with our investments returning tenfold.” He bit into a piece of cheese, hard. “At least,” he finished the cheese with one more bite. 

Daenerys had been to sea many times, she and Viserys had to, to avoid the Usurper’s assassins, and she had heard the stories of ships sinking. Of sudden storms appearing to wreak havoc before disappearing just as quickly, leaving behind wrecks and death. She loved the sea, traveling on the ship, watching one city disappear behind them, and then later watching another one bloom on the horizon in front of them. But in the back corner of her mind was that tiny sliver of fear, gnawing at her, making her wonder: Will our ship be next to sink?

Illyrio clapped his large hands, waking her from her reverie, but he wasn’t looking at her. He had made the noise to get his servants to clear the empty platter in front of him. He then returned his attention to her, seemingly aware of where her pensive thoughts were drifting. “Do you wish to know more?” He asked, already knowing her answer, but he waited until she nodded, before he continued. “Your suitor got his start as a young captain, one of many who we,” he waved one of his large hands. His fat fingers wiggling like worms, “The Free Cities pay to clear out the Basilisk Islands when the pirates grow too bold and disrupt our trade.” He had himself another glass of wine, poured and brought to him. He didn’t acknowledge the servant, just taking the wine as if it was hovering in the air, waiting for him.

“He was the one who was able to track the pirates’ captain and his ships,” Illyrio’s wine was red, droplets of it dribbling down his forked beard. “You see, the pirates had decided to set a trap, hiding themselves, preparing for an ambush that would’ve decimated our little fleet, but he,” Illyrio paused, “knew exactly where they were lying in wait, days before they were spotted.” He took another large sip from his goblet, “That allowed them to spring their own trap,” The magister’s smile was thin, and his eyes were hard, showing no remorse to the men who had likely cost him money, “And the pirates were purged.” 

“How?” She asked, curious at how such a trick could be done. “How did he find them?”

Illyrio hesitated, “Well princess, you must understand sailors are very superstitious,” he let out a light laugh, “And they ah claim, he had a means to find them.” 

“What sort of means?” She said, noticing how his tone changed. 

He shrugged his massive shoulders, “Let us just say that his reputation in that venture earned him the epithet, The Demon of the Tides.” 

Daenerys felt a slight chill come over her. It wasn’t just the name, but the evasiveness of the magister’s answer. He dismissed the sailors for being too superstitious, but she was certain, Illyrio thought or believed there were kernels of truth to those stories. Stories he chose not to divulge to her. When she pulled herself from her thoughts, she saw Illyrio had gotten up from his seat, she stood as well. 

“I’ll have some things brought to your room,” he said kindly, “You must look the part of a Targaryen princess, after all.” 

“Thank you,” Despite weeks of his generosity, she was still taken aback by it, and suspicious. Viserys never questioned it, because he thought it was his due as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. She did, because she doubted men of Illyrio’s wealth had such deep wells of generosity. With the news of this suitor, she wondered if this was how he was planning to make his next profit. To use their betrothals as another means to earn coin or as another investment, he’d see flourish. 

He waved a fat hand, the rings glinting in the light. “It is my honor, princess.” He ducked his head, as if he was her guest and she the generous host. 

Daenerys didn’t let her thoughts linger on her host; she went back to her spacious quarters to prepare herself for tonight’s dinner with her unexpected suitor. Her mind drifted towards this Dagon Farwynd, but instead of conjuring him to appear before her at the Magister’s manse, she saw herself on the seas, on one of his ships. He was beside her, but his face remained elusive, with how the sun was slanting down on them, but it didn’t bother her, because it didn’t matter. She somehow felt at ease in his presence. Something she never felt with her brother. We’re chasing the horizon. And she was happy. 

Chapter Text

“Was he questioned?” Dagon Farwynd wished that the wood beneath his feet were that of his ship instead of his private dock. However, he needed to be near while he waited for word from Magister Illyrio, and his royal guests. 

“Sharply, Captain.”

He nodded, regarding the prisoner for the first time. Tattered clothes hung from a pale, beaten body. His hair was dark and stringy, falling over his bowed head. The prisoner made no attempt to speak for himself, in either his defense or pleading for mercy. He crouched at the side of his gaoler like a loyal dog. 

A pathetic shade of the man he once was, Dagon thought, not knowing Naero well, but enough to know that the Volatene had once been a good warrior, with a mean temper. “And what secrets and plots were you able to get out of him?” 

“He was a spy sent by Euron Greyjoy.”

“Greyjoy?” That did surprise Dagon. He was partly expecting him to have been bought off by the hired knives who had been hounding the Targaryens for years. Magister Illyrio had warned him they dwelled in the city, ambitious and cunning, believing they’d be rewarded with or without an order from King Robert. With the Crown being so grateful that the last two threats to their throne were finally removed. 

“Yes, captain,” he answered, “Euron Greyjoy hired him and promised more gold if he was to inform him where we were heading next. I suspect Greyjoy would use this traitor’s help to try to spring a trap against you, Captain.”

Euron Greyjoy has been exiled from the Iron Islands for more than a year and has used that time menacing the seas and trying to stir up trouble against him. Wanting to destroy what I’ve built. At what I’ve become. However, his pirating and raiding was only making Dagon richer. Merchant fleets were paying him handsomely for the privilege of escorting them between ports, keeping them safe from storms and sellsails including Euron’s ship, The Silence. 

“Is that all?” 

“He was to kill you if he got near enough.”

“He’s near enough now,” Dagon observed, taking in the trembling, broken warrior before him. 

“He’s been corrected for that mistake, captain.” 

“Well done,” Dagon praised, but he was not surprised. Turning away from the prisoner and to his trusted crewmen. His curly black hair was slicked back, blood drops dripping down his hairline showing why he was called: Ramsay Bloodhair.

He was not the first bastard to enter his service, and he would not be the last. Several had come to join Dagon’s growing fleet all throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Second and third sons too, seeking to make their own way and fortunes. He did not care if they were noble born or natural born, what mattered to him was if they were willing to work to earn their keep. 

The sea helped to separate those too weak or arrogant. Those who did not wish to sully themselves by performing hard labors. While others did not like taking orders, some on principle, others feeling slighted that they served under a second son ironborn of humble holdings. Upon first meeting Ramsay Snow, he thought the Bolton bastard would be one of them, bitter and arrogant as he was. 

He had been sent by the Lord of the Dreadfort, but he claimed it was not his father, but Lady Barbrey Dustin and her father, Lord Ryswell, who insisted on his departure. Neither willing to tolerate any threat that would stop her nephew, his grandson from inheriting the Dreadfort. He saw merit in this perceived plot since one of Barbrey’s brothers, Rickard Ryswell had come to join too. Another second son with little to inherit, who was likely here to watch Ramsay and to ensure the Bolton bastard stuck to his new life, and if he didn’t, to stick a knife in him. 

That would prove unnecessary. The sea humbled Ramsay, like it humbles all men who believe themselves greater than what they are. He has earned his keep, Dagon’s trust, a new name, and has come to appreciate the ways of the sea. The Drowned God blessed him, and then reshaped him into a faithful servant. Ramsay Bloodhair helped to root out spies, traitors, and other enemies and threats. Dagon’s fleet, and his gold attracted plenty of greedy sellsails, and others of an unsavory sort.

Ramsay’s work proved invaluable once again. “What shall we do with him, Captain?” 

“We are to give him to the sea,” Dagon sought the Drowned God’s blessing for the task that lay ahead of him.  “Do you wish to do the honors?” 

“I do,” Ramsay’s fingers were already stained red, when they went to remove the knife from his sheath. He dragged Naero to his feet. 

“Not too deep,” Dagon cautioned his excited supplicant, “She likes them still moving.” 

Ramsay pushed the prisoner to the edge of the dock. “Is she close?” The knife was poised at Naero’s throat, who took the sharp tip with meek acceptance. 

“Yes,” Dagon Sharkskin didn’t need to call her. He just had to wait. 

It was called different things. This gift. His father saw it as putting on worn boots, his grandfather as wearing gloves, but to Dagon, he viewed them as doors, made of clear crystal. Six doors lined in a row inside his mind’s eye, allowing him to see through. But they can use it too. He sensed she was close without needing to look through her door. He would not open it, not for this part. 

He was a boy of six when his grandfather told him what he was. A skinchanger, he had explained, a gift from the Drowned God. 

Dagon saw flashes of water engulfing him, feeling a prickling across his throat. The raw hunger coiled tightly within. He dispelled a breath to clear his thoughts. Sometimes, they could get the door to budge without his help. Grandfather had warned him that the tether that bound them could be pulled both ways.

Stronger, stubborn animals, those who are not used to man, will fight harder, but you must endure their rage, their fear, if you wish to bond with them. Maron Farwynd had cautioned his grandson when he realized that he was unsatisfied with seals and gulls. Be careful, Dagon, his grandfather would warn him, Do not lose yourself to either the seas or the skies. They’ll graft onto you, change you, but you are still a man. Do not forget that. 

A cry of elation went up, pulling Dagon from his reverie. He saw the reason for Ramsay’s ecstatic cheer, a fin emerged from the waves. A grey knife cutting through the calm waters of the Bay of Pentos. He turned back to see that with the prisoner’s own blood, Ramsay had crudely drawn a smiling face on Naero’s now bare chest. 

Naero reacted too. A small, pitiful sob slipped past quivering lips as he realized what was coming for him. Soiling himself, but before he could struggle with whatever strength he had remaining, Dagon gave the order. 

“Accept this offering,” he heard the wet gasp of the knife cutting across the throat, and then the splash as the sacrifice was shoved into the water. “I seek your favor,” He said over the splashing and spluttering, “Your blessing.” 

The scream pierced through his prayer, high and loud. The familiar sound of ripping flesh followed. Dagon did not need to look up to know what was happening. To see the rows upon rows of teeth as sharp and long as daggers grip firmly onto the sacrifice. Sawing through meat and bone, devouring piece after piece while the sacrifice screamed and writhed through it all. Until the noise abruptly ended. The sudden silence could become just as eerie as the previous screaming. A limp, mangled body that had been bobbing in the water like a toy top, was forcibly tugged into the darker depths of the bay, leaving behind a red wake. 

“She was hungry,” Ramsay observed fervently, having never grown bored of their rituals. His gaze was on the blood muddled water and the pieces of Naero that floated along the surface of the waves. Dagon saw a finger among the carnage before the gulls came, cawing and swooping down to feast on what remained. 

“She was,” Dagon’s thoughts, however, were not on the sacrifice or on her, but on hoping the Drowned God would accept his offering and help him. He will, Dagon believed it, The Drowned God helps the bold. And what was bolder than this? 

“You risk a great deal, Captain. Many lost men to bring her family down.”

Dagon was still on the dock when they found him. A knot of grumbling men who had come to complain when they learned of his intentions with the Targaryen princess. He was more interested in the sea than them, trying to gleam a portent from the Drowned God after delivering his sacrifice. Even without a sign, he still took comfort and strength from the water. The lapping of waves was more pleasing to him than any minstrel plucking their harp. The sea smell wafting in the air was crisp and invigorating. 

Just as many families lost men to keep her family on the throne, Dagon kept that to himself knowing it would fall on deaf ears with this audience.  

His back was to them, but he knew all those gathered. The cry of a sea eagle called overhead, but none of the men paid it any notice. Its heralding caw did scatter some of the lingering gulls who had come after the sacrifice. 

There was Ser Lyn Corbray, a vain knight from the Vale who Dagon was introduced to by Petyr Baelish when he was still working in customs at Gulltown. He was accompanied by his younger brother, Ser Lucas.  The Corbray brothers were joined by other men from the Vale including Mychel Redfort, Lyn’s squire, who had dreams of marrying a bastard when he earned enough gold. Beside him was Ser Donnel Waynwood, who had been given the name Ser Proper for his unfailing courtesies. With him was his squire and kin, Sandor Frey.

Another of their kinsman or so Dagon thought was the one who had just spoken, Alesander Frey, he captained the Wind Whistle. With him was Harry Rivers, the Bastard of Bracken who had kept relatively quiet. He was a good and strong young man, whom Dagon suspected had come out of obligation for his captain. Besides him was Ser Rolland Storm, a pox faced knight, who worshiped the Warrior as if it was the only face of the Faith. With Ser Balon Swann, a second son who had joined Dagon’s fleet before their venture to Yi Ti. The two stormlanders served aboard the same ship, The Stormy Knight; their captain, Dagon, noticed was not among those gathered. 

Those absent were just as notable. Just as there were families who fought against the Targaryens among Dagon’s fleet. There were just as many who fought to keep the dragons on their throne. They may have bent the knee to the stag, but he suspected they still harbored hope for the dragons to return. 

“Remind me, Lord Alesander, how many men did your family lose in the war?”

“None, Captain,” Alesander was fortunate to take after his mother rather than his father. He spoke with a slight Braavosi lilt and would often be heard singing while aboard his ship. He was one of the first nobles from outside the Iron Islands to join Dagon. His grandfather Lord Frey was never one to miss an opportunity to make gold and to secure good positions for his family. The Lord of the Crossing had enough kin to crew his own small fleet but had settled on two ships. 

It was not meant as a reprimand, only a reminder. Dagon considered Alesander one of his best Westerosi captains, but before he could assuage the Frey, another voice spoke up, louder and angrier. 

“We lost plenty to them,” Hother Umber was an old man who lost none of his strength. “They killed our liege lord, they killed his heir, they took his daughter.” Hother spat, listing off every grievance, “Fuck the Targaryens!” 

“Why else would I court a Targaryen princess, Lord Hother?” Dagon asked, unperturbed by Hother's anger. “If not to lay with her.” 

There were some guffaws, but Hother remained unamused. “Get yourself a Lyseni whore, Captain,” he replied, “And spare us this headache.” 

Nodding along with Hother was Ser Wendel Manderly, the captain of The Lady Ariel. Supposedly named after one of their ancestors, his ship was crewed entirely by northmen. One of three who were sponsored by Wendel’s father, Lord Wyman, the Lord of White Harbor. 

Rickard Ryswell, the captain of Sea Steed, murmured his agreement. Before he was named captain, the men called him Sick Rick since the sea did not agree with him in those early days when he was brought into Dagon’s fleet to watch the Bolton Bastard. He eventually got over his seasickness, found his sea legs, and had risen to become a captain. Honoring his success, he changed his personal banner to now be the quartering of his black horse head with a golden seahorse head. 

“A lyseni whore doesn’t bring royal prestige,” Dagon countered calmly, “Just a lighter coin purse and mayhaps, a rash if you're unfortunate.”

“This princess will bring you nothing but trouble,” Hother warned, “The King hates the Targaryens, if he hears of this-”

Umber’s shouting had scared off more gulls, distracting Dagon from what Hother was saying when he noticed there were seven gulls now remaining. Seven, he knew it was a holy number, but not to him. But it came from the sea. This had to be a portent sent from the Drowned God, answering his prayers, pleased with the sacrifice. He couldn’t consider what it meant for long, needing to put it aside knowing he had to settle this first. 

“I will not keep you here,” He informed them, but they already knew that. After each expedition, the captains and their crews were free to leave upon receiving their cut. There were good men in front of him, good captains too. He’d be disappointed to lose them, but he did not lack for ships and good crews. Two ships from Planky Town had recently arrived seeking to join him. 

The sea was lucrative. They all knew that, but it was an expensive gamble. Even the most competent captain could lose his ship, his cargo, or his life, to a storm or sellsails. One risks losing everything every time they set sail. The men would make gold without him, but not as much and for not as long. Dagon saw the flashes of uncertainty across some of their expressions. The doubt creeping over them. Their resolve wavering, the silence was stewing between them. None of them were quick to declare their intention to leave. 

“My mind is made up in regard to the Targaryen princess. I’ll accept any and all consequences that come of it,” he looked them over, “I’ll give you a few days as I plan our next expedition. I’ll expect your answers then.” They left after that, far more subdued in their departure than they had been when they came to meet with him. That was when he noticed someone familiar approaching him. 

Lanky Lonnie ignored the retreating nobles, coming straight to him. He bowed his head as soon as his foot touched the wood of the dock. Lonnel Tawney easily earned his name with his tall, thin frame. He had a round face with an eyebrow that was thicker and bushier than the mustache resting above his upper lip. He was a distant cousin to the main House Tawney of Orkmont. 

“Captain,” he said, raising his head, “I’ve just returned from the Magister’s manse.” 

“I’m aware of where you went, Lonnie,” Dagon replied dryly, “I recall sending you there.” 

A bit of red came to his cheeks. The young man worked tirelessly, determined to try to carry his family’s name above the embarrassment of his great uncle. Jon Tawney had been convinced a separate man lived inside his finger, telling him of a paradise beyond the Sunset Sea. He was last seen on a rowboat, paddling out to sea. That had been years ago. 

Despite his infamy, he was rewarded with a good death. Dying at sea was the best death a man could ask for. To the sea we belong, and to the sea we return.

“Yes, captain,” Lonnie recovered quickly, “The Magister invited you to his manse tonight for a feast in your honor.” 

Dagon thanked and then dismissed him. He took one last long look at the Bay and left. The Drowned God had given him this chance. I cannot squander it. 

Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:

-Ramsay Bloodhair is a nod to Harald/Sigurd Bloodhair an antagonist in The Saxon Stories/The Last Kingdom tv show. The book series is written by Bernard Cornwell. 

-To the sea we belong, and to the sea we return- Is used in House of The Dragon Tv show by House Velaryon, which is inspired by the famous verse: "For dust you are, and to dust you will return."

-Dagon Farwynd- Dagon is a nod to H.P. Lovecraft's famous Dagon short story.

-Lonnie's uncle Jon Tawney is a nod to the great Muppet's Treasure Island take on character Squire John Trelawney played by the classically trained thespian, Fozzie Bear.

Chapter Text

The day went by slowly for Daenerys Targaryen.

She could hear the men outside preparing for the feast from her open windows. Illyrio had decided to have it out in his gardens even after his servants were well underway in their decorations and preparations to have it in his hall. A mere inconvenience that didn’t bother the Magister, since he had put no effort into their previous labor. Nor did any of his servants protest this abrupt change. They went quietly and dutifully into their new tasks to ensure their Magister would be pleased for tonight’s feast.  

Glancing out her window, she saw tall, thin torches being spiked into the ground while braziers were being carried out to be placed along the stone pathways. It took several servants and guards to pitch the large canvas cloth that was being erected as a pavilion. From here, she could see it was richly embroidered with beautiful colors, but not much else.  Its sides hung like soft curtains while other screens had been pulled back to let in the afternoon sun and breeze. 

Unperturbed by all the noise and bustling servants, the magister’s peacocks patrolled the grounds, preening and flickering their feathers searching for food while fat and listless unsullied guards watched on. She eventually looked away, wanting to distract herself from the small knot of worry forming in her belly. Daenerys had been unable to learn anything more about their guest. My suitor. 

The Magister was too busy overseeing his businesses while her brother was too busy seeing to his own interests. It is a farce, his voice was hard and cold against her, a harsh whisper in her mind. Fretting over this suitor? She could hear him scoffing at her worries. Play your part, sister, he’d warn her, but not too well, he didn’t need to finish voicing the threat. It was clear as water to her: or the dragon will be angry. 

She half turned to the doorway, expecting her brother to be there, glaring at her.   A brief look over her shoulder showed there was no sign of Viserys. It was a small relief, but one she relished. 

“Princess?” A servant appeared in the doorway, dipping her head low before her eyes could meet Daenerys’. “Your bath is ready.” 

“Thank you,” Daenerys said, but the servant was already gone. 

Undressed, the water was hot and soothing to her skin, sinking into the tub with a gentle sigh. The earlier worries of her suitor and brother stripped away as easily as her discarded clothes. Birdsongs trilled in from the window, a harmonious strand that seemed to weave above her head. She closed her eyes, hearing the bathwater sway and splash in the tub. Her mind drifted to the calming waves of the sea and even after the Magister’s servants arrived to clean her and help get her ready for the evening, Daenerys Targaryen was thinking of the waiting sea. 

The skies were dark, and the stars hung in the air like glittering chains when Daenerys walked out into the gardens. The servants who had cleaned and perfumed her, braided her hair, helped her into her dress were gone, melting away, going back to their places like the scoured pots after supper. 

This was not the first beautiful dress Illyrio had given her, but it was the first to be so bold in its coloring. It was a wisp of fabric and jewels, red laces and black silk. The thin material clung to her, backless and bejeweled. She felt the fresh bloom of goose pimples across her back and arms, where the air touched her skin. The shining rubies and black diamonds stitched into the fabric seemed as bright to her as the stars above her head. It was more beautiful than the dresses she remembered the nobles of wealthy Volantis wore or of the wives of the rich merchants in either Lys or Braavos. It was the dress of a Targaryen Queen. 

“Princess,” Illyrio saw her first. His piggish eyes didn’t roam over her body the way she feared they might. He walked to greet her on nimble feet. “You should be hosting your brother’s royal court,” he beamed down at her. 

“It is-” she began, but Illyrio saw her intentions and thwarted them with a teasing smile and a wag of one fat finger. 

“It is a gift, princess,” he then made a shushing sound before letting out a slight chuckle, “And it is yours.”

“Thank you,” she replied, surprisingly touched by his tone that seemed more sincere than anything he had ever said to her brother. Nor did she miss the fond look in his small eyes before he turned away, wiping a large hand across his sweaty brow. 

“What do you think, Your Grace?”. 

Viserys stood rigid, but still looked regal in black. Their family’s three headed red dragon emblazoned on his tunic with a silver dragon pendant to fasten his black cloak. He was handsome despite his pinched look, but his face darkened when he saw her. Something flickered in his eyes that made her chest tighten. His busy fingers were tapping impatiently at the hilt of his borrowed sword. “You don’t dress in such extravagance, Magister, when you're off to feed your pigs.”

His tone hit her like the crack of a whip. She knew Viserys at first was amused about this farce, but it had clearly soured as he watched all the preparations being made. Turning envious that this second son sailor was not only getting such extravagance, but that Viserys was a mere spectator to it when he should have been the center of it, as the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. 

“I’ll remember that, Your Grace,” Illyrio said, after a chuckle, “The next time I send my servants to the pigpens.” The Magister smoothly played over Viserys’ outburst like it was some clever joke. He then placed a gentle hand on her bare shoulder, guiding her away, “Your brother, our king has a way with words, princess.” He would drop his hand as soon as they walked by her brother.

“Speaking of pigs,” he said lightly, directing Daenerys’ attention to the main course of their evening meal. It was a spit roasted pig with a large apple stuffed in its mouth. Below it on a variety of silver plates and bowls were fruits, and cheeses, soups, and greens with the pig presiding over it all like their esteemed king. 

Am I no different from this? She thought idly, after eying the cooked creature. While she was being prepared and perfumed by a handful of servants. This pig was being just as prepared in the kitchens by the cooks, seasoned and dressed, glazed and cooked. It was gagged by an apple in its mouth, but Daenerys felt her own gag, invisible but just as real. The shadow of her brother’s expectations for her which kept her just as quiet as this stuffed pig. I’m just being served on a different sort of platter. 

“Lord Dagon,” Illyrio’s voice drew her eyes forward to see someone approaching them. The path was lined with torches, but the faint glow of the firelight and the distance made it difficult for her to take in all his features. She noticed there were others milling behind the lone figure who was speaking with the Magister. 

“Remember sister,” Viserys’ hand had wrapped around her arm like a snake. His soft voice made her heart pound hard inside her chest. “This is a performance,” he warned her, “Play your part,” His fingers squeezed around her skin so tight, she winced, “but remember I need a princess not a whore.” She heard him shift beside her. His voice brushing against her ear, “You still have value to me. Do not squander it.”

“I understand,” She said softly, feeling a sliver of pain squirm in her belly. 

“Good,” He dropped his bruising grip from her arm, but not before turning her, so she’d have to look at him. He was smiling, but she was not fooled by it. 

This smile was a gate, with one bad word from her, one mistake. The dragon would come out and then the pain would follow. 

“Your Grace,” Illyrio turned back in their direction, oblivious to their conversation. 

Viserys’ expression smoothed over his dark features to project himself to be in a good mood, who was pleased to be attending this feast for their guest. Daenerys cautiously followed after her brother, seeing that the Magister and his guest had stopped by a lit brazier. Her first impression of her suitor was that he was tall and lean but standing beside the magister would give many that impression. Before she could see his face, he bowed his head to them.  

“Allow me to present, Dagon Farwynd, the second son of Gylbert Farwynd, Lord of House Farwynd of the Lonely Light,” Illyrio said, “Lord Dagon, this is Viserys Targaryen, the Third of His Name, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Daenerys was ignored, expected to watch the two interact silently, waiting to be introduced, but she took this reprieve to look over her suitor. He was richly and impressively dressed. His pants were black silk. His belt was embedded with jewels that wrapped around his waist like a glimmering snake. His tunic was a splash of orange and red that made her think of sunsets. It was worn loosely revealing glimpses of a muscled chest. Along his broad shoulders, his tunic was decorated with something large and triangular shaped. It took her a second to realize they were shark teeth, stitched into a pattern of black and white. They were almost too large for her to believe. 

Her eyes trailed upwards to see her suitor’s face remained in the shadows. Frustrated, she still dutifully and quietly listened to her brother lie about how pleased he was to meet a leal servant to his crown, and honored he was to be here. The lies fell easily from her brother’s tongue, surprising her, but she could not see her suitor’s reaction to them until her brother said, “And this is my sister, Princess Daenerys Targaryen,” he offered her a hand, brotherly and polite which she daintily took, stepping closer to finally see his face. 

Younger, she thought, taking him in. He was younger than she had imagined. Thinking him far older after hearing of his exploits, but he looked to be near her brother’s age. His face was hard and lean. And handsome, the observation slithered inside her, a coil of warmth following in its wake. His hair was black as a raven’s wing with shining blue eyes that made her think of the calming seas on a sunny day. 

“Princess,” he took her offered hand and placed a gentle kiss across her knuckles. “It’s an honor to meet you.” He slowly looked up, but in the brazier light, his eyes now looked dark green. “Yours is a beauty, Princess, that men go their whole lives trying and failing to find.”

“Thank you,” she felt a slight tingling from her hand that he was still holding. His fingers were rough against her skin, but more gentler than her brother’s soft hands. She was expected to recite stale pleasantries, but something in his gaze emboldened her. “Is it true that you’ve never lost a ship?” 

He chuckled, unbothered by her curiosity. “The Magister is too generous with his praise,” he spared a look at said Magister, “I’ve lost a ship or two in my years at sea, but I have experienced far more fortunes than failures. The Drowned God has blessed me. ” He spoke the last words with a quiet reverence. His dark eyes seemed to burn at its mention. “Your Grace, as a show of gratitude for allowing me this audience, this chance to voice my desire of a betrothal between myself and your sister, the Princess Daenerys,” Dagon snapped his fingers, and one of the men from his retinue stepped forward, carrying something. 

Viserys hungrily watched the servant come forward with an air of impatience until he saw the gift. It was a small chest, but before he could let his disappointment show, it opened to reveal it was filled with gold. 

“It is accepted,” Viserys closed the chest with some reluctance to finally address him again. She didn’t think her brother had so much gold to his name since he was still a prince living in Westeros. “I reward loyalty, Lord Dagon,” he said, “and mayhaps, I’ll make you my master of ships when I take back my throne,” he paused, turning to her, “But my sister’s hand,” He began his act, pretending to be a considerate brother, protective of her interest instead of seeking only his own.

“Your Grace?” Dagon politely interrupted. He missed the flicker of annoyance that graced her brother’s features since he was still looking at her. An ugly look that made her think of past hurts. 

Viserys played the polite king when he turned back to their guest. He nodded, permitting him to continue. 

“I wish to present my betrothal differently. The number seven is considered holy to you, is it not?” He asked, turning from her to her brother, “I wish to present the princess seven days of gifts to prove my worth.”

Seven? She blinked, surprised. Her brother looked surprised too, but not pleasantly. His was angry at the thought of her getting such treasures while he was ignored. 

As if expecting her brother’s response, Dagon smoothly continued. “With the intention, Your Grace, that you’d be just as rewarded.”

“Seven days of this?” Viserys’ couldn’t mask his interest, still cradling the chest of gold close to his person. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Dagon answered, “I know my family is not a great house and I have no land or title to inherit so allow these seven days of gifts to show that I’m a respectful suitor for your sister, and a helpful ally for your rightful throne.”

“I’ll allow it,” Viserys’ eyes were gleaming at the thought of all that gold being given to him. 

“Perhaps, Your Grace, you’d like to take the gold back to your chambers while we escort your sister to the table for the feast,” Illyrio suggested. 

“Yes, yes,” Viserys didn’t offer the magister a single piece of his newly given gold despite all that Illyrio had done for them. Her brother didn’t spare any of them another look, hastily retreating to no doubt hide his new riches from them somewhere in his rooms. 

Do not waste your gold on my brother, she wanted to say, wanted to warn him. This is a farce. But she kept quiet the fear of the dragon stilled her tongue. 

“Princess,” Dagon said softly, she turned to see she was suddenly alone with him. Illyrio was walking ahead of them. “I should warn you that I do not have such treasures to give to you,” he said, “but I hope you like your gifts.”

Another one of his men came forward. He was holding something too, but it was not a chest full of gold. It was a book. 

It was like no book that Daenerys Targaryen had ever seen before. Tentatively taking it into her hands. It’s beautiful, she thought before even reading the words on its cover. She silently admired the intricate artwork and the inlaid of gold that made it sparkle just as bright as Viserys’ treasure. 

Fire and Blood it read, the letters bold and vivid. 

“It’s an illuminated manuscript, Princess,” Dagon said softly. “It’s the history of your family, written by Archmaester Gyldayn.” 

She ran her fingers over the cover. Daenerys Targaryen had never received such a gift before. Her throat swelled. “Thank you,” She thought the words a poor return at being given such a tremendous gift, “I love it.” Smiling, when she looked up to see him. 

“Good,” he nodded, and then returned her smile.

She looked from her gift to her suitor. “Do you think you could tell me about-” Daenerys had nearly said home, but something stopped her, “Of the Seven Kingdoms?” 

“Princess,” he offered her his arm, “It would be my honor.”

Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:

-Fire and Blood is an actual history book in the ASOIAF world written by Maester Gyldayn, who serves as George R. R. Martin's voice/avatar.

Chapter Text

“Rooms full of gold!” Bert exclaimed, “Can ya imagine it?”

Yes, I can, but he stayed quiet. 

It was a cloudless night above their heads. The Bay of Pentos shone like dark glass beneath their small boat. He sat at the front of the boat, with two rowers behind him, Bill and Tom, with Bert standing behind them. It was Bert’s boat, but it was his words that had netted this small crew. 

These were the names given to him by Naero. Allies, who he'd use against his captain.  We mustn’t have that.  

“Are we close, Reek?” 

“Very,” he assured them. It had been easy to earn their trust. The mention of Naero had invited him into the fold. The whispers of his capture and death had yet to drift far past the captain’s manse. Leaving them unaware that they’re sitting with his killer. He savored their ignorance. His skin prickled with the rush of his thoughts, on what was truly awaiting them. Before sunrise, they’ll be dead. “There,” he pointed to where the manse could be seen resting on a small hill. That simple gesture was a spark for the others, chattering excitedly about the gold and gems that would soon be theirs. 

He didn’t join in. He was content to listen, enjoying the hold he had over them. He licked his lips, feeling the anticipation build in his belly. They thought he was leading them to a successful mark. To make them all rich, but the truth was so much sweeter. 

Their attention wasn’t on him, not noticing when he sat back down or when he leaned to the side of the boat. If they had, they may have seen the flash of steel, when he withdrew his thin knife from its sheath before he put his back to them. The tip of the knife pricked his finger, but he felt no pain. A thin rivulet of red emerged from the cut which was when he dipped his hand into the water. 

He watched the rippling disturbance that he left in its wake.

Come to me, he prayed, knowing she’d catch his scent, follow his meager blood trail better than any of the hounds his lord father kept and bred at the Dreadfort. Excitement welled up inside him. He was about to bear witness to her.  He had seen his Captain’s menagerie, but she was Ramsay’s favorite. She was not the biggest nor the fastest, but to him, she was the perfect vessel of death.  

His lips moved in a silent prayer, calling out to the Drowned God. The One who cleansed him of his old life, his old ways, his old wants. Ramsay was shown that this was where he belonged.  My brother can have the Dreadfort, and his horse face betrothed. He now sneered at a mere speck in the snow covered north that he once thought was his to have. At how he once thought how powerful it would make him. I’ve seen true power, I serve it. 

Captain Dagon showed him the truth. The seas and ports were my new home, better and greater than any single castle. He was blind at first, recalling those early days filled him with shame. Even as a bastard he thought himself better than a second son of some minor ironborn lord. Until he saw it, that act of awe which made him a believer. I’ve followed the Drowned God and my captain faithfully ever since.

“If Naero is right about this gold,” Tom said, “we should’ve gotten a bigger boat.” 

Bert and Bill snickered. Their dizzying greed blinding all of them to their fate. The promise of gold and the plying of ale had dulled their senses. When he came to them under the guise of Reek, a friend of Naero’s saying the right words, they were his. 

“The guards are gone,” Ramsay said, “Just like I promised.” 

“Well done, Reek,” Bert said. 

As Reek, he was always eager to help. None who met Reek thought they were in danger or considered him a threat. He was a friend. Ramsay never tired of seeing the surprise in their eyes when they realized their mistake. All too late, he savored those memories, when they realized they’re nothing but meat to be sacrificed. 

There, he saw it, saw her. A large grey fin, heralding her arrival, before she dipped back beneath the sheet of water disappearing from view. He was the only one who saw her. The others were all focused on the dock that was getting closer to them. Muttering about what they’d purchase with gold they didn’t deserve or have. 

He was flushed with excitement. At knowing what was about to happen. One by one they’d be devoured, he’d be in the middle of their fear, reveling in it, savoring their terror filled shrieks like they were the strings of a well struck harp. 

“There’s something in the water,” it was Tom who was the first to notice. A thief with a chin as nearly as wide as his forehead. 

“Rocks,” Bert dismissed, “its just rocks,” he was already on his feet, ready to jump off his boat as soon as they were close enough to reach the dock. 

The dock was close, but she was closer. 

“It was moving,” Tom had stopped rowing.

Bill’s oar stilled in his hands. “I don’t see nothing.”

Ramsay remained quiet. He moved in his seat so he could take in their faces, wanting to put it all to memory so he could revisit it. 

“Just the shadows playing tricks on ya,” There was an impatient inflection in Bert’s voice, “Be quiet and keep rowing.”

Ramsay noticed the exchange of looks between the rowers, Tom frowned, while Bill shrugged, but they followed their orders. He tried to raise their spirits. “Just remember what’s waiting for you,” he assured them, concealing the surge of excitement he felt within him. 

They had barely rowed a few more feet when the boat lurched suddenly, swaying violently. Ramsay had already been holding, waiting. He watched with bated breath, Bert stumble, but to his disappointment he remained on the boat.

“We must’ve hit a rock,” Bert complained, and when he moved to look into the water, the boat jerked again. His shout was swallowed up by the splash he made. 

Tom snickered, while Bill smiled neither of them seemed concerned about Bert’s plunge into the water.

Ramsay watched Bert sputter out water and curses, as he kicked his legs to stay afloat. “Pull me up!” he shouted at them, but it wasn’t fear that filled his voice, only annoyance at having fallen overboard. 

He didn’t move to help, searching for her in the water. Ramsay had seen her more times than he could count, but her wondrous form always left him breathless. She passed below them, her conical snout, jaws filled with razor sharp teeth, her large black eyes. The rest of her body followed for so long, she didn’t seem to have an end, until at last he saw her long scythe tail propel her forward, surging towards her prey.

Ramsay didn’t know if it was Tom’s voice or Bill’s that pulled him out of his silent admiration of her, but their warnings came too late to save Bert. 

Her jaws easily closed in around Bert’s torso further exemplifying her great size. His scream was short, and sharp, his body writhing, until she bit down. In an instant, Bert was silent and still. She nearly severed him in half with the one swift bite. The loud crunch of bones and flesh carried to their boat, but the sweet sound was nearly drowned out by the incoherent shouts of Bill and Tom. Their clumsy panic threatened to sour Ramsay’s enjoyment. 

She disappeared in a cloud of red water pulling the dead Bert with her. He wanted to see more, the biting, the savaging, the devouring. The powerlessness her prey must feel as she consumed them. 

He was enthralled at what she left them. In their frenzied panic, they were unable to appreciate the beauty blooming before them. The blushing red seeping and swirling and clashing with the blue water. At how the blood moved, stretching out to him, reaching for him, wanting to touch him. 

They were too distracted to see what came next. Their backs were turned to him, not realizing that this wasn’t an unforeseen tragedy, but a trap until it was too late. Knowing, he needed to be quick, he shoved Bill off the boat. Tom had enough time to turn around to see the dagger. He twisted his body to avoid being stabbed. The move made him unsteady on his feet allowing Ramsay to push him over, following Bill into the water. 

“What are you doing?” Bill shouted. He was a bobbing island in a sea of Bert’s blood. 

Tom’s arms were flailing in the water in a desperate attempt to try to return to the boat. 

Are you ready for more? He wondered if she was still feasting on Bert. He knew she was still hungry. He’d seen her eat many enemies and gorged herself on many sacrifices to the Drowned God. He grabbed one of the oars, ready to use it if either Bill or Tom tried to reach him. She didn’t leave him waiting long. 

A large silvery streak moved beneath them. He craved to know what she was thinking, seeing. How he wanted to experience her power, her hunger as she moved in the seas, unrivaled. Then, he would've known what compelled her to choose Tom over Bill. Unlike her attack on Bert, Tom saw her, trying to avoid her lethal bite, kicking and cursing. Pointless, Ramsay gleefully watched, her jaws close in around one of Tom’s legs after one of his futile attempts to kick her. With a vicious tug she pulled his leg free. It disappeared inside her mouth, appearing to have been slurped up in a single spasm. 

Tom’s ensuing scream made Ramsay shiver. Was this how Father felt when he flayed his enemies within the walls of the Dreadfort? He doubted his father had even come close to this power, this sweet terror that washed over Ramsay. Father would never feel this strong, or this fulfilled. He needed hounds for his hunt, while Ramsay got to watch her, the greatest of hunters. 

Tom’s breath came in wet huffs, drifting in water laced with his own blood. He cried in the darkness for his gods’ mercy, but she was the one who answered. She returned with a savage strike from the side, but before Ramsay could witness her kill, his attention was abruptly snatched away when the boat lurched unexpectedly, colliding with something that sent him hurling forward and hitting the bottom. 

He scrambled up to see the boat had hit the dock. He had been so enraptured by her that he hadn’t been paying attention to the boat’s drifting direction.  He scurried onto the dock from Bert’s boat, glancing back to where Tom had once been, but now all that was there were lingering pieces of his flesh floating in the bloody bay. Ramsay groaned, disappointed that he missed out on seeing her take the thief. 

Still, he reminded himself, there was still one more. However, when he looked out, he didn’t see Bill. All he saw was the red muddled waters where Tom and Bert had been taken. Has she already taken him? Ramsay didn’t stay on the question for more than a passing heartbeat when he spotted him. 

Ramsay’s footfalls alerted Bill that he had been found. The thief desperately tried to scramble up out of the water and onto the dock. His hands trying to find purchase on the boards. His muscles trembling to pull himself up. 

His shadow fell over the sacrifice. Looking out, Ramsay saw she was approaching them. Her large fin resembled a great grey sail, knifing the sea, while her tail whipped the water from side to side. He looked back down at Bill whose face had lost all color, bits of blood and brine clung to his skin. 

It happened in a second, but it played out in one long heartbeat for Ramsay. Bill’s fingers clawing at the board, heaving as he tried to lift himself up as she surged towards him. His body shuttered like a puppet’s strings being abruptly cut, when her jaws closed in around him. His arms clumsily flailed in his death throes before his body slackened. 

Ramsay felt her gaze on him. Her large, black eyes, unblinking in her stare. With her mouth open, it looked like she was grinning. He returned her smile, watching as she dipped beneath the waves, taking her killed prey with her. It had been a very good night. 

Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:

-Bert, Tom, and Bill (William) in this chapter are named after the three trolls in J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit.

-"we should've gotten a bigger boat." A nod (not a direct quote) to the iconic line in Jaws.

Chapter Text

After her sixteenth nameday, Princess Rhaena declared herself a woman grown, “free to fly where I will.” 

Daenerys’ eyes swept to the next page to see a beautiful illustration of Rhaena’s dragon, Dreamfyre. Slender, and graceful, her scales were pale blue with silver markings. The depiction of Dreamfyre on the page was captured with her blue wings extended, and her mouth open, bellowing a great roar. 

She sighed, after she lingered on the page for another few seconds. Daenerys didn’t have a scrap of her ancestors’ boldness. She could never imagine telling her brother that she would do what she chose. She had already passed ten and six, and even the added years hadn’t made her any bolder.

A tightness in her neck made her lean back in her seat. A ripple of discomfort went up her back, her body had grown stiff being in the same seat for so many hours. The candle by her desk had shrunk considerably from when she had first lit it after retiring to her chambers after the feast.

The feast had gone well into the night, but she was too eager to open her new book to put it off until the next day. She had lit her candle and promised only to read the first couple pages, but her excitement had carried her well into the night. A pinkish hue crept over the sky, its faint rays of early light slipping into her room signaling to her just how late she had stayed up. 

Daenerys yawned; a rush of drowsiness fell over her. She still had some hours left before she was expected to rise. She went over to her bed and was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow. 

“What did you call it?” 

Daenerys had learned about the Seven Kingdoms through songs and stories, but listening to Dagon, she realized she knew very little about his home. The ironborn seemed so strange and different from the powerful lords in the tomes, the brave knights in her songs, or the handsome heroes in her stories. Though, she thought, He’s just as handsome as them. 

Dagon had come to call on her after luncheon the next day. He brought with him a second chest of gold. So pleased and distracted by all his new wealth, Viserys waved them off at Illyrio’s suggestion that she and her suitor stroll his gardens. They had a chaperone, a bored, unsullied who stood at the end of their path, barely watching them. 

The gardens behind the manse were extensive, and there was no sign of the pavilion that the Magister had erected the previous evening. She and Dagon had taken a seat by a bench near a small pool, after strolling the gardens for the past hour. 

“The iron price,” he answered, unbothered by having to repeat himself. “It’s the acquiring of possessions from our fallen enemies.”

The night before he spoke of the cities of Westeros, which were but names to her, but they felt different in his voice. In his words, she felt like he had pulled her onto the streets of Oldtown where the massive Hightower reigned or sailed into the docks of White Harbor with its welcoming whitewashed walls. Viserys’ tales were tinged with bitterness and sorrow. They had felt broken and scarred, but Dagon had breathed new life into old names and places.

Today, he spoke more about his home. These stories were all new to her. These were lands that her brother had never bothered to discuss. The Lonely Light, he had said, a poetic name for a grim land. He talked of his first trips at sea, the ships he served on, the men he crewed with, and she could not help but smile along. This was not a smile I had to fake. She loved the sea, their sailors and their songs. And all the freedom it promised. 

Daenerys could not remember the last time she had enjoyed herself this much. He makes for better company than my brother. With Viserys, she walked tentatively, spoke softly, and did everything carefully, not wanting to stir the dragon, not wanting to feel his ire. With Dagon, she silently compared her suitor to her brother, he already feels more a friend than a stranger.  

She stopped that thought from spreading, knowing she couldn’t sup on such foolishness. Daenerys had met many nobles who were kind to her, who spoiled her, who made her laugh, and within a fortnight, they’d toss her and her brother from their home and onto the streets without a second thought or look. He wants my hand, she reminded herself,  not me. 

“And you practice this?” She asked, redirecting her thoughts back to their conversation after a few beats of silence had passed between them. 

“Within reason,” Dagon said, “I’ll not steal another man’s breeches.” 

Daenerys giggled at the ridiculousness of it.  Her cheeks grew a bit warmer when she thought of the man before her in nothing but his breeches. She cleared her throat, looking away, feeling a bit flustered by that naughty, but enticing thought. This is a farce, sister, her brother’s warning was a harsh whisper that played inside her head. And only a farce. Do not forget that. 

Mulling over this iron price , Daenerys could not help but more thoroughly examine what he was wearing. His trousers were a drabby brown and his tunic was orange, but what really drew her eyes was the cloak he was wearing. It was a magnificent cape made entirely of brightly colored feathers, orange, red, yellow, blue, purple.  Wrapped around him, it made him look like some large brooding bird of prey. “What about with what you’re wearing?” She asked, “Gold or iron?” 

He noticed she was looking at his cloak. He ran his finger through some of the bright orange feathers. “Iron,” He answered, “I took this off a raiders’ ship. It was part of his cargo.” He dropped his hand, “These boots,” pointing to the ones he was wearing. “Made from the scales of a shadow-wing wyvern.”

“Gold?” she guessed.

Dagon shook his head. “Iron. Fortunately for me, they fit. I took the boots; my friend took the rest of him. She thought it a fair deal.” 

“She took the rest of this sailor’s outfit and weapons?” Daenerys asked, trying to make sense of these strange customs. 

Dagon hesitated. “Yes, it was something like that,” he answered, “she’s one of my oldest friends,” he paused, appearing to be considering something, “Would you like to meet her?” 

“Yes,” she wondered what this friend would look like. This woman dressed in man’s clothes . She nearly giggled at how scandalous it could be. 

He smiled, “I’ll see if we can arrange a meeting between you two.” He then tapped his jeweled belt. He had worn it the night before. “Gold or iron?” He asked, continuing their little game. 

“Iron,” she guessed, thinking she understood now. Her confidence was boosted at his confirming nod. 

“I took it off a rival,” He said, “We were suitors of the same Lyseni courtesan.”

“Oh?” She tried to keep her tone and expression light. While denying the small, cold sinking feeling that somehow persisted inside her chest at this new information. Daenerys could practically hear her brother’s scorn if he were to discover such a reaction from her. Smitten already, sister? 

“Yes, a decent man until he got drunk,” Dagon’s eyes were dark in the afternoon sun. “Her problem was that he became drunk more and more often as his businesses floundered and she asked for a favor,” He didn’t need to say what the favor was, “I granted it, I took his belt before I took his life.” His finger tapped the studded diamond on the belt. 

“She must have been pleased,” Daenerys said, and very beautiful. Courtesans were famous throughout the Free Cities for their beauty and their power, their wit and their wealth. Regardless of a man’s stature, singer or craftsman, noble or merchant, they’d all go delirious with desire for their favor, and apparently even kill in their name.   Some songs do sing truly. 

“She was, but that was a long time ago.”

He’ll smile for you, tell you he’s a good man, mayhaps, he’ll even believe it,  her brother’s voice pressed hard against her thoughts, but he’ll say anything just so he can fuck you, Viserys’ voice coiled around her heart. And once he fucks you, he’ll forget you, but not me, my sweet sister, A lilt of concern touched his voice, but it could not conceal the malicious pleasure that swam in his tone.  I’ve always looked out for you, as your brother and your king.

Daenerys looked away, needing a reprieve. Her eyes fell on their chaperone. The bored and fat unsullied, whose eyes seemed to wander as did his hands, scratching himself before letting out a yawn. 

“Fierce warriors, the unsullied,” Dagon said softly. 

She kept her attention on their plump chaperone. Daenerys heard of the unsullied prowess as warriors, but it was hard to respect such stories given what she’d seen of Magister Illyrio’s unsullied. “Have you seen them on your travels?” 

“I have,” he answered, “I even acquired some on my return voyage from Qarth.” 

“You have them?” That made her glance in his direction, unsure if it was his reveal or how mild he was about owning slaves that caused her belly to clench. She felt her first pangs of disappointment towards him. Traveling with my brother, I saw those who were worse than us, thinking about the slaves in Volantis or in Lys. We may not have a home, she’d think, but we’re still free. 

“Yes, they’re reliable guards, which are needed in my travels,” Dagon didn’t sense her distaste for his admission. “They crew a few of my ships, but I still put trusted captains over them.” 

“So, they don’t flee?” She asked before she could stop herself, slipping off the bench and away from him. 

“No, because they’re still not great sailors,” Dagon stood as well, finally realizing her dislike for it. “You don’t approve,” It wasn’t a question, but his tone had an inflection to it that she couldn’t quite discern. 

“I do not,” She never would’ve spoken so openly against her brother, would never dare show such fire in fear of waking the dragon. Her eyes were half closed, bracing herself for a strike that she was sure was about to come. Dagon was sure to grab her, to punish her, to hurt her, that’s what Viserys did to her for just bothering him when he was in a foul mood. And here I've done much worse. 

How soon will our chaperone notice our argument? She idly wondered; how fast will it take them to get to us? How many blows will Dagon land on me before their chaperone intervenes? Or would he? She thought dully, Daenerys’ body tensed. Her belly coiled tightly, aching. She was expecting pain and then hopefully hurried footsteps, but there was nothing. It stretched out before her, between them, this silence and nothing. 

Cautiously, she opened her eyes, squinting to see Dagon hadn’t moved from where he was standing. He had raised no angry fist against her. In those few seconds where she had prepared herself to be punished. He had merely stood there, sensing her discomfort, but not fully grasping the root for it. “I should return to my ship,” He finally said to fill the awkward silence that had fallen over them. “I’ll escort you back.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys didn’t reach to take his arm as she had done when they had started their stroll in the gardens, leaving them to hang at her side. It does not matter if you like him. Viserys would tell her. Play the part, and nothing more. Do not disappoint me, sister. 

“I’m sorry for my words,” her brother’s silent threats coaxed an apology from her lips that she did not mean. Feeling a fist close around her heart, it was not hard to believe it belonged to Viserys. 

“They are my thralls,” he explained. “It’s what my people know. We are taught that as ironborn, certain labors are beneath us. And it is our right bestowed to us by the Drowned God to acquire these thralls,” he shrugged, “It’s part of the Old Way.” 

“As you say,” Daenerys said blandly, looking straight ahead. The manse doors drew closer with every step. She and her suitor walked with a wide space between them. Their unsullied chaperone was behind them, ignorant or indifferent to them. 

“You have a soft heart, princess, but the Iron Islands is a hard place filled with hard people,” Dagon had stopped walking, he reached for something in his cloak pocket, pulling out a bundle of cloth as bright as his orange tunic. “This is my gift for you today. Last night, I gave you one in tribute to your family’s history. Today, I offer you this, a token of my family’s past.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, in the heat of their disagreement, she had forgotten all about receiving another gift from him. Seven gifts, he had said, to honor the Seven, your gods, princess, not mine. 

His smile was strained, before he dipped his head. “I trust your chaperone can escort you the rest of the way. I must be going.” He gave a short bow and left. 

He had not waited for her to open it, to see how she would respond to it. Her eyes remained on his retreating form until he was out of sight. Daenerys then returned her attention to the bundle in her hands. 

This was no book. Its long, curved shape atop her palm revealed as much. She carefully unfurled the orange cloth that covered it, seeing it was emblazoned by a standard she had not seen before. Stitched onto the orange fabric was a black longship atop a black sea, outlined against the setting sun, a dark red. 

House Farwynd of the Lonely Light, her free finger traced the black ship, thinking of the little girl who crossed the narrow sea half a hundred times. The vast horizons that were just as bright as the setting sun blazoned on this cloth. Watching the crew work the sails, listening to their laughter, their songs, their stories and seeing how happy they all were on their ships. It was enchanting, how it made her yearn for a life on the seas, the freedom it would bring her. The happiness…

“Has he left already?” Viserys was walking towards her. His voice ripped her from her reflections. She fought the grimace that wanted to surface, remembering her brother’s wrath when she spoke of her wish of being sailors.

“Yes,” Daenerys realized she was still holding her suitor’s gift. Distracted first by his standard than her thoughts, she hadn’t actually looked at it. The gift lay bare in her hand, it was a repurposed walrus tusk with fine carvings etched into it. She saw a walrus resting on a rock, beside it a pillar jutted upwards out of the carved sea. Lonely Light, she guessed, a crude depiction of his family’s castle. She noticed smaller animals too including seals and seagulls were engraved into it. She curled her fingers around it, surprised by how smooth it felt against her skin. A relic, she was holding a piece of his family’s history, a very old piece. 

“What’s that?” Viserys jabbed a finger at the tusk in her hand, having moved closer to finally see it. “That’s your gift?” His eyes crinkled with savage glee.

She protectively closed her hand around it. The only act of defiance she could summon herself to commit against him. “Brother,” she dipped her head, slipping away from him, wanting to shy out of sight from him.

“Daenerys,” He used her name like a chain to drag her back to him. “You are not growing fond of your suitor, are you?”

“No, brother,” Daenerys answered quickly, a chill slithered up her spine at dreading if Viserys was not convinced by her answer. But it’s not a lie, she protested, but the words felt hollow in her throat. His face lurked around the edges of her heart.  

Viserys pinned her with a hard stare. His face pinched in his silent scrutiny. “Good,” he finally said, “The ironborn are sea-addled savages,” he dismissed contemptuously. “He thinks a few pieces of gold would let him wed a dragon. Mayhaps, he should serve as my court’s fool instead of my master of ships.” He laughed, a scornful, irritating sound. 

“That said, do not ruin this sister, seven days of gold can buy me many swords and ships,” he looked her over, with a smile that made her belly clench, “just imagine what price your maidenhead will fetch me.” 

Chapter Text

“The food is ready, m’lord.” 

He saw Thearya from the corner of his vision. She had been bound to a pillow house in Lys, until Dagon had seized the ship that was taking her and many others. He had killed the slavers and claimed the slaves as his, having paid the iron price for them. In the blink of an eye, all those a board’s fortunes had changed for the better. The Drowned God had seen to it.

“Have it sent up to my solar,” he said, “We will be receiving the magister soon.”

“As you wish, m’lord.”

She had been pretty enough for him to make a salt wife, but he hadn’t. Under him, those slaves he captured had become his thralls. They now served him in either this manse or in his other home in Braavos. However, knowing the Braavosi have no love for thralls, Dagon saw to it that they were paid and protected in the two Free Cities. They were thralls only in name, but they still served.  He relied on Braavos too much to risk upsetting them. Not just for their merchants or shipwrights, but their legendary Iron Bank where a portion of his growing fortune was kept. 

“M’Lord?” Thearya had returned, “Which solar?” 

“The one I use to conduct my businesses.” 

I have more rooms than I need. He idly mused, listening to her retreating footsteps. Rightly or wrongly, they called those two rooms solars. He knew they referred to them differently, based on the tables in them. The one he instructed Thearya to was the one he used for more formal meetings. They had been heard to call this one The Sea. While his more private one was called The Island. 

He had wanted this manse not because of its vast size, but its location. It had been essential that he had one on the bay. In one of those many rooms, Dagon waited for the magister’s arrival. His attention was on the table in front of him. Atop it, neatly arranged across many rows were his model ships. He had a model made for every ship he owned. They were expertly crafted to serve as an exact miniature of the one they were based on. 

The Fin, The Voyager, The Sea Spector, The Stargazer, The Sea Bolt, The Iron Squall, The Defiant, The Iron Fist. And there were many more, which he had brought with him across the world. Most Westerosi don’t bother to pass Volantis, but he was not afraid. He sailed beyond them all, and the Drowned God has blessed me for my bravery. His ships had gone to Qarth, Yi Ti, and Leng. The silks and spices alone were enough to make him wealthier than most of the nobility of the Seven Kingdoms or Free Cities, but he brought back other exotic luxuries, and his share of gold and gems. 

And there was still more gold and glory to be found , he thought of the raiders they killed, and of other sellsails who tried to attack his fleet only to rue it. Their bounties had become his. Their past plunders were added to his ships, more wealth to be had. He moved against slaver’s ships when he could, taking their slaves and turning them into his thralls. Men and women as far as north of the Wall to as far east of Qarth now knew the mercy of the Drowned God.

He made more still by letting ships come with him, for a fee and a cut of their cargo. Or protecting them across shorter journeys between the Free City ports, helping merchants who were afraid of pirates. They paid him for protection, and he had yet to fail any of them. His reputation and his wealth had been hard earned, and blessed by the Drowned God. I’m far from finished. His successful voyage to Yi Ti and Leng made him certain he could do it. 

Asshai, the Sea Snake had gone there as his second voyage, the first westerosi to sail there, and Dagon would make it his third voyage. And then from Asshai, he planned on returning to the ports of his previous voyages, taking on their cargo as well, and coming back with the wealth of all the east aboard his ships. His fleet intact with each ship filled to the brim.  This cargo won’t be lost to the sea, taken by either storms or pirates. 

That’s what made Dagon different from the great Sea Snake. Lord Corlys lost ships. On his ninth voyage to Qarth, he sailed with twenty ships, but he lost six on the voyage back. The venture still made the Sea Snake a vast amount of wealth. But I would’ve brought more of them back, and those six ships’ lost wealth should not be ignored. Even if Dagon was to lose a ship or two, it paled to what others would lose if they sailed a similar voyage. 

The Drowned God will have risen me up in three voyages near a level of fortune that took the Sea Snake nine to achieve. 

“Your absence was noticed.” 

In the center of the room was a large table made from the hull of the pirate’s ship he sunk all those years ago. Remembering the story of Aegon the Conqueror, Dagon had commissioned his own table to resemble not just Westeros, but Essos, and its surrounding seas and islands. He had the artisans look and study dozens of maps, cobbling together all the information and details collected before them so he could make it as close to perfect as possible. 

Once its shape was finished, it was then painted and labeled. Much of the lands were barely covered, depicted, or labeled. They were inconsequential. It was the seas that mattered. It was to those the vivid blue seas where his eyes often went. All that blue, it was humbling to see the vast realm of the Drowned God. At how far His dominion stretched, touching so many different lands and kingdoms. All that lay within His grasp. 

Dagon enjoyed maps. To see the small little dot to the far west on the table, my home. And then to see the great expanse of land and sea that separated him from it. To see how far he’s traveled from that little speck. To put his finger on Lonely Light, and then trace it through the Sunset Sea, and up to the Narrow Sea where he resided in Pentos. Or to keep traveling east, past the ruins of the great Valyrian Empire all the way to the Jade Sea. 

“I’m sure my gold was noticed first,” Dagon was the only one sitting at his table, taking his seat in front of where Volantis was marked. 

Magister Illyrio sat on a large plush cushioned couch that looked like a chair with the magister’s wide frame. He had his wine goblet atop one of the Qohorik stands he had brought back from his expedition to Qarth. He showed no interest in the offerings Dagon’s kitchen thralls had made for his visit: stuffed dates, sugared almonds, and honeyed figs. “Well, yes our king did not mind, but the princess seemed disappointed about your absence.” 

He’d not forget her stiffness or her coldness at the mention of his thralls, but he was not worried. She will learn. He gave a polite nod to show he may actually believe the magister’s words.

“I may need to buy this from you,” Illyrio pointed a fat finger at a screen Dagon had gotten in Leng. It was a beautiful painting of a serene looking village nestled at the bottom of a mountain whose name Dagon did not know. 

“You can't afford it, my friend,” Dagon smiled. 

Illyrio laughed, making the couch tremble beneath him. He wagged the same finger he had used to point at the screen at Dagon. “I’m pleased to see how much you have prospered since we first met, Lord Dagon.” 

His smile remained, remembering their first encounter all those years ago. He had been introduced to the Magister after his victory over the pirates. Illyrio had not been bothered by the name that was given to Dagon on that day, because he saw an opportunity. He had reached out to his contacts to help Dagon, provided ships for him to add to his. He was rewarded for that trust when I returned from Qarth, losing none of the Magister’s ships. 

“There is still more to be had,” Dagon was far from satisfied. “That’s why we make such great friends, Magister.” 

Illyrio returned the smile, “And speaking as friends, what do you think of him?”

“That you should have sought him out earlier,” He was not impressed by his future king, nor was he surprised. Dagon had heard stories about the beggar king throughout his travels, but he had hoped some of them had been exaggerated.

“Having second thoughts?” Illyrio asked lightly without a hint of doubt. 

“No.” 

The one thing that still eluded him could only come through his support of Viserys. Land, it was a wealth he did not have. He had his homes here and in Braavos, but land in the Seven Kingdoms was different. He had considered other places from the Stepstones, to Sothoryos, but the undertaking would be enormous. In Westeros, he wouldn’t need to start from the beginning. He’d already have a castle, men to work his land, to field his levies, to pay him homage, but there was no land to be had. 

But war, Dagon thought, a war can redraw the map. And he’d make sure to get his piece. He’d get nothing as long as the Seven Kingdoms were at peace, but if he helped put Viserys on the throne then he’d be able to finally get what he wanted.  A dream I could never grasp, he saw it beyond his reach until he had been approached by Illyrio. Dagon thought back to the day when his grandfather had put the idea in his head. 

 “You will not use your gifts for Balon Greyjoy,” his grandfather had growled, “This folly will make you a corpse and he’ll think nothing more of your death, but I won’t have it.”

“But you told me to use my gifts.”

Maron Farwynd had given a grim nod. “I did.”

“Then how should I use them?” He hadn’t understood, a boy wanting to prove himself in the middle of a war, “if not to serve the Seastone Chair?”

He would not forget the look in his grandfather’s sea green eyes that day. The memory played out as clearly to him as Illyrio sitting in front of him. The gentle caress of air, the sputter of the sail, the men japing, as the stars began to dot the darkening sky. He grabbed his shoulders, holding him close so he could not look away. “I would see you use them to take the Seastone Chair, Dagon. That should be your purpose.” 

And it’s already started. Over the years,  ironborn returned to their homes, arms glittering with gold and silver. They spoke of opportunities and riches that Dagon had provided for them. The perfect recruitment, since many left the Islands to seek him out, swearing their ships and their crews to him at the promise of glory and gold. And I’ve always delivered for our people while Balon broods and gives them nothing. 

But as long as the stag remained on the throne, Dagon could not make his move on the Greyjoys. The Iron Throne would not permit a vassal to overthrow their liege, even one as detestable as Balon. If Baratheon allowed Greyjoy to remain after his rebellion, then Dagon could not take the risk.  

“I’ve heard tales that your people are unable to spill your own blood,” Illyrio’s knowledge surprised him. 

But it shouldn’t, he reminded himself, the magister always kept himself informed of his friends and enemies. He suspected Illyrio sought out everything he could learn about the ironborn before he ever approached Dagon. 

“There are ways around it,” Dagon wasn’t worried, “Besides, I don’t plan on killing him.” She will, when was the last time the Drowned God had been given such a royal sacrifice? Drown them and then feed them to her, piece by bloody piece. “Do not worry about my Islands, or my Fleet,” he had plans for the Iron Fleet once they swore themselves to him.  

“Just about our future king?” Illyrio wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, leaving a streak of red on his lavender silk sleeve.  “Viserys can still be molded,” he did not seem bothered by their temperamental king. “Time to smooth his rough edges.” 

“He’s a man grown,” Dagon put it bluntly. “He is what he is.”

Illyrio waved his concern away with a fat hand. “Advisers can be brought in. This peace can undo those years on the run.” 

Dagon was not as certain, but he needed the Targaryen king. He needed the chaos his invasion would bring, and the victory they’d secure.  His confidence in their plan was not entirely put in Viserys, which was why he was still committed to it. Some of his reasoning for remaining was because of the crown prince. Just as he heard stories about the Beggar King, he had stories about King Robert’s son and heir. Stories that made him believe they could take the Throne from him. 

“Mayhaps, a woman’s touch will calm our king.”

“His westerosi bride,” Dagon still had not been told who she was, but the way the Magister spoke of her, it seemed to be a guarantee. He or the Spider has made a pact with them, Dagon suspected, one they’d guard until it was time to reveal her.  A lady from the Reach, he guessed, knowing Lords Tarly and Rowan who had both been loyal to the dragon had daughters their king could marry. A Redwyne? He remembered his own pursuit of her, and its quick refusal. The bitter memory did not linger as Illyrio’s words pulled him back. 

“She will give him a few royal children and then-”

“Some accident will befall our king?” Dagon finished for him, “leaving us a long regency for his heir,” He saw the sense behind the plan, but it did not mean it wasn’t without risk. 

“Precisely,” Illyrio’s smile showed crooked yellow teeth. 

“And what about our current king?” 

“Soon,” Illyrio assured him, “He will stay for as long as we need him to.”

Dagon nodded. He still had voyages he planned to take, Asshai, and perhaps when he returned from the east, he’d sail north to the Shivering Sea. And not alone. The princess flickered before him, remembering her smiles when he talked about his adventures at sea. He saw them aboard his flagship, sailing to wherever they desired. 

“You plan to take the princess with you when you set sail to the east?” 

“She has spoken of a fondness for the sea, and she will be my wife.” 

“But if the king says no to your offer, will you, ah-”

“Steal her?” Dagon guessed correctly.

Illyrio offered a coy smile and a shrug as if he meant no insult since he did not say the words. 

“I will not need to, because our king will listen to one of his wise councilors,” Dagon gestured to the magister. “You will tell him that if my price is not met, then our king will not get my ships, and will not get my gold,” He stood from his seat, “You should also remind our king that if he wishes to take his throne then he first must cross the Narrow Sea, and the Sea can be so treacherous.”

Chapter Text

John Arryn was already tired.

His day had only just begun when Varys visited him with a message that would turn his trying day into a terrible one. He thanked the Master of Whisperers and asked him not to share it with the king. Jon wanted to do that, but he needed some time first to brace himself for the storm Robert was sure to kick up.

He knew once he sent the message to Robert, that the king would react quickly and angrily. Very angrily. Jon did send the message to Robert’s brother, wanting Stannis informed. He could always count on the Master of Ships, relying on him the most out of all of Robert’s councilors to help run the Kingdoms. When Jon sent the message to Stannis, he sent him a request too, which was what he was waiting for before passing along the message to Robert. 

A few words on a piece of parchment and it was more than enough to tilt King Robert Baratheon’s world. Enough to drag a reluctant king who cared little for ruling to be the first at the next Small Council meeting. Enough to energize him in a way nothing has in these past twenty years. And all it took was a woman across the sea. 

Princess Daenerys Targaryen in Pentos to marry ironborn suitor. 

The name of the suitor was scribbled below the line: Dagon Farwynd.

A part of Jon was relieved when he read the suitor’s name. This was no son of a Tyrell or a Martell, the sort who could lead kingdoms to war for his new bride’s cause. This was no Tarly or Darry, Mooton or Redwyne, who had wealth or respect or a great lineage. Her suitor was the second son of some minor ironborn lord. Jon knew little about the ironborn even after going to war against them to put down Greyjoy’s Rebellion, but he did not think he could be any great threat to the Seven Kingdoms. 

Let the princess marry this ironborn, he thought, knowing the rest of the Kingdoms cared little for them. The Lord Hand could not see proud lords of the Reach or Riverlands happily raising an ironborn above themselves. It would be like if the princess married Littlefinger, Jon nearly chuckled at trying to picture that. The last Targaryen princess tied to someone as harmless as Petyr. But he knew Robert wouldn't see it that way. He’s known the king since he was a boy, loud and brash, but always charming. Jon Arryn was already old when Robert and Ned came to him as boys to be his wards. 

He pushed aside the wistful fog that tried to settle in his mind. Jon knew he’d need to prepare for Robert. I wish Ned was here, he knew he’d support Jon on this. Another voice to temper Robert’s anger, his hatred, but Ned was in the north, in Winterfell. How long has it been? He mused; on the last time he saw Ned. Robert had gone up to Winterfell, what was it, two years past? To help handle the wildlings, but Jon had stayed behind to manage the kingdoms. He turned his thoughts away from Ned, to retrieve a small piece of paper on his desk which would rest atop his already tired shoulders like a great boulder these next few days. 

“Lord Hand?” His squire’s voice followed the gentle knock, “You have a visitor.” 

“Send him in,” Jon rose to his feet to greet his guest. Watching the door open to show a familiar face step inside his solar. He saw Hugh hovering in the doorway, he dismissed his overeager squire with a gesture before turning his attention back to Ser Davos Seaworth. 

“Lord Hand,” He bowed his head, “You asked to see me.” 

“I did, Davos, please,” Jon gestured for him to sit at one of the empty seats in front of his desk. “And thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Wasn’t aware I could dawdle a Lord Hand’s request.”

Jon chuckled, sitting back down, ignoring the stiffness in his back. He took in the slight man before him. He was Lord Stannis’ man, but still dressed like he was a smuggler instead of a knight at the king’s court. He found it charming, and saw no difference in the former smuggler’s attire this morning, brown tunic, with brown trousers and boots, that looked as old as Jon. His eyes did linger on the small pouch that Davos insisted upon wearing, the bag that held the first joints of the fingers that Stannis had taken.

“I asked to see you, Ser Davos, because we received a message this morning. The Targaryen princess is in Pentos.” 

“Hasn’t she been in Pentos for some weeks?” 

“She has,” Jon confirmed, “But now we know why.” He was about to hold out the paper for him to read but caught himself upon remembering that he didn’t know how. He apologized for the slip, but Davos waved it off with a cheery smile. 

“The lady Shireen has tried to teach me, but” he shrugged, that smile remained, “I’m just grateful that my children will do better.”

Jon returned the smile, agreeing with the sentiment of wanting better for your children. “It says that the princess is in Pentos to marry,” he read, but his eyes were on his guest, “an ironborn suitor named Dagon Farwynd.” 

Davos blinked, taken aback by the news, but recognition of the name was plain to see on his weathered features. “Dagon?” at Jon’s nod, he leaned back in his seat, eyes lost in thought. 

“Do you know him?” 

“I’ve never met him, my lord, but I know several who have, and have heard some tales of him.” 

“Do they speak of him being a Targaryen loyalist?” Jon had been hoping the former smuggler would have crossed paths with him, to get his honest assessment of the man. Disappointed that wasn’t the case, he thought Davos would still have good insight into him, if by knowing those who did know this, Lord Dagon.

“No, my lord,” Davos scratched at his beard, “That’s one tale I haven’t heard.” 

“And what have you heard?” 

“My lord, the tales I hear are spoken in taverns and brothels, it's not the sorts that are spoken in,” he gestured to where they were sitting, The Hand of the King’s solar. 

“Those are the sorts of men that still pick up their swords to follow their lords, the men who tend to their farms, and pay their taxes.”  

“Well, I don’t know anything about them being farmers or respectable, my lord, but I understand what you mean,” Davos who had smiled with his jest, slowly sobered, “It’s just rumors and gossip, but I do know that men who serve with him are always the ones who come to the ports with the heaviest purses. The sort to spend freely on ale and women, which will sometimes loosen tongues.” 

“And what do they say?” 

“That the ironborn who sail with him revere him as some sort of holy man, my lord,” Davos held up a hand, “I mean no insult towards the Faith or the Seven, but you know these sorts don’t worship in Septs, but on the sea, to their Drowned God.” 

Jon did and said as much to him. 

“And that they called him, the Demon of the Tides.” Davos said, reserved in tone and expression. “There’s a sailor I know, Rowlf. I’ve known him for more than ten years.  He went with Captain Dagon on his voyage to the Jade Sea. He returned a few weeks ago, from the venture, and spent his leave at a tavern.  I sought him out, wanting to hear how it went.

Rowlf was grinning when I got there, looking like a prince amongst his dirty subjects, silk shirt, golden rings on his arms, an exotic silver pendant dangling from his neck. He was happy to tell me how it went, bought me my ale too, and all the tavern,” Davos said, “and he smiled through most of his story until he got to one part.”

“And what part was that?”

“He said on the voyage back, a pirate ship was hiding in an inlet, wanting to surprise the captain’s ship, hoping to take it before the rest of the fleet could intervene but Captain Dagon knew that ship was there.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

“And the ship? The pirates?”

“Rowlf wasn’t on the captain’s flagship, but they were the ship following it, and he says, Dagon sailed past where the pirates waited,” He answered, “The pirates attacked and-” Davos paused, “You must understand, my lord, I’ve known Rowlf for a long time, he isn’t one to spin tales.”

Jon understood, gesturing for him to continue. 

Davos dispelled a breath, as if unsure he should say what he was about to say. “He says on Dagon's ship, all the men were chanting something, a word. A name? He couldn’t be certain, but something answered it.”

Jon frowned. “What do you mean?”

“That he heard something and then he heard it, the pirate’s ship, their hull cracked. The ship sank, all men lost.”

“He just attacked the ship,” Jon thought it was obvious. “He used scorpions to bring the pirates down.”

Davos shook his head. “Dagon doesn’t have scorpions aboard his ship, my lord.” 

Jon wanted to smile, the reaction you give after hearing a well spun story. That’s what this sounded like. But he couldn’t manage one or explain why he felt the slightest chill crawl up his back. His mind was quick to dismiss it, but in his gut, it lingered, the cold unease. 

“Rowlf says, there are other stories, similar to his. About ships sinking, looking as if they were dragged to the depths by the hand of the Drowned God, Himself. They say their god has blessed him, my lord, given him gifts that have made him who he is.”

Jon made sure there was no disquiet in his tone when he asked. “And who is he?” 

“A very rich man,” Davos answered, “I mean no disrespect when I say this, my lord, but he is likely richer than you, and all the Vale lords, and many others throughout the kingdoms, but you all don’t see it, see him.” 

Jon was taken aback by the former smuggler’s words, but not upset. Afterall, he had asked for the man’s honesty. An ironborn to be that rich? It sounded absurd, something to be dismissed, until he took in the former smuggler in front of him. Davos’ expression was earnest. He spoke the words truly, believing that this ironborn was one of the richest men in the kingdoms. 

“You don’t even recall his visit?” Davos asked, all but proving his point. “He came to the city a few weeks ago. The goods that he brought from the east, the frenzy it made at court.” 

It did come to him now that he was pointed at it. Even having overlooked it when Davos talked about his friend returning from said voyage to the city. But he remembered now, the silks and spices from Yi Ti and Leng, the decorative items, the gems, tapestries, screens, figurines. It was all the court talked about in the ensuing week, but never once was his name uttered, or mentioned of how they got all these expensive and rare items. It was as if he didn’t exist, Jon had been no better. He must’ve gone to Pentos after visiting King’s Landing.

"What did he do?” Jon asked, still trying to understand, to believe this. 

“Lord Dagon? Nothing, he hardly leaves his ship when he docks,” Davos answered, “He sells his wares, collects his cut, gives his men theirs, stays for a day or two and leaves.” 

“How many men does he have?” 

“I don’t know how many ships he has, my lord, but I do know that he has more than my friend, Salladhor Saan, and he boasts of over twenty,” Davos answered, “A fact my friend was still whining about when I saw him a few weeks back.”

That’s a small fleet, the words from the letter only grew heavier on his shoulders. He wrote a small note to himself: to send a raven to Lord Grafton, to ask what he knows of him. 

“He has other men beside ironborn, my lord,” Davos revealed, “sons of lords and ladies, younger sons who were destined to the Faith or their older brothers’ generosity.” 

Jon made two more notes, needing to know who these lords were, and if they were still with him.

“And to be truthful, Lord Arryn,” Davos said, “if I was not Lord Stannis’ man. My sons and I would likely be with him. That sort of chance for gold doesn’t come around often for our sort,” his hands then went to his pouch, “But we have Lord Stannis, and he’s made me and my family. And we’ll be his men till the end.”

“Lord Stannis could not ask for anyone finer, Ser Davos.” 

Robert’s anger was a storm in the Small Council meeting. He shouted and slammed his fists. His bearded face was red with rage. He moved surprisingly well and spoke without slurring. 

He must have been told the news before he could get too deep into his cups, Jon thought, sitting quietly, and waiting for his king’s storm to wane. He flicked his attention around the table to see how his fellow councilors were taking not just their king’s reaction, but the news of the Targaryens. Renly, Robert’s youngest brother, and Master of Laws, had his head propped up under his chin, taking in his brother’s loud outburst as if it was just another birdsong from the godswood. Grand Maester Pycelle, old and hobbled, his sagging face showed his confusion. His open mouth resembled a fish out of water, while occasionally nodding and muttering something to show his vapid support for the king. 

Petyr was looking down at his papers, with that same easy smile beneath his mustache, he always wore. Taking in Robert as a performer, with Petyr having already grown tired of the performance. Varys hid his hands in the sleeves of his robes and his thoughts just as well on their king’s bellicose behavior. Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander just seemed surprised to be here, not attending many of these sessions since he was often with the king, who attended even less then he did. 

Stannis, Robert’s younger brother and Master of Ships, looked annoyed by his brother’s behavior. And seemed to be just waiting for him to stop, so they could actually handle the problem instead of being delayed because of Robert’s ranting. When the king took a breath to drink his ale, Stannis had had enough, stepping in before his brother could continue. 

“Then what would you have us do, Your Grace?” 

“Kill them,” Robert ordered, “Blockade Pentos if you have to, but I want that whore and her ironborn husband killed,” their king slammed his tankard down, splashing its contents on the grand maester’s robes and snowy white beard. “More wine,” he ordered, not even looking in the direction of either Pycelle or his timid squire, Lancel. 

“Robert,” Jon began, sensing Stannis’ stare and its clear meaning: you speak to him, “We cannot blockade Pentos. That will be seen as an act of war.” 

“They’re harboring enemies of the throne,” Robert thundered, “My throne! I consider that a bloody act of war right there!” 

“I agree action should be taken, Robert,” Jon said, trying to soothe the king in this mood was as ineffective as scolding a thundercloud after it spat lightning. “Reasonable action,” he added before Robert could rebut him with more talks of war with the Free Cities. 

“Assassins,” Renly suggested mildly as if he was picking a wine, “We should have had Viserys and his sister killed years ago,” he looked up towards Jon, “But our dear honorable Lord Hand always spoke against it. She’s not a child anymore, she’s a woman grown, Lord Arryn,” Renly added before Jon could defend his previous choices. “Who’ll soon be fucked by her new husband with babes on the way, Targaryen babes.” 

“Lord Renly,” Petyr Baelish sounded surprised, but he was still smiling, “I wasn’t aware how well versed you were in the matters of the marital bed,” he said, “being unmarried and all.”

Renly flushed but was quick in his retort. “You don’t need to own a brothel, Lord Baelish, to understand it.” 

“The whore must die,” Robert cut in, before Petyr could respond to Renly. “My brother has the right of it,” the king had gone from not partaking in drink as he raged to now asking for more and more of it, his squire trembling when he poured another glass. 

“I don’t see how a child of an exiled princess and an ironborn could pose a threat to your crown, Your Grace,” Barristan spoke up. The Lord Commander of Robert’s kingsguard had served for countless Targaryen kings, but Jon could not begrudge him his distaste at the thought of sending an assassin after a young woman. 

“Her blood, her brother’s claim,” Lord Baelish listed them off, “her husband’s gold, and I hear that Lord Dagon has lots of it,” he then scratched his beard, “mayhaps, we should ask him to borrow gold for your next tournament, Your Grace.”

Robert wasn’t listening. He glowered into his tankard of wine, red flecks dribbled down his beard, but he didn’t care. 

Jon felt very old in his seat this meeting. For a flickering heartbeat, he thought back to the Vale, his home, the Eyrie, and wondered if he’d ever get to see his castle again. Feel the cool, crisp air wash over him, see the dizzying sights of snow capped mountains, or would he be here until the very end. He felt the twinge of a headache spark behind his eyes. “An assassin would be pointless,” he found his voice, cutting off Pycelle who had been speaking about the good of the realm. “By the time we send one across the Narrow Sea, they’ll likely be married and out of Pentos.” And after speaking with Ser Davos, Jon found it hard to believe they’d be able to sneak an assassin on Dagon’s ship. 

That truth pierced Robert’s quiet, grumbling like an approaching storm. “I don’t care, I’ve tolerated that fool and that whore long enough, it’s time to end it, Jon.” 

“Stannis?” Jon turned to the master of ships, “Do you think you could apprehend them?” 

“Apprehend them?” Robert blustered before his brother could speak, “I said I want to end this, kill them, not arrest them!”

Stannis spared his brother a cool look before turning to Jon, and replied as if Robert hadn’t just spoken. “While they’re at sea?” at Jon’s nod, he considered it, “Davos tells me he has a small fleet, but I doubt he has any war galleys. I wouldn’t need the whole Royal Fleet.” He then put forward what he thought he’d need for the plan to work. 

Jon agreed. The Royal Fleet boasted several large and powerful ships including Stannis’ Fury, Stag of the Sea, Lord Steffon, he did not think it possible that the ironborn could hope to match that strength. “Then it’s settled,” Jon decided, ignoring Robert’s purpling face, “Lord Stannis, you’ll lead the ships to seize them,” he then turned to his king, “We keep the princess a hostage, Robert. She’s a valuable tool for her brother, so we take her away from him. Let Viserys putter about the Free Cities, no one will listen to him, only laugh. While the princess remains with us, alive.” 

To Robert’s credit, he seemed to be considering this, albeit with the same look, one had when eating something particularly sour. 

“Do you really wish to proudly announce to the Seven Kingdoms that you killed a young woman?” Jon knew his words hit the mark at Robert’s wince. 

He sighed, sagging in his seat, one meaty hand around his tankard. “Very well,” He turned to Stannis, “You heard the Lord Hand.” He then thrust his tankard out, beckoning for more wine. “She’ll go to either you or Tywin, Jon.” 

Jon did not think she’d last a sennight under Lord Tywin’s care which he suspected was what Robert was counting on. “I’ll accept her as my hostage,” he then decided to add, “That way we’ll know some Lannister will not try to marry her.” Pleased, that possibility seemed to not only upset Robert, but sink in enough that he’d now dismiss the idea altogether of considering sending her to Casterly Rock.

“You hear that, brother?” Renly turned to Stannis grinning, “A chance for you to do what you couldn’t do all those years ago,” his grin widened at Stannis’ glowering. “I’m sure it’ll be a bit more challenging now that she’s a young woman instead of a babe.” 

“Lord Stannis, your brother is unfair in his jests,” Varys slipped in between the bickering brothers, “You are our most seasoned commander.”  Stannis looked as annoyed at the eunuch’s defense as he had been by Renly’s taunts. “When it comes to matters of the seas, the rest of us are a bit green.”

Renly frowned. “How hard could it be?” He crossed his arms. “Stannis already said it. We have more ships than this ironborn.” He was unimpressed at the idea that this mission would be some sort of trying ordeal. “We surround them, force them to surrender or we sink them.”

Varys ducked his head to the Lord of Storm’s End at giving offense. “I was simply-”

He was cut off by said lord.  “Anyone of us could do this.” 

“Then perhaps we should have Pycelle lead them?” Petyr suggested, earning a giggle from Varys, but the jape only seemed to annoy Renly. 

“Renly, Stannis-” Jon tried to intervene, but Renly didn’t want to hear it.

“You don’t think I can do this?”

“This isn’t one of your tournaments, Renly,” Stannis put in bluntly with none of Jon’s placating tone, “There’s no adoring crowds and waving handkerchiefs.” 

The more they doubted him, the more they dismissed it, the more Renly dug in. He didn’t just look like Robert, he shared his brother’s confidence and stubbornness. He looked determined now to be the one to lead this, as if to prove them all wrong, and to show them he could. What started out as a harmless remark was spiraling out of control. Jon tried desperately to right the ship, but Renly had seized control before he could.

“I could do this, Robert,” Renly said, “send me.” 

Just as Jon feared, Robert took his brother’s demands with roaring approval. “Just like a Baratheon wanting to take control,” He laughed, “Stannis, you arrange the ships, and Renly will lead them.” The King was either oblivious to the annoyance radiating off of Stannis or indifferent.  

“Robert,” Jon could see Stannis’ clenched jaw, as the Master of Ships rose from his seat, but it was too late.

“Very well, Your Grace,” He said stiffly, “I’ll prepare for my brother’s mission.” 

Jon sighed when Robert just waved his brother off, the humiliated Master of Ships left without another word. 

Renly looked rather pleased with himself at getting the role that should have gone to his older brother. “What of the ironborn husband?” He had gotten out of his seat. No doubt eager to announce his important royal mission to his friends and followers at court. 

“Kill him,” Robert rumbled, and none of the councilors thought it or him important enough to argue. 

“Gladly, brother,” Renly didn’t seem the least bit concerned about any of this. He walked with a confident stride, acting as if had already succeeded with his mission, and was ready to be celebrated for it. The Lord of Storm’s End was nearly at the door when Robert stopped him with a loud- Wait.

“I want him brought back alive too,” Robert surprising show of mercy raised some eyebrows until his next words, “So I can kill the fucker myself.”

Chapter Text

He rolled off of her with a grunt. 

King Viserys did very little while he stayed at her Magister’s house. 

He eats, he drinks, he fucks, he rants, she listed them off. And now he counts his gold. Her back still hurt from when he insisted, they fuck on the gold coins, spreading it out all over his bed. It was not the oddest request she had been given, but it still made for an uncomfortable tryst. He rutted on top of her, while the coins jingled and chimed, digging into her back, and the backs of her arms, neck, and legs. She could not wince. She could not grimace. She merely slipped away, retreating from the now, reciting sweet compliments and letting out the occasional moan while waiting until it was over.

“You may go.” 

She took his dismissal in silence. Doreah slipped out of the king’s bed. She cleaned herself and then dressed. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she curtsied despite him not looking at her. He didn’t answer her, but she hadn’t expected him to. 

“Doreah.” 

“Princess,” she quickly bowed her head to hide her surprise. “Forgive me,” she prayed her magister didn’t hear about this. 

Daenerys dismissed the apology with a smile not grasping how dangerous Doreah’s dereliction was. They never do. The ignorance of the powerful. She had seen slaves punished for lesser transgressions. It was that cold fear that had her quickly raise her head, glancing around the corridor. She did not feel those cold fingers release their grip around her heart until she realized it was only her and the princess. 

“Is there something you need, Princess?” She must always be ready to serve. Sleep, eat, rest, bathe, anything could be stopped and delayed if she was called upon by her magister. And before him her masters in Lys. 

“Would you like to come in?” The princess offered with a friendly smile. 

There were no requests, only orders.

“You honor me, Princess,” she ignored the ache in her stomach. Her needs came after her magister and his guests. Her magister had given her instructions on how to interact with the princess, on how to speak to her, and even what to say. 

The afternoon sun was radiant, offering its warm glow through the princess’ open windows. Her room was spacious and magnificent, fit for a princess. Doreah thought of her own room, and the three others she shared it with. It was far smaller. 

Doreah stood on the myrish carpet and waited. She watched the princess move around the furniture, oblivious to Doreah’s stillness. Despite being a princess, Daenerys reminded her of many of the bed slaves in the pillow houses. And it was not merely because of her beauty. It was most noticeable when she was around her brother: The detached voice, the refusal to meet her brother’s eye, the bowed head, the forced smiles.

“Doreah?”

She straightened up. “Yes, Princess?” 

“Please join me,” she spoke to her gently, as if the words were some sort of kind balm. 

But orders were orders. It did not matter if it was given as a rough command or spoken as sweet as honey. The lash still stung if you disobeyed. 

The princess was sitting at her table. An ornate Myrish mirror framed by golden borders. Doreah noticed a large open book, but she could not see the words. Even if I was closer, I could not read them. She saw an ivory figurine resting in front of the mirror. Her eyes then landed on the plate of food, and she wished she had not seen it. It was still covered with grapes and cheeses and bread, more food than Doreah’s eaten in the past couple days. 

He wants you to stay slim. Oola had told her about the reasons for her new rations. She too had once been a bed slave for the magister, until she grew older and rounder. That was when the magister had moved her to the kitchens. 

“He didn’t come today.” 

She knew the princess was referring to her suitor. Doreah was just thankful for the distraction, taking her eyes off the plate of food. This was the second straight day he had not visited.  Her magister wasn't worried so neither should the princess, but she saw the warring emotions that flickered across her face from the princess' reflection in the mirror. 

“Thankfully, Viserys didn’t notice,” she continued, “Because his gold came.” 

“And your gift,” Doreah supplied, needing to cheer up her magister’s guest. 

The princess shook her head. “There was no gift.” She slouched in her seat, a touch of regret colored her tone, but there was also something else.

Longing. Doreah realized that and more. She is smitten with her suitor. She could not read books, but she could read people. She needed to be able to read them in order to not only do her job, but to do it well. She’d have to seek out her magister to inform him of this after she was dismissed here. He had suspected as much, since his orders were based on it. But he’ll still be pleased. She knew she couldn’t fail him.   

“May I brush your hair, Princess?” Doreah ignored the growing ache in her belly, needing something else to focus on.

She seemed startled by the request. She hesitated, before nodding. 

“Thank you, Princess,” Doreah took the gilded brush from where it was resting, too close to the plate. The princess’ pale silvery-gold hair was beautiful, but Doreah had seen dozens of whores with such color, boys and girls. In Lys, it did not draw the same attention as it did elsewhere. 

“Daenerys,” she said, “You may call me Daenerys, when it’s just us two.”

Doreah hesitated. Such slips could get her in trouble if they were overheard by others.  “That would be improper, Princess.” 

Daenerys sighed; shoulders slumped. “Very well,” a gloom had fallen over her face like a veil. 

She wondered if she had erred at refusing the princess. I had to. The princess will not be here forever. She was free to leave, she would leave, but not Doreah. She could not be so brazen. She could not afford to. Still, she knew she needed to redirect the princess’ attention, onto a topic her magister wanted to be discussed. He wants to know everything. 

“Your suitor,” Doreah started, “He gave you a gift yesterday?” She did not miss the slight perk of the princess at the question.

“He did,” her tone warmed too. She then opened one of the drawers of her desk, to pull it out.

It was a sheathed dagger.  Doreah knew of some whores who would conceal them under their pillows in their rooms, in case their customers were too rough, but she had never been one of them. 

“It’s valyrian steel,” Daenerys withdrew it slowly. The blade shimmered in the sunlight. “It came with a note,” she said, “This blade doesn’t have the glories or the history of your Blackfyre or Dark Sister, but I thought it a precious gift to give to you, Princess. It’s to keep you safe, but also to remind you of what is lost. The past can’t be changed. It can only be accepted. May you carry this dagger when you retake what your family has lost.”

Doreah saw that there was no note on the table that the princess could be reading off of. She had recited it from memory. She saw the princess was looking at nothing in particular, but she was smiling. Doreah knew that look and knew who she was thinking of. She did not say the words aloud, despite how obvious they were. The magister will be pleased. 

“I upset him.” 

She stayed quiet, finishing the princess’ hair. It fell down her back like a silvery waterfall. It wasn’t just words Doreah needed to remember, but the princess’ expression, her posture. She may not be able to read words on a page, but she could read what the princess was thinking, and feeling, understanding her troubles even if she didn’t voice them all just by how the princess sat or looked. All the subtle tells, and Doreah put them all to memory so she could take it back to her magister. 

“If my brother finds out,” she shivered.

“He has not noticed, princess.” Doreah tried to calm her worries, but the princess didn’t appear to have heard her. 

“I always thought I’d marry Viserys.” 

He’s said your name in bed together more than once. 

“He sees this as nothing more than a farce, that’s why I can’t let myself hope,” she confessed, searching for Doreah’s eyes in the mirror. “My brother is the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Dagon would not risk angering a king over me.” 

“And what did you tell the princess?”

“What you told me to.” 

Her magister rewarded her with a smile.

She reacted to it as if it was better than gold. Even after he turned his back to her, she kept her posture the same, as well as her own smile. Doreah had told her magister everything, not just her time with the princess, but with the king. Her magister had enjoyed that retelling. His face had flushed and his eyes gleamed while she spoke of the king fucking her. 

“Very good,” he spoke to her in the same tone one would address their favorite dog, and she hated herself for liking it, longing for it. “And the princess reacted well?” 

“She did, magister,” Doreah answered, “Just as you predicted.” 

“Good,” the magister mumbled, with a distant look. “Good, very good,” he repeated, but he seemed to be speaking to himself. “The princess has been invited to Lord Dagon’s manse. Her brother doesn’t know,” he said, “And he must not know.” 

“I understand, magister,” she bowed her head, understanding what was expected of her for the remainder of the evening. “Shall I go to him now?” 

“No,” he pointed a fat finger down. “Not yet.” 

She approached him, and when she was close enough, she got on her knees in front of him. Sometimes he whispered a name when she serviced him. It was never mine. Doreah went away inside her head, because it was time to serve .

“Where is the captain?” Lonnel asked the first person he saw when he entered the captain’s large manse, which happened to be the captain’s spymaster. 

 “He’s in the dungeons.” 

“Good,” he replied while he inwardly winced. Despite his discomfort at having to go down there, he knew his orders were to return to the captain as soon as he came back. “Were you visiting the captain?” That was his last hope. 

“No.”

That was disappointing, but not surprising. The captain’s manse was used to men and women coming and going many times without seeing or even speaking to him. 

“I was here on a different matter,” He revealed, “Going through my reports on a dissident priest.”

There were several priests of the Drowned God among Dagon’s fleet, but only one name came to him. This particular one was the newest to join them, having arrived with a Harlaw only a few weeks ago. He said the name aloud, Ramsay confirmed it with a nod. 

“He’s a creature of the Greyjoys,” Ramsay went on, “Either Balon’s or Damphair’s, but it doesn’t matter.” His pale eyes glittered in the candlelight. “We’re beyond their reach.”

He had heard the priest tried to instill the virtues of the Greyjoys, reminding the men of their duty to the kraken. Fealty to the Lord Balon is loyalty to the Drowned God. These words did not receive a particularly warm welcome. Pride or foolishness only made him sloppier in his follow up attempts. Ramsay let the priest be this long on purpose, Lonnie suspected, dangling the priest on the line to see if any came forward. None had. 

“Is that enough to condemn a man?” 

Ramsay’s smile was sharp and cold. “It is when it’s against my captain.” 

“What is to become of him?” In his mind’s eye he saw that terrible fin rising out of the sea. 

“He will meet with our captain.”

“Our captain is blessed,” Lonnie said, meaning the words. “The Drowned God’s will will be done.” 

Ramsay nodded, pleased. “Always.” 

The air was moldy while a cold chill seemed to hover in the dungeon’s corridor. Dozens of torches flickered against the gloom of dark rock walls and ceiling. The dungeons were rarely used, but the captain still had them decorated like the rest of his manse. Though few guests would ever get to see these mosaics. They were of past Farwynds, Lords and Ladies who had come before his captain. Included with them were that of their companions, most had only one with them, but some had more.  

He tried to keep his attention straight ahead, but he still noticed some of their faces, still felt their stares on him as he passed. One Lady Farwynd had white hair and dark eyes. Flanking her portrait were eels, one on each side. Lean, and green with sharp teeth, their mean mismatched eyes stared almost hungrily back at him. Beneath her portrait rested her third and final companion, a large black octopus, its tendrils lazily stretched out just above her name. 

The companions were why his captain was down here, but he didn’t call them that. They’re my heralds, he had told Lonnie once, my heralds of woe. And this was where he went to seek some of them out, in darkness and solitude. 

Most rooms within the dungeons lay empty. Those that were used were for storage, foodstuff, supplies, excess cargo from his trips, even a few relics and treasure were put down there. Still the thralls that served his captain and lived in his manse did not tread down here unless they were ordered. And then they came quickly, refusing to linger long. 

The fires in the sconces suddenly guttered as if some great exhale passed through the corridor. Lonnie’s stomach lurched, a cold needle of dread worming inside him. He felt some relief in finally seeing the door at the end of the corridor. His footfalls echoed off the stone walls with his shadow fleeing past the former Farwynds. 

Before reaching the door, he passed the final Farwynd, his captain. Surrounding his portrait were the captain’s six heralds which was more than any previous Farwynd. His menagerie was more frightening than any of his ancestors. This collection that had made him the Master of the Seas. The captain had other murals depicting him and his heralds including a large one in the manse’s great hall. But none could truly capture their magnificence, their menace, he had seen them many times, and some still humbled him. 

He turned his attention back to the door in front of him, he paused to gather himself before he knocked. Even though he was expecting the voice, he could still feel icy fingers wrap around his heart when the eerie voice gave its one-word command. Lonnie’s fingers were shaking when they pushed the door open. The first thing that greeted him was the unnatural scent that filled the air. His stomach twisted, and his face scrunched.

The walls were decorated with turtle shells, walrus tusks, ray stingers, narwhal horns, swordfish bills, starfish, and skulls some he recognized: birds, seals, sea lions, sharks, lizard-lions. Others he could not name, like the one so large that it rested on the floor, its yawning mouth filled with jagged teeth. Beside the great, mysterious skull was what looked to be a spear carved from driftwood, but its sides were strangely embedded with sharp edges that glinted in the torch light. It tapered towards the bottom, a decorative row of pearls were ingrained in the wood while its end was made to resemble a clam. Flanking the doorway were great pale leviathan bones that formed an arch over the door frame. Lonnie knew they could be bigger, much bigger than what those bones showed. I’ve seen them. Him. 

The captain had yet to stir from where he sat. His back was turned to Lonnie, his head bowed. The two lit torches in the room hissed and sputtered as if insulted by his presence. The remaining torches in the room were unlit, which made Lonnie realize where his captain truly was. He was in a different place, a different body. 

Many would consider him an abomination. Lonnie had heard the whispers, the disparaging remarks of their people. His captain’s gifts were not looked on kindly by the greenlanders. Even fellow ironborn thought the Farwynds were strange. In the histories, skinchangers were hunted and hated. That was why his gifts were never openly acknowledged save to a select few. It was why he came down here when he needed to reach out to them. Or why he’d lock himself away in his special room aboard his flagship when they were out at sea.  There would be rumors and gossip, but those were easy for the men to dismiss. Some chose to ignore the signs, because they preferred the gold of their triumphs over the guilt of their Faith. 

One greenlander had the gall to insult his captain, after he had been accepted into the fleet, after making gold off his captain. That hadn't stopped him from calling his captain an abomination. Lonnie had punched him for that, a small pity since he had been a good lay, but his loyalty to his captain ran far deeper than passing trysts.

Movement pulled Lonnie from his memories to see his captain rise from where he was sitting. A tense silence filled the room like smoke. He braced himself for what he was about to see, but the sight still unsettled him: The captain’s milky white stare sent a chill slithering up his spine. He immediately bowed his head after their eyes met. “Captain.” 

“The deep is calling,” The captain’s voice was a haunting echo, as if it had traveled hundreds of leagues to reach them from the great depths. “We're waiting,” His hands were clasped in front of him. 

“Captain,” Lonnie said carefully, knowing his captain was never fully himself in these trances. It was why he kept himself in the dungeons. “I’ve returned as requested.” 

Dagon’s head tilted. “That voice,” his own slowly changed, “Lonnie?” 

“Yes, captain,” he answered, “The princess will be here soon.” 

That was what got him to turn away. His body shuddered. He dispelled a great breath, and then another noise escaped his throat, sounding like a wet gasp. “The light,” he hissed, "The crushing darkness," he murmured, raising a hand to shield himself from the dim glow of the torches.

He understood enough to know his captain could see well enough with them when he ventured into what he called the black, but his eyes were sensitive to the light when he returned. “I’ll extinguish them, captain,” Lonnie suggested, silently chiding himself for not doing it when he arrived. He was already moving to the nearest one, but he stopped when he saw his captain’s raised hand. 

“No need,” he dismissed. “It’s passed.” His milky white stare was gone too. “I was with them far longer than I intended.” The captain moved over to a side table where a goblet waited for him, already filled. He slurped noisily as he drank, letting out a satisfied sigh when he finished. 

“Is it really that dark, captain?” Lonnie had heard some tales of his captain’s trances with those that dwelled in the darkness, but not much. He tried to conjure a world where darkness reigned all day and all night, where light could never tread. But all I see is blackness.  

“It is,” he confirmed, “But it’s beautiful. The creatures that thrive there.” He said with a distant smile, lost in thought. “They do not like it when I’m here,” he said mildly, “they’re restless.” 

“Just like you, captain,” Lonnie knew which heralds his captain spoke of, and knew his captain preferred the seas to the ports. It's the sea we belong to. The salt of the sea was in the blood of every ironborn. He too could not wait until they left Pentos behind them. 

“Aye.” The captain chuckled. “They’ll reunite with us when we’re back on open waters.” He then stretched, shifting his body. “Come, let us leave,” he gestured for him to follow him out. “The princess should be arriving soon, and I'd be a poor host if I was not there to greet her." 

Chapter Text

There was no carriage waiting for her when she stepped outside.

Soon, she said to that twisting, turning feeling in her stomach. 

“Lord Dagon will marry you, princess,” Doreah’s voice wrung clear in her mind. A slave who spoke with the confidence of a princess. Her voice, but surely the magister’s words, Daenerys thought, she hoped, recalling the conversation with Doreah. 

“Your brother will see the wisdom of it.” 

“Will he?” Daenerys wondered what this servant knew that she didn’t. What has she heard? And from whom? Her brother? The magister? Her fingers had sought the gift he had given her the day before. The last time he saw her. He hadn’t even seen me open it. Her desk was a testament to his generosity. The book he gave her the first day, the ivory tusk, the dagger. Here is a life I could have. 

“Yes,” Doreah’s assurances were not just in her tone, but in her expression. 

This was a message, Daenerys realized, looking up from the intricately carved tusk, and she was smiling. Not just because of what Doreah had said, but because of what it meant. At thinking of serving her brother in sealing this marriage, her reward would be just as great as his. He will be king, and I will be, a flurry of words and feelings bubbled up, making her laugh, because she was unable to pick just one. They all feel possible with this new life. 

She hummed while she waited for the carriage feeling rejuvenated. The air was sweet and filled with birdsong. The branches all around and above her teemed with life, twitching as birds danced along the limbs, singing to one another. Daenerys smiled, basking in their sweet sounds. 

When she closed her eyes, she wasn’t wishing for the house with the red door in Braavos. Of the life and home, she wanted to return to. In her mind’s eye, she saw ships sailing on a sea as smooth as glass, of a sun that rose and shone above them like a great ruby. Of the wind dancing in her hair, as she stood out on the deck, smiling while the men sang and worked. The sails billowing, sending them onwards, onto that great horizon. Far from here, far from him. Let Viserys be king, let him have the Seven Kingdoms, because here, she was finally free. 

An eerie silence bled into her thoughts, causing her to blink back into the present. The birds had stopped singing. A strange stillness filled the air in the quiet, even the trees seemed to stop in their swaying as if holding their breath. 

Viserys, the name sent a sliver of cold dread to roil inside her. She looked over her shoulder, but he wasn’t there. Before the fear could spread, she heard a screech that sent her eyes scanning the skies. A sea eagle, Daenerys saw the great bird circling overhead.  A rumble on the road pulled her attention to see the awaited carriage make its approach. It was not as opaque as many noble carriages she saw in her travels, but it was still a beautiful construction of teak and gild. Rising above its roof, three to each side were decorative silver statues which sparkled in the sunlight. Each one was carved to resemble a different beast. She could only clearly see those that lined the side facing her. They were of a sea eagle in flight, a swimming shark, and a large bird perched on what looked to be a ship’s mast. 

“Princess,” The driver of the carriage turned to greet her when it came to a stop. 

She took a step back at his appearance. His hair was the same silvery gold of her brother. In one terrifying heartbeat, she thought it was Viserys, sneering down at her. Sneaking off like some whore to be fucked. His cold voice was a hateful hiss inside her.  Giving this savage your virtue, He gripped the reins tightly in his fingers. That’s not yours to give! 

Panic threatened to seize her with cold and heavy hands. Her fingers dug into the rich fabric of her dress. Fingertips pressing hard into the opals. The pinching pain was enough of a pry to loosen the hold her conjured brother had over her. 

“Princess?” The driver had come down to open the door for her. 

It’s not real, she told herself, he’s not here. Out of her haze, she was able to discern the driver before her. To see the scar that marred his face, it started below his eye and went all the way down to his chin. His posture stiffened and he wordlessly moved to open the door for her. 

He thinks his scar repulsed me, she realized with a cold sinking feeling. “Thank you,” she smiled at him, wanting to undo her first reaction. It didn’t seem to work. 

“Princess, welcome,” a voice from inside the carriage caused her to shift her attention to see a small black-haired woman waiting for her. “Thank you, Aekar,” she said to the driver, who answered her and then closed the door, before Daenerys could try another tack in undoing her mistake. 

“It’s an honor to meet you, princess,” She had large dark eyes that dominated her round face. She had a smudge on the side of her nose. “I’m Gwyn Farwynd.”

Farwynd? Daenerys’ thoughts on the name became jumbled when the carriage lurched to life. It made her appreciate her cushioned seat while their carriage rumbled down the road. She had been expecting an empty compartment, but with her mistake with the driver still fresh in her mind, she rallied. “Are you Dagon’s sister?” 

“No, we are distant kin,” she explained, “I’m a Farwynd of Sealskin Point.” 

Daenerys remembered Dagon mentioning there were other Farwynd houses throughout the Iron Islands. He said that several traveled with him and served in his fleet. She had assumed he had meant men. But what of her? What was it she did for him? She noticed Gwyn’s fingers were ink stained and were holding onto some parchment. 

“Ledgers, princess,” Gwyn sensed her gaze. “I manage his numerous accounts. Numbers were never Dagon’s strength,” a small smile followed as if reliving some intimate joke between the two Farwynds. “But they are mine and he saw that.” She shifted the pile in her lap. “I’m also the lady of his household,” she said, before she blushed. “That is until you marry him, princess.” 

Daenerys calmed her worry with a smile. “Is that what you have there?” She hoped her voice didn’t betray her nerves. She knew little of numbers. They had no household and little coin. Numbers were a luxury she could not worry over when they had more pressing issues: where were we going to stay? What were we to eat? 

“No princess, these are accounts for Dagon’s next voyage.”

“Voyage?” Was that why he hadn’t come to see her? It was not because he was cross with her. Daenerys remembered Doreah’s confidence in saying what had to be the Magister’s words. He will marry you, princess. You will see. 

“Yes,” Gwyn’s ink smudged finger wiped at her cheek, leaving behind a black freckle.  “Asshai, this will be his most ambitious voyage yet. There’s a lot to account for for this voyage,” Gwyn went on, “Provisions and materials, ships and men,” she listed them off, but despite how daunting it all sounded, she didn’t appear bothered by it. Quite the opposite, she appeared thrilled by the challenge. “This will be the greatest undertaking he has ever done. His longest journey, the most ships-” Her eyes suddenly widened, a contrite look flickered across her face. “I was supposed to send his regrets, princess for--” She gritted her teeth, as the carriage went over a bump, causing the compartment to jolt sharply and for them to brace themselves, “him not being here himself. This expedition has kept all of us busy.” 

“I understand,” Inside she was brimming with happiness. She had heard of the mysterious city, aware of its place on the map and all of the sea that was between them and it. It was happening. She once more saw herself on that ship. Now with a destination in mind, but in her heart, there was something new, something fragile. It grew with each passing heartbeat- Hope. 

“Daenerys,” She had told him that he should use her name upon their reunion. She’d not forget the sheen in his dark blue eyes at her request nor the coil of warmth in her belly.

He had been the first to greet her, but there had been others waiting for her. That was where he was taking him with a quiet Gwyn walking behind them. She held his arm as they walked. She felt the flow of muscles beneath his sleeves.

“Lonnel Tawney,” Dagon gestured to a tall, lanky young man who looked to be her age or younger. “He’s my squire, I could ask for none better.” His chest swelled at the praise. 

“Princess,” He dipped his round face when he addressed her. 

It wasn’t until he raised his head that she recognized him. He was the messenger who had gone to the Illyrio's manse.  Who brought the message that would change everything. 

“And this is my brother, Ygon.”

She saw the familiar resemblance to his brother. His hair was just as black, but his was shorter and messier. He had a scraggly dark beard that covered ruddy cheeks. She knew he was drunk before she smelt the ale on his breath.

“Princess,” he nearly hiccupped, struggling to stay on his feet.

“Lord Ygon,” She pretended not to notice the stench of ale that clung to him. “Your brother has spoken of you.” It was not a lie. He had spoken of his brothers. He had not spoken of Ygon being a drunk.

Ygon snorted, as if she had made some amused jape. 

Gwyn shot him a look that nearly sobered him. “You must forgive, Ygon,” she said as she stood beside him. She exchanged a look with Dagon. “He is unwell.” 

Someone else stepped forward before any more attention could be given to the drunk Farwynd. “Princess,” He had curly dark hair and pale eyes. “It’s an honor to meet you.” 

“Daenerys, this is my spymaster, Ramsay Snow.”

Snow, she knew that name.  Home of one of the Usurper’s dogs, the angry thought came to her unbidden. Had his father helped to overthrow his rightful king, her father?  “You are from the Seven Kingdoms, my lord?” She smiled behind her polite question, while inwardly she fumed on his family's disloyalty to hers. The part they played in rebelling against my father, and for fighting against my brother.

“I’m from the north, but that's not my home.”

“Ramsay, bring him to me,” Dagon’s order roused her from her thoughts. They seemed to be finishing a conversation that had been interrupted at her arrival. 

“At once, captain,” Ramsay bowed, “I’ll see to it myself.” 

“Dagon, perhaps that should wait?” Gwyn suggested, “You do have the princess to consider.” 

“No,” he declined to reconsider. "Daenerys, you may join me if you wish, or Gwyn will show you around the manse while I attend this matter.” 

“I’ll join you,” she hoped she didn’t sound too eager. She did not fully understand what it was she agreed to, but she knew she made the right choice with how he smiled at her. Mayhaps, it has to do with the voyage, she reasoned, And Gwyn thinks it’ll bore me. That would be her mistake, Daenerys was interested and excited about sails and ships. 

A warring expression passed over Gwyn, but she didn’t voice her disapproval. “Very well,” She then helped lead Ygon away.  

Daenerys looked to see Dagon didn’t seem surprised by his brother’s drunkenness. He looked used to it. She looked around to see no scandalized faces from anyone. Not even the rows of servants and guards, who remained quiet and still where they had been standing and waiting. “I would not have felt slighted if Ygon had needed to rest.”

“You are too kind.” He replied in a voice that was neither kind nor unkind. “He was not always this way.” 

“Will he get better?” she asked, “do you know what troubles him?”

“Yes, in time, he should recover,” Dagon’s eyes turned away from his brother’s retreating form. “I do know what ails him. I’d tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me."

It was not meant as a slight, she saw the apologetic look in his blue eyes when he looked her way. I would believe you, she wanted to say, to lessen the sting she felt at him not thinking he could tell her. The moment was lost when Aekar came to stand beside them. 

“Aekar, make sure my brother finds his ship after he’s rested.”

“Of course, m’lord,” Aekar bowed, and left as quickly as he arrived. 

Daenerys thought about calling him back, wondering if she could. If she should, but then she wondered how he’d react. Would he stop? What would she even say? What of Dagon’s reaction? Distracted by the questions which tumbled atop each other, she lost her chance, watching him go. 

“Aekar is a good thrall.”

Did he notice me staring after him? She kept her expression neutral and turned away from Aekar slowly. “How did you meet him?”

“He was on a slave ship bound to Lys or Volantis; I can’t recall. He was to be a bed slave,” he answered, “That scar on his cheek. He did that. He found a loose nail, and” Dagon didn’t need to say more, she understood enough. “The guards stopped him before he could further hurt or kill himself.” 

He did that, Daenerys’ stomach twisted at imagining such a maiming, at the desperation to inflict such pain on yourself.  

“When we took the ship, we killed the slavers, and I took the slaves.” Dagon said, “They’re free because of me, through the mercy of the Drowned God.”

Her heart stumbled over his words. She stayed quiet, remembering how she had ruined their last conversation because of how she reacted. I have no qualms in being served by the Magister’s ‘servants.’ She reminded herself. This will be no different. Her stomach twisted, I’ll be good to them, she thought how she had been kind to Doreah. I’ll make sure they know they’re safe. They’ll be my servants, not my slaves, not my thralls. Her eyes took in all the rows of men and women who had just been dismissed. “You have so many.”

“I do,” She felt his arm tense beneath her hold. “They’re good men and women. And they serve me well.” He then dismissed them, but instead of going in the direction of his manse like the rest of them, Dagon led her away from the manse and to a stone path. 

The stone they had just stepped on was shaped like a shark. She looked ahead to see the stones that dotted their path through the green were all carved to look like different creatures. They had just walked over a stone step in the shape of a whale when she spoke. “I’m glad to hear it.” She felt his inquisitive stare and looked up to meet it. “Forgive me, I’m just worried,” She confessed, “That I’ll be a poor lady to them.” Her chest tightened at the responsibility. She had not been told of it, not taught to be a lady of a household. 

The last time we had servants, she thought back to Ser Willem Darry. He was the knight who had taken care of them, who had always been kind to her. A twinge of wistfulness strummed through her, of the knight, of their home, but then the memory soured when she thought what happened next. They stole everything we had, She and Viserys were only children, but that hadn’t stopped them. Our money and whatever else they could take from us.

“The household will likely remain Gwyn’s responsibility.”

“Oh?” She felt a thread of worry in her chest. Has he reconsidered me? Does he think I’ll fail him? 

“Yes,” Dagon said, “After all, how can you be the lady of the household when you’re traveling with me?” 

Giddy relief flooded through her, but he took her silence differently. 

“That’s if you wish to travel with me after we’re married. I had-”

“I do!” she assured him, unintentionally squeezing his arm in her excitement to be heard. “I do wish to travel with you.” 

He chuckled. They then fell into an easy conversation. She felt comfortable with him by her side, listening to him speak, content in a way she never felt with her brother. With Viserys, one small slip, she suppressed the shudder at the memories of waking the dragon. All her life, she thought she’d be tied to her brother. Not just by blood, but in marriage. Thinking he’d be her husband as well as her brother, but now for the first time, she saw a life, a future, which he wasn’t in.

“What’s your ship called?” She asked, “Your flagship?” She wanted to know the name of the vessel that would be part of her new life, that would be her new home, that would lead her away from her brother, to be her freedom. 

“Our ship,” Dagon corrected her. “Once we’re married, it’ll be our ship.”

Our ship. He was already so different from Viserys. “Our ship,” She felt her smile widen when she repeated the words. “What’s the name of our ship?”

“Inevitable.”

Chapter Text

The priest of the Drowned God was not who she was expecting to meet. Not just a priest, she noticed his hands were bound and behind his back. But a prisoner.  He had been brought to them on the dock with Ramsay Snow prodding him with the priest’s own cudgel. The priest’s hair was muddy brown with strands of seaweed woven into it. He dressed in wool robes of green and grey, stained by salt and sea. 

Daenerys knew she had much to learn about the Drowned God, but she found it odd how reluctant the priest was to be near the water. Shying away from being near the dock’s edge, determined to stand at its center. More than once, she caught him sending furtive glances towards the water. She found her own eyes searching too, but the Bay of Pentos’ waters were murky. 

“Ramsay tells me you’ve been busy since your arrival to Pentos,” Dagon stood tall and impassive. He wore snug trousers and a tight-fitting dark tunic. A gem cut in the shape of a shark tooth was used to fasten his black cloak which shimmered with sapphires and pearls sewn in the shape of a great shark.

“You travel with many ironborn, captain. I was merely offering my services to them.” 

“As a priest of the Drowned God or a shameless lickspittle for the Greyjoys?” 

Ramsay snickered at the captain’s question. 

“You have been away from home for a long time. Have you forgotten your duty to-” The priest quieted in an instant when Dagon took a step forward. 

“I have sworn no vows to the Seastone Chair.”

“Balon Greyjoy would see you as an ally,” the priest argued, “He’d see you married to his daughter, Asha, his heir.” 

Married. The word didn’t have time to crystallize inside her before it was swept away by Dagon’s brusque reply. 

“I’m already betrothed.”

“Her?” the priest gave her a scathing look, “This girl from the greenlands? She’s soft as mud,” he sneered, “take her as your salt wife. I’ll perform the ceremony myself,” he advised, “But as your rock wife?” He spat on the warped wood of the deck, just missing his bare feet, “thought you’d know better, captain. A rock wife must be of salt and iron, strong and blessed by the Drowned God,” he shook his head. “Not some wisp of a girl with a tainted name.” 

Daenerys barely had time to ponder all the hate he poured into his tone at the mention of her family’s name before he continued. “Stormborn,” he hissed, “She was made of the Storm God’s seed. He took the blood and flesh of all the Royal Fleet for this foul coupling.” A spasm of anger flashed across his face. “She carries His name.” His body twitched and she knew if his hands were not bound, he’d be jabbing his finger at her, but instead his fists shook behind his back. “She is a means to destroy all you’ve built! A seductress sent by the Great Tempest to bring down one of the Drowned God’s greatest champions.” 

Her chest tightened. She looked away first, needing to see how he was taking in the priest’s words. Dagon’s piercing dark blue eyes and stormy visage were enough to make the prisoner take a step back. “You insult my betrothed,” he said with a stillness that reminded her of the calm sea air before the storm. 

“No,” he shook his head, “I’m only providing counsel.” 

“Counsel?” Dagon repeated, a sliver of a smile appeared, a small sharp cut in his intimidating countenance. “What do you think of such counsel, Ramsay?” 

“Pitiful, captain. He offers you a girl and calls her an heir?” He cackled, a noise that made the skin on the back of her arms and neck prickle. “Greyjoy has a son, priest. He comes before her.” He then smiled, “Not that it will matter.” His pale eyes gleaming with some secret that only he and Dagon seemed to know. “Greyjoy’s afraid because skalds across the Iron Islands sings of your glories, captain, not of his.” One of Ramsay’s hands closed around the priest’s shoulder making him flinch. “What songs has Balon inspired, priest?” he whispered the question like they were abed lovers. 

The priest licked his lips. “Balon backs the Old Way. He will lead us to-”

“Victory?” Dagon supplied with a chuckle. “How many great victories has your master given us?” 

Ramsay’s mirth joined his. “He raised himself a king, but lost how many battles? How many sons?” The priest grimaced as Ramsay’s grip tightened.  “So, he seeks my captain’s riches, my captain’s glories to try to build what he’s failed to do, what he can’t do.” He brought his face right to the priest’s ear. “You're a worm." 

An ironborn veil had been put up by the three men leaving her forgotten in their conversation. They spoke of things she didn’t understand. Things I should understand, she realized, Things I need to understand. If she was to be Dagon’s wife like he believed, like she hoped. 

“You speak of Balon and the Old Way?” Dagon asked.

“I do,” the priest stood straight as an arrow’s shaft. 

“Then you need to know the truth,” Dagon said softly, moving closer towards the priest. 

“And what's that?” He tried but failed to hide his distress at Dagon’s advance.

Ramsay, who stood behind him, kept a firm hold on him, denying him an escape. 

“There is no Old Way or New Way.” Dagon lifted the priest off the ground. “There is only my way.” He said over the priest’s squeal. “And I’ll drag my people to glory if I have to.” He moved him to the edge of the dock and the priest screamed, high and piercing.  

Is he afraid of drowning? She watched the front of his robes darken, then heard the splatter of piss hitting the wooden boards. Daenerys noticed Ramsay too was staring out at the waters, but there was a yearning in his pale eyes as he whispered fervently over the priest’s own pleading prayers. 

“You do not serve He who Dwells Beneath the Waves,” Dagon’s hands wrapped around the priest’s throat. “You will not be welcomed in His Watery Halls. There will be no feasts for you. No mermaids for you. Crabs will feed on you for all eternity for what you’ve done.”

Daenerys kept her eyes on the Bay, but she heard Dagon speaking over the priest’s dying gasps and gurgling. 

“You who put the Greyjoys over Him. It’s He who we must serve above all else.” 

A sharp sound broke through his words, the priest’s throat had shattered. She then heard the thud of the body hitting the deck. She gathered herself before she turned around, relieved that the priest's dead face wasn't looking towards her. 

Ramsay was crouched down, examining it. He guffawed. “Not a drop of blood, captain.” 

“Cut off the head,” Dagon ordered coolly. His back was to them, facing the sea. 

“And the rest?” Ramsay had already drawn his dagger. 

“Yes.” His voice was low and strangled. He didn’t wait for Ramsay’s answer or even for her before he left. 

Daenerys didn’t stay. She left Ramsay, who was happily singing some sea shanty while his dagger sawed through meat and bone. She went to her betrothed, who hadn’t stopped for her. He continued in his direction without even looking back to see if she was following. 

His absence made the memory of what she just saw worm inside her mind. He had made it look so effortless. As if he was lifting a doll and not a man. A dull throb filled her, but there wasn’t fear. She felt no trace of it cling to her. She watched him kill a man, but she didn’t feel frightened like she did when Viserys threatened her or hit her. 

He spoke out against her, remembering the priest’s words. His dark ravings about Daenerys being descended from a storm. And Dagon killed him. It was an odd feeling that stayed with her, filling her chest, softer than numbness, neither hot nor cold. He killed him for me. She felt safer when she considered this. Protected, watching what he’d do to defend her, to defend them. 

“Daenerys.” 

She looked to see he had stopped for her. She smiled at him which seemed to surprise him, but he returned it. “I killed that priest because he was faithless.” He looked past her, towards the Bay. “He was false.” He closed his eyes and half turned away from her. His body went still, but she saw the tension in his face and then in a flutter of movement, he dispelled a breath, and his body loosened. He continued speaking as if nothing had happened. “He’d have our people follow the Greyjoys, and I can’t have that. Balon can’t lead us forward. Only I can.” 

“Even when you take a wife from the green lands?” She asked, while she quietly puzzled over what she had seen. 

That made Dagon look at her. His eyes were sea green and clear. “You were born to salt and sea the same as me.” He offered her his arm which she gladly took. Feeling safer and stronger when her fingers curled around him. 

“He was wrong,” she knew who she was, where she came from. “I’m the blood of the dragon.”

Dagon laughed. It was not the derisive laugh of her brother, but something warmer. It made her smile. He regarded her with approval that made her swell with pride. “We’ll need that fire, princess, to rule our lands and our ships. Ironborn despise weakness and expect their women to be as strong as steel.”

Then I will be that. “Can you tell me more?” 

And he did.

The night before she worried and waited alone in the dark in her room. Afraid, she had ruined her brother’s plans. That fear followed her into her dreams, where Viserys had chased her, hurting her. She ran from him, but her body was ungainly. She stumbled and fell, collapsing onto a beach. 

“You woke the dragon,” he screamed, his voice hunting her in the darkness. She could hear him coming closer. “You woke the dragon!” 

She whimpered, crawling through the sand to reach the tide. Its waters were warm against her bare skin, washing away the blood and the tears. Sitting in the waters, she felt she was being watched, afraid her brother had found her, she looked behind her, but he hadn’t. But the feeling of being watched remained, she looked out towards the water that looked black glass. And that was when she saw it, two great bright eyes looking up at her from beneath the sea. Its shadow beneath the water, it looked so familiar and yet different. The word didn’t come to her until after she had woken up: Dragon.

And now here she was in his solar learning all about the life waiting for her. 

In front of her was a great table made from the hull of a ship. It was beautifully carved and painted with great detail. She thought of the table on Dragonstone, the castle where she was born. She didn’t remember it, but she knew about her family’s seat. It was where Aegon launched his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms with his sister-wives. That table was a map of the Seven Kingdoms. The one before her was only of the Iron Islands.

The standards were shown to see where each house lived and ruled, but they were almost all new to her. The first name she recognized was when her eyes fell on Pyke. Greyjoy, she took in the golden kraken, with its writhing tentacles looking on at the surrounding sea and land with quiet menace. “All of this?”

“Yes,” Dagon answered, “From here.” His finger tapped and then blotted out where the golden kraken had been painted. The castle of Pyke remained visible. “We shall make a new name, a new banner, and mayhaps, even a new seat and rule.” 

It was staggering, but she tried to hide her disquiet at the heavy expectations that were being put on her shoulders. A week ago, she was in Illyrio’s manse, wondering why their host was being so kind to her, worried where they might go once, he grew bored of them. But now, she looked out at the Iron Islands table, all this land, and people she was expected to help lead, to rule. She felt a tremor in her chest. 

I am the blood of the dragon. She reminded herself, reminded how her ancestor Aegon had stood at a table like this one, looking at the map of his future lands, and made his plans to rule them. I can be no different. 

They sat alone on a raised dais. 

His seat loomed large beside hers. Its back was made from a broken mast from one of his old ships. It was draped in a white sail, worn and salt stained. The arms were propped up by ship wheels. Embedded into the back were two arching bones that were taller than any man, stretching out like great pale wings. Atop the seat a monstrous skull rested with a gaping jaw filled with large, crooked teeth. The eyes were filled by rubies, each the size of a small egg. 

The two of them presided over a great feast where every table was full. She was sure there were more than a hundred men and women below them. Most were strangers to her, only a few she recognized: Gwyn Farwynd, Lonnel Tawny, and Ramsay Snow, they were eating at the closest table to theirs. 

“This is your fleet?” she asked when their first course had been brought to their table. Thinking she was looking down at all the sailors and captains and soldiers of his many ships. 

He smiled and shook his head. “This is my household.” 

Our household, and the words made her dizzy. She felt their eyes climbing the dais. Their scrutinizing looks brushing against her bare skin like sticky ants. She itched under royal silks. She thought the noise may overwhelm her. It rose up like some great tide, a rumbling roar threatening to drown her. She felt her smile threatening to crumple. For all the newly built happiness and hope in her chest to crumble to splinters and dust. Flee! The word burst through her clustered thoughts to become her sole focus.  She could hear her brother’s raging voice inside her, his violent threats, but it was the warm weight of the necklace that steadied her. 

A queenly gift, she looked down at the uniquely cut sapphire with its border of pearls. The silver chain lay against her skin as soft as a kiss. 

“For your love of the sea,” Dagon had presented it to her before the feast. His promised gift, the fourth of seven. The gem had taken her aback, but she could not forget the giddy ripple that ran through her when he put it on her. His fingers on the nape of her neck had her heart racing. The shiver that twisted through her, heat and excitement coiling tightly together when his hand was on the small of her back. When he was finished, and he dropped his hands, she knew she’d give the gem right back to him, if it meant he could touch her, hold her just a little bit longer. 

She held the sapphire between her fingers and breathed. I am the blood of the dragon. 

The feast that followed was a blur for Daenerys. 

She met many men and women, who would come forward to speak with Dagon and to meet her. The first would be the skalds. 

She had never heard of them before, but they were apparently highly regarded and famous throughout the Iron Islands. Dagon had more than a handful in his employ. She made the mistake to call them minstrels in their presence when they had come to introduce themselves. They had stiffened, bristling at the word. 

A beautiful woman with blond hair, dark eyes, and a smoky voice quickly conveyed her distaste for the word. “We’re not southern singers.” Those behind her, muttered and nodded their agreement. “We are skalds.” 

Dagon had chuckled after they left, promising she did no harm. “They do not see themselves as bards or minstrels,” he explained. “Those are soft singers who seek to serve only themselves, but a skald is considered a more sacred duty. They serve the Drowned God and our islands.” 

They seemed the same to her, but she nodded at his explanation. She could agree that they had lovely voices and she found herself fond of many of the shanties they sang. They did not just sing, but they spent portions of the feast reciting stories of great ironborn and their deeds and adventures. She caught several that were about Dagon, those she paid close attention to, or as best she could given the rousing tumult in the Great Hall.  

After the singers came the scholars. They were led by a man who introduced himself as Irwyn. He had kind eyes and a friendly smile. She learned these men and one woman were working on treatises on several different sea creatures. And that a few of them including Irwyn had spent time in Oldtown, forging links at the Citadel before finding their way to Dagon’s patronage. 

The priests were next. 

She thought of the dying priest, but a mouthful of wine had helped to calm her nerves.

His bone white hair was long and tangled. His beard rested just above his belt. Like his hair, his beard had seaweed braided into it. His robe was in multiple shades of blues, greens, and grays. She spotted red too before realizing it was a wine stain. Dagon called him Sharkey. None of the other priests behind him spoke. He had a jovial glint in his eyes until Dagon mentioned the dead priest. Sharkey’s demeanor darkened, and he ranted about the corruption of his order. He then assured Dagon and herself that true believers of the Drowned God had their support. 

After them came a heavy shouldered man with thick muscles. He wore chainmail with a large, black shark tooth emblazoned on the front. His arms glittered with gold and silver rings. He had barely spoken. She didn’t even catch his name. He grunted a few times while Dagon spoke and then left as quickly as he had arrived. 

“His wife?” She had asked after he excused himself to return to her at his table. 

“His crossbow,” Dagon had answered. He was the captain of Dagon’s dreaded Drowned Legion. His best fighters, killers, and reavers, who he used as the tip of the spear for raids and battles. They were mostly iron born, and enjoyed displaying the wealth from their plunder and kills on their persons. 

It was not all new faces. She had been glad when Gwyn arrived. She asked after Daenerys, to see how she was, sounding sincere, and Dany wished she could stay longer. But there were more courses and more people to speak with. Ramsay would come to their table several times throughout the feast, but only to converse with Dagon, coming to his side. His curly hair had been slicked back.  During one of his visits, she thought he was hurt, seeing blood, but when he wiped it away, she saw no cut, only pale skin and wet hair. 

It turned out not all of those attending tonight’s feast were of his household. A few captains and friends had come to introduce themselves. One was a dwarf, who called himself Longjon. He captained The Silver Spoon. When Daenerys asked after the ship’s name, Longjon had grinned and confessed: "I was a cook before I was a captain.”  The second was a handsome man who introduced himself as Captain Pyke. His mother was a distant Greyjoy who had him between her first and second husband. He captained The Stargazer which was supposed to be an exact duplicate of Dagon's Inevitable. And then there was Ysabel Flowers, her father was a nobleman from the Reach and her mother was a sailor from the Summer Islands. Dagon said she had a husband waiting for her in every port. 

“In some ports I have two.” She winked.

She owned two ships, Tiny Dancer and Moonshadow, she captained the latter. When Daenerys had been told that she would be joining Dagon and the fleet on their voyage to Asshai, she had wondered if she would be the only woman. She was pleased to learn she would not be, and more so when she learned that Captain Flowers had several women who served in her crew. 

On and on it went, she found herself getting more comfortable as she settled into the routine for the evening. The one thing she regretted that she was barely able to speak with her betrothed. With the many introductions needing to be made and the conversations with them, they found themselves with very little time to speak to one another.

The last were a pair who hailed from Westeros, a knight and a bastard.  Instead of the expected introductions, they told a story which left Daenerys trying her best to follow. 

He apparently had been part of Dagon’s fleet for some time, hoping to earn some coin to return home to marry his bastard paramour. Her arrival was an unexpected surprise and came with bad news. His lord father had no intention of letting him marry her, but with help from one of his brothers, she was able to book passage to Pentos from Gulltown. And now the two had come before Dagon asking for a place for them. 

Dagon gave it gladly, allowing them both to enter his services before he made the introductions for her. They were Ser Mychel Redfort and his bride-to-be, Mya Stone. They didn’t stay long afterwards, both relieved to know they had a found home and could be with each other. 

Their story reminded her of something she would have found from one of her favorite songs and said as much to Dagon during their rare reprieve between courses and guests. She watched the two find seats together on a bench.  “What role will you have for her?” 

“I thought she could serve as one of your companions for our voyage.” He covered his hand with hers, which made her forget all about them. 

Happiness flared in her like a lit taper. She smiled, feeling the heat rise in her face. She was vaguely aware they are not alone, that they are at a feast with hundreds, but she was so content with his touch, with his attention, she was happy to think differently. But then it burst. 

“A toast!” 

They do enjoy their toasts. She didn’t understand half of them, but they loved to stop their feasting, to stand and rise, recite a few words and go back to drinking. Some had earned cheers others would earn derision, but their disapproval never lingered after a few beats of loud ribbing. This time she realized, they were turning to their table, expecting the toast. She felt his hand squeeze hers before he let go.

Dagon took their clamoring with a growing smile. He stood from his seat. He feigned to be deep in thought, playing it up for them. When he had a strike of inspiration, it flashed across his face before his smile turned sly. He raised his glass. “Here’s to swimmin’ with bow legged women.” 

His toast was met with a rowdy roar, men guffawing and thumping the tables in approval as they drank and laughed. Daenerys drank as well, watching from behind her wineglass the ripples of excitement go up and down the tables. That was when she heard the starting of a new song. An ironborn shanty? She guessed since she had never heard it before. 

“Show me the way to go home. I’m tired and I want to go to bed.” 

It spread feverishly among the crowd, who quieted in their stories and japes, to join the song. Their slurred voices were kindling, letting it grow louder and louder. 

“I HAD A LITTLE DRINK ABOUT AN HOUR AGO AND IT’S GONE RIGHT TO MY HEAD!” 

They slapped the tabletops, with their hands or tankards and stomped their feet to form a heady tumult, but they maintained the rhythm for the song without the verses getting lost to the drunken din. 

“WHEREVER I MAY ROAM, ON LAND OR SEA OR FOAM.”

Dagon’s voice was among theirs, loud and clear. 

“YOU CAN ALWAYS HEAR ME SINGING THIS SONG, SHOW ME THE WAY TO GO HOME!” 

Home, she thought while humming along. Have I finally found it? She hoped and prayed, but she wasn’t thinking of the Seven, of the only gods she ever knew. In her mind’s eye, she saw only the sea, and she kept praying. 

Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:

The 'scholar/maester' Irwyn is named after Steve Irwin.

The priest Sharkey is named after the name Saruman used when he was the boss of the Ruffians in LOTR: Return of the King. 

Captain Longjon is a nod to the famous literary character Long John Silver from Robert Louis Stevenson's "Treasure Island."

Captain Pyke is named after the Star Trek captain: Christopher Pike.

Captain Ysobel Flowers is a nod to Captain Isabela from the Dragon Age franchise. 

The ships Tiny Dancer and Moonshadow are named after the songs: Elton John's 'Tiny Dancer' & Cat Stevens "Moonshadow." 

The ship Stargazer is named after The USS Stargazer from Star Trek. One of the ships that Jean-Luc Picard served on before becoming Captain of the Enterprise. 

Dagon's toast: “Here’s to swimmin’ with bow legged women," is the same one the character Quint gives in the movie Jaws. 

Dagon's household singing: "Show me the way to go home" is the same song sung by the guys on the Orca from the movie Jaws.

Chapter Text

When Ramsay stepped onto The Maiden’s Despair, he smiled. 

The ship was quiet, and the crew was everywhere. 

It did this. The deck was soaked with blood. The sails were torn and stained with more splashes of gore and blood. It’s been very busy. He hadn’t been there when the captain unveiled his newest companion. Taking in the bodies all around him, Ramsay couldn’t wait to meet it, but first he needed to look around. It would be rude not to admire its work. 

He didn’t have to look long to find the first body. It was beside him, one of its legs had been gnawed off into a bloody stump. Ahead of him, he spotted a pool of congealed blood, but there was no body, just a crimson smear that kept going. 

His eyes followed the bloody path until they landed on another one of the dead sellsails. The man’s face etched in a permanent display of fear. Those were his favorite. The ones that caught the true terror of not just their death, but the pain and suffering that came before it. Wanting to see how the sellsail was killed, he looked down. It didn’t disappoint. It had torn open the man’s chest, in his own stiff hands was the sellsail’s futile attempt to keep his innards from spilling out. He failed miserably. When Ramsay was close enough, he dipped a finger in the blood.  It wasn’t warm. Pity. 

Such sweet sights my captain gives me.  

He walked through puddles of blood, nudging bodies or limbs, a severed leg torn off like one would a chicken’s leg. An arm with a dagger still gripped in its hand. He passed a body that was laying on its side. When he stepped over it, he saw the deep gashes that the claws made. He saw where the strips of flesh had been peeled off by its teeth. 

Leaning against the deck rail, was another corpse, its head lulled to the side like a doll. The body tilted beneath the waves which was when Ramsay saw the lean piece of muscle, a string of flesh staining to keep the sellsail’s head from rolling away. 

“Toss the body over,” He ordered to his two thralls who were the first to accompany him over, Mickon and Richards. We shouldn’t waste good meat. If she wasn’t already here, the blood would bring her to them. He didn’t intend to toss all the bodies over, only a couple. He will claim the rest. 

His thralls moved without complaint. They were good men. 

Not like these sellsails. 

These sellsails were the pawns and spies of a Tyroshi slaver, who lost a handful of his slave ships to the captain. The slaves were valuable cargo, and the ships were destroyed all but ruining him. The sellsails had been his last, feeble grasp to strike back at the captain. Pitiful. He stepped over an arm. There was no body attached to it. What the Tyroshi thought was a secret Ramsay had learned before the sellsails even reached Pentos looking for work. 

He regretted not being able to witness their horror as they realized their folly. They had anchored their ship off the shore of the captain’s manse, who feasted them. The drunken sellsails returned to their ship only to discover his captain had returned the cargo. The creature did the rest.  

Two more of his thralls, Ronnel and Bryen, had come aboard.  “Help yourself to whatever you find on the bodies.” It’s not like they’ll be needing them. He saw them trade smiles as they began moving about the deck, pilfering the corpses. 

He had been told to recover the gold, and whatever other riches these sellsails had, and retrieve the creature, putting it all onto his ship. Afterwards, they were to take the sellsail ship out into deeper waters. They would rise from the depths to claim the ship. In one swift, crushing motion, all traces of the sellsails and their ship would be wiped away. 

A tumbling noise drew his attention after a particular swell passed under the ship. It was a head rolling all on its own. Before the head could hit his boots, he plucked it off the deck. Its face and hair were covered in blood from all its rolling. He held it up by its hair. With his other hand, he moved his fingers towards its mouth, prying the lips open. “Is there something you want to tell me?” 

It didn’t answer. 

“Are you sure?” He brought the head closer, as if it was urging him that it had a secret to tell him, to whisper to him. 

“You’re sorry?” Ramsay moved the head so he could meet its unfocused gaze. He tilted the head up and down, to make it nod. 

“Apology accepted,” Ramsay told the head right before tossing it over the ship. He laughed when he heard the splash it made. It’s time, he realized, giving the bloody splendor one last look of admiration. He moved to go below deck knowing that’s where it was.  I shouldn’t keep it waiting. 

Earlier that same day…

Dagon woke to bright agony. 

There was a tightness around his throat and chest. Invisible hands cold and hard squeezing him. His first few breaths were ragged. The haze of them lingered in his mind, bleeding into his vision. His senses remained tangled in the frantic heartbeats that followed. Sounds and smells clashing against each other like unrelenting waves. Morning sunlight burned against his closed eyes. The pain didn’t fade until those that dwelled in the dark receded from his mind. When the doors finally closed within his mind’s eye, he dispelled his first painless breath. 

The mornings were always the hardest. 

Dagon warily blinked in his surroundings. Beams of sunlight intruded his chambers from where the black curtains had been pushed back. It was the suddenness of the light that hurt more than the light itself. They knew the light, but they rose to it, slowly, wading through what slipped into the sea like bright fingers. His hand fumbled to the side where the drink was.  To be in the deepest, coldest darkness where no light could penetrate in one heartbeat and then thrust into the light. He shivered and drank from his goblet greedily. 

The drift dreams, that was what his ancestors called it. When the mind couldn’t properly rest, it ventured aimlessly into those of their companion’s. Long ago, a potion had been concocted to remedy it by one of his most accomplished ancestors. It dulled the connection, helping the mind to settle inside its own body and to sleep. Dagon took it sometimes, but not often, too much of it would strain the tether, weakening it. He had gone further than any of his ancestors.  Not even six will stop me, he had to use his gift to the fullest.

The Drowned God has blessed me. He finished the drink with a second sip. Its tangy taste lingered in his mouth. And what sort of believer would I be if I doubted Him?

It was their eyes that got him to open his. 

It took barely a second to center himself, slipping out of the sky and back to himself, the door inside his mind, one of six, closing behind him. It came to him as easy and as quickly as breathing. Ahead of him, he could see the splash of red in the bay, scavenging gulls looking and diving for morsels of whatever flesh she didn’t eat. It was an expected sacrifice. A needed one for what was to come. Afterwards, he had washed himself in the blood and brine and then had been cleansed by the sea. 

Now, he knelt on the sands, expecting his brother’s imminent arrival. He cupped his hands, reciting the old words before splashing his face with the water. Blessed, he was ready for the binding. 

The skies and seas belonged to him, but if there was going to be war then he would need something else. Something to unleash on the battlefield, to hunt and kill their enemies, to strike fear into their hearts, to make them choose surrender over resistance. And I found it, he rose to his feet, a nother herald worthy of me. 

Dagon turned just as his brother came into view. Gyles Farwynd was what you’d want in an heir. He was a strong seaman and a respected captain. Dutiful and hardworking, unlike those lords on the green lands, ironborn lords were expected to do more than just sit on silk cushions, gorging themselves. Lonely Light would pass to him, and he’d be a good lord for their people. To Gyles, it was enough. When they were young men, he and Gyles reaved around the Stepstones, but his brother had left when just enough had been done. What was expected of him. Dagon had stayed and very soon made a name for himself, one that has stayed with him. 

“Was Sam watching over me?” Gyles pointed a finger upwards towards the sky. 

“Aye,” he answered, “Mary’s watching the cargo’s progress.” It’s very slow progress. It was being taken by a wagon that he had specifically commissioned to hold the weight and size. That was why he had aurochs pulling it. 

Gyles like Dagon had inherited the traditional traits of their family: dark hair, color changing eyes, strong jaw. His brother had a faded crescent shaped scar below his left eye, a wound from when they were boys. The mustache was new, he noted, suspecting his brother grew it out while at sea. 

“Where’s Cole?” 

“He went back to my ship,” Gyles joined him. “Your men were already there, loading up on the cargo for the return voyage.” 

He already knew that, and he suspected his brother did too. “How were the sellsails?” They had been Ramsay’s idea, but Dagon trusted his spymaster. He sent his brother along with them, because he needed someone he could trust for the task. 

Gyles shrugged. “I hope ya didn’t pay much for them.”

He had paid them well, but the coin wasn't lost to him. “What did you feed it?” The keeper who managed the Sealord of Braavos’ menagerie had given him all the information he knew about the creature. 

“Goat, pig, beef,” Gyles raised a finger with each answer he listed. “Some of the crew complained it ate better than they did," he said, "until I suggested we let it out, so it can have its first choice."

The idea and the image that followed made him smile. 

“I don’t understand you,” Gyles’s attention had shifted to Dagon’s manse. “I leave for your errand, with your plan to try again with the Dornish princess, but when I return, I learn you’re set to marry the Targaryen princess.” 

His brother spoke true, when Dagon sent him away, he was planning on returning to Sunspear. To reunite with the princess, he had first met after his triumphant expedition to Qarth. Then, he had thought the Princess Arianne Martell was the best match he could ever hope to make. I’d bring my newfound wealth and growing fleet to the marriage. Intending to do more expeditions to bolster the kingdom’s trade, treasury, and fleet. I’d bring them more riches than they could’ve imagined. 

She had been the one who received him when he arrived. She quickly saw the advantages of a marriage between them. She needed little convincing; he fondly recalled his fortnight stay at Sunspear. Those days together, he thought the marriage was certain and their future was bright. Until the rider came from the Water Gardens. They brought a message from her father. They were written in the flowery words of a prince, but the message was clear: There would be no match between him and Arianne, and that he should leave.

I’ll return, that was what he told himself when he left. He set off for the Jade Sea and returned with riches that made his Qarth venture look like a pittance. But before he could follow through with that vow to return, Illyrio approached him with an offer that changed everything. To be the Prince Consort of Dorne or to be the Lord of the Iron Islands? He weighed the advantages, his chances, but he saw the true messenger behind the magister’s offer. It’s from Him. And it was one he could not refuse. 

“Nothing has been agreed to,” From the corner of his vision, he could see his brother relax until his next words, “But I will marry her.” 

“I don’t know why you’d want her.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, brother.” 

Gyles considered his words before a small smile broke through his pensive expression. “That it is.”

“Do you wish to meet her?” Dagon asked, “She’ll be arriving after I handle the cargo.”

“No, I need to go home,” he declined, “and I’ll be stopping at ports throughout the kingdoms. I can’t let it be known that-”

“You’re part of my plots?” He laughed, his brother was many things, but a cunning schemer he was not. 

“It’s not that funny,” he mumbled, but his tone took on a wry tinge. 

“Oh, yes, it is,” Dagon chuckled, slowly sobering when he added, “But if you’re afraid of news slipping, I can assure you no whispers will reach the court. The Spider sees to that.” He realized his mistake a second too late. His brother may not have been ambitious, but he wasn't a fool. 

“Varys,” Understanding slowly spread across his brother’s face. His eyes widened at the implications it entailed. “Brother,” he breathed the single word out in total disbelief. “You’re risking a civil war,” Gyles hissed, “No, not risking, you’re causing it!” He jabbed a finger at him. “All for your ambitions.” 

“It was my ambition that made our family the richest house in the Iron Islands,” anger flared in his chest. “You never needed to be ambitious, brother. Your life, your future was always certain,” He growled, “Your brothers weren’t so fortunate. We’ve had to take risks, make sacrifices to make our futures.” 

“You can still put this treason behind you,” Gyles argued, “go-”

“No,” The word settled between them as immovable as a boulder. 

“Broth-”

“You should return to your ship,” Dagon cut in sharply. “Like you said, you have ports to visit, a home to go back to.” 

“I have no love for the Usurper, Dagon,” They had both fought in Greyjoy’s war. 

“I know,” Dagon understood what his brother did not say. Despite their disagreement, they were still kin. Your secret is my secret. “Fair winds, and following seas, brother.” 

There was a book at Lonely Light that every Farwynd was supposed to write in. Lords, and heirs, second or third sons, daughters, any Farwynd who had and used the gift were obligated to add what they learned onto the pages to help those that would come after them. When that book was filled, a new one was used, and again and again over the centuries. Some only wrote a few lines while others wrote pages of what they learned while bound with their companions. The topics varied, from migrating patterns and nesting areas to a seal’s diet or the hunting habits of eels. It was all there in dried ink from those that came before him. 

There was more knowledge of the sea in those books than all the pages at the Citadel. Dagon’s first binding had been with her. He had learned much from her. Now, as he prepared for his seventh binding, he wondered what he would learn from this creature.

The noise of the rumbling cargo got him to see the large box slide awkwardly down the ramp onto the ground and off the cart. The box shook, angry hisses could be heard from within, causing the thralls to back away. “That’s good.” 

“But m’lord,” Muldoon, a thrall, stepped forward, “We haven’t got it at the enclosure.” 

“We don’t need to,” Dagon had the enclosure built based on the Sealord’s own design. He had also been the one who helped him connect with those who had secured one for his menagerie. He knew the thralls were exchanging looks without taking his eyes off the box. 

“M’lord, then where should we go?” Muldoon asked.

“You’re safe,” Dagon said over the box which furiously rumbled, the creature hitting it, growling, and clawing at its confinement. He closed his eyes, but he could see. He reached out, sensing the creature. The box stilled, and the thralls were mumbling to one another, but they were ignored. It was only him and the creature. A him, Dagon realized, the binding was both slow and fast, as it wove the tether between the two of them. As it did, he could see the seventh door in his mind’s eye forming. 

Remarkable, he thought of the creature’s senses. Even in the darkness of its box, it detected those around it with great precision. Then the creature felt him, the intrusion, hissing as if he was a rival, it could scare off, or a prey it could kill. Thoughts and instincts that no man could put to words passed through his mind, with angry flashes, and violent spasms as the creature fought against him, but Dagon’s grip was too strong. No, he scolded it as if it was an unruly hound. Together, he insisted upon it, but the creature was scared, not understanding. Deeper, he went, as the roots sunk in. The creature was able to feel him, Dagon’s thoughts, senses. Curiosity made it quiet, still, as if concerned that any movement by it would make it all disappear. 

Yes, he said it in a language only they could speak and understand. The world had narrowed to just the two of them, their bond, this binding. He felt the tremble of its heartbeat. Dagon’s own was frantic and pounding. His breaths were haggard, feeling the pressure constrain around his chest and inside his mind as the binding’s final threads entwined together. He winced at the pain behind his eyes, feeling the creature’s presence. Its eyes were using his. He urged it back, back through the newly formed door, inside his mind’s eye. The seventh slotted into place, completing the binding. 

We are one. They breathed, becoming familiar with each other. He slipped out of it after a few passing heartbeats, giving him its freedom, but the door remained. It would remain until the end, either his or the creature’s. He gave thanks to Him. For His continued blessings and for the gift itself. However, he knew it wasn’t just words or prayers the Drowned God needed, deserved, and Dagon planned for those as well.  “Let him out.” 

“Him?” Irwyn asked. 

“Out?” Muldoon gaped.

“Yes,” Dagon answered both their questions. 

It took a pair of thralls to pry loose the crate. It was hard work that was made slower since they stopped each time the creature slashed against it. “Back,” he ordered, knowing the creature’s thoughts. They obeyed, hurrying backwards just as the creature broke through. It let out a deep, triumphant caw before taking off, not even glancing at any of them. It was faster than he realized. Bursting free as quickly as a loosened arrow. It sprinted, for the first time in weeks, it was free to move, to run, and Dagon let it. His tether to it was endless, his hold unbreakable. 

“Magnificent,” Irwyn clapped his hands. “What do you think?” He asked, “seven, eight feet when he stood straight?”

Dagon nodded, half listening, as he was both with Irwyn and with the creature. A mesh of sounds passing through him. He let the creature know his presence with a gentle tug, guiding him back towards them. Its resistance was a chitter of protest before it heeded him, understanding the importance of them. The great animal loped towards them and as it came closer, those around him began to panic, whispering nervously and squirming.

Irwyn had been right. He was seven feet tall, maybe more when he raised his head. It was lowered now, bobbing it, taking them in with the same curiosity they viewed it. From snout to tail, Dagon guessed, he had to be eight feet, maybe more. It let loose a hiss as it neared, showing off a mouthful of sharp teeth. A warning caw followed when one of the thralls stumbled backwards. 

Dagon’s control remained, bringing it forward as if it had been cinched with rope. 

He noticed a jagged scar just above its right hind leg. A wound, he knew, but not by what, but Dagon would learn of it and everything soon enough. “He’s hungry,” He told Muldoon, “Bring him a goat.” He then turned to Irwyn, “There was a broken valyrian word for it, wasn’t there?”

It still needed a name. He needed a name. On thinking of his heroes, he thought of one of his favorites. It passed between them in the blink of an eye. Their bond made him understand the importance of one, and he accepted his new name-Alyn.

“Ahem, yes, yes there was,” Irwyn cleared his throat after taking in the creature’s sickle-shaped claws on its feet. “From one of the scrolls dating back to one of the Valryian colonies on Sothoryos.” It was close enough for them to touch, towering over them.  “They called it-raptor.” 

Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:

Ramsay's thralls are references to several members of the Rolling Stones. Mickon= Mick Jagger, Richards= Keith Richards, Ronnel= Ronnie Wood, Bryen=Brian Jones. 

The thrall Muldoon is in honor of the Jurassic Park character Robert Muldoon, the park's warden.

The walking lizard/raptor is named Alyn after Sam Neil's character in the Jurassic Park series, Dr. Alan Grant. (In verse Dagon named him Alyn, after Alyn Oakenfist one of his idols.)

Chapter Text

She dreamt of the dragon again.

Her brother didn't chase her to the beach this time. Daenerys was already there. She wasn't bloody or bruised, but clean and naked. In the last dream, she had crawled into the sea, letting the water wash away her blood and tears, but this time, she stood in the tide, tall and proud. She knew exactly where to look, deep inside herself, this instinct guided her gaze, and she saw it, waiting for her.

A rumbling growl greeted her, sounding as if it had slithered out of the darkest abyss in the sea to reach her. Pillars of water suddenly shot up, wreathed in flames. The waves rose higher, but she didn't stumble, she was solid as stone, ensnared by its might, its beauty. And just as something broke the surface, her eyes snapped open.

"Is there anything you need, princess?"

"No, thank you," Daenerys made sure to smile at them, knowing they would be her thralls soon.

"M'lord Dagon, will see you, Princess, when he's finished." They left her there.

The there was the room they had escorted her to. One she had not been in before. One of many, she supposed, Daenerys had visited Dagon's manse a couple times, and there still seemed many places within and on the grounds that she had yet to see. This particular room looked like some sort of armory with all the weapons on display. She saw swords and spears, tridents and armor, shields, and axes, flails and helms. Some were placed on stands or on shelves while others were held by statues, specifically made to hold those weapons. Men and women of stone, caught in poses of battle, snarling battle cries or with faces set in grim determination.

Daenerys wondered about the purpose of such a room. Some must be gifts. She saw gleaming swords held in gilded displays. But not all, she walked by one statue who bore a trident, on its sharp tips she saw flecks of dried blood. On one of the walls were rows of shields. There were triangular shields which bristled with sharp edges. Some were made in the shape of turtle shells, while some she thought may actually be turtle shells, painted and marked. Others resembled clam shells, small and large, some tall enough to cover a man's shoulder down to his shins while others were just large enough to shield his chest.

Beneath the wall of shields were two imposing statues, each taller than her, a man and a woman. No, when her eyes trailed down below their waist, she didn't see legs, but tails of stone that were painted. Merlings, she looked at the two with renewed interest. The merman's face was bearded, sculpted to make the hair look like tentacles. That looked to be moving and writhing on his face. He bore a dark visage. In his stone grip, he wielded what looked like a spear or paddle, but its sides were embedded with small, sharp blades. In his other hand, he held a conch shell made of stone that was sculpted into his hold.

The mermaid looked no less fierce. Her face was sharp and angular. For eyes, the sculptor had given her rubies while the merman had been given obsidian. In one hand, she held the same weapon as the other, a driftwood club with its sharp sides, but in the other, she held a dagger. The pommel was carved to resemble a shark's head, with pearls for its eyes. Beneath her waist, her tail flowed below her, painted to resemble fish scales that gleamed in the sunlight.

She moved on to shelves where helms were placed. One was distinctively sculpted into the shape of a shark's head, including metal jaws that acted as its visor when closed. Another was a light grey with a lateral projection with a bright sapphire fixed at each end to resemble eyes. Below was the metal mask with openings for the eyes.

Daenerys passed the others with varying interest, each one was intricately designed, but it was the last one that gave her pause. It was a shiny black, and unlike the others, its design was far simpler, but it wasn't its modest look that made her linger on it. The helm was closed, but where the eye slits were supposed to be, there was just a band of gold. Below it was tiny holes, to allow the wearer to breathe. But how could you see?

"Daenerys," His voice made her lose all interest in the displays, she turned to see him. His tall form filled the doorway. "I'm sorry," he stepped into the room, "some cargo arrived that I had to oversee myself."

"I understand," she moved a hand, gesturing to the room they were in. "This is remarkable."

He smiled. "You are too kind, Princess," Dagon's long strides put him beside her just as he finished speaking. "Have you met Kull and Belit?" He pointed to the two merling statues she had seen earlier.

"I did," she said, "But I didn't know they had names."

"Aye, they do," He nodded, "and a story too," he led her to where they were placed. "Kull," he gestured to the merman, which made Belit the mermaid. "They were the ones who guided my ancestor to Lonely Light," he revealed. "Exiled from Pyke, he and his followers were expected to die when they sailed west, but instead of death, they found a home."

"Belit found my ancestor on his third day, and followed him for two nights, watching our ships sail towards oblivion, before she revealed herself," Dagon said, "With her help and that of her husband, they led them to a cluster of small islands and at its center rested a larger island which we named Lonely Light." His blue eyes on the statues. "The song goes, they helped our people to build our castle and homes, providing us with the supplies from the sea itself, including rocks and driftwood."

She followed his story with great interest. Daenerys wanted to learn all she could about his family, her new people, their histories and their traditions, but so little of it was written down. Our history is written in blood and is told by song. She remembered Dagon's words and everything else he would tell her about her new home. She had quickly learned their stories weren't the same as the ones she knew. There were no valiant knights and dashing heroes, the ironborn's tales were bloodier, singing of slaughters and great reavings that left the lands burned and the people either killed or taken. Daenerys steeled herself, knowing she needed to be different now, stronger.

Their rites weren't written down to be studied and recited. They kept their practices in their hearts instead of sprawled out on dusty pages. They prayed on ships and in battle, with wet swords, honoring their god with bloody tributes and sacrifices. They were bold in their deeds. Proud and determined to keep to their ways. They'll not accept a timid princess. She knew she'd have to be bold too, a woman of iron instead of silks. A lady of fire and steel. She could not disappoint him. This will be my life.

Daenerys eyed the two stone merlings with new interest, thinking of her betrothed's words, and his family's history. "Why?" She saw him glance her way out of the corner of her eye. "Why was your family exiled?"

"It was over a dispute," his face was as expressionless as water. "The new king saw him as a threat, but it's forbidden for ironborn to kill other ironborn in a way that spills blood, so the king had him and those who followed my ancestor exiled. By sending my ancestor west, it was an execution in all but name."

"But they didn't die," she pointed out.

 "We did not." Dagon's smile was sharp. "Eventually, our exile was lifted, when it was clear, we would not perish." His expression then darkened. "Over the years, stories arose about my family, suspicions from other ironmen, those who were jealous of our new home or angry that we survived."

"What stories?"

"Lies and insults," his voice was harsh. "Claiming we lay with seals, bearing children that more resembled seal pups than squealing babes," he scoffed, anger simmered behind his gaze, but it softened when they turned first towards Belit and then Kull. He muttered something, but she couldn't hear him, and when he turned to give her his full attention once more, his expression was open, and inviting. "You don't believe me." He slowly smiled, not taking insult to her incredulousness. "Mayhaps, it's just a song we sing, Princess," he admitted with a shrug, "but some would say the same of your own family's history."

"That of Valyria, humble shepherds who found dragon eggs, got them to hatch, to become dragonlords and then founded the greatest empire this world has known." He looked at her, "You say that story to someone who knows no history, and they'd think it's nothing more than a pretty fiction." He moved on from the merling statues. "But enough about our family's past," he offered her his arm which she happily took, "when I can instead discuss our future." He led her past a pair of plate armor stands, one was orange and green, and the other was black and gold. "I have a surprise for you."

The surprise was a tour of the ship, Inevitable.

It was an amazing ship. Daenerys had heard him talk of it, describing every inch of wood, and thread of cloth that made up the ship, but that image which she conjured in her head, paled at actually seeing it, exploring it, walking in it. His ship was the finest she had ever seen or set foot on. Our, she corrected herself, a single word that packed a lifetime of promises.

The last room he had to show had been his. A great cabin off the quarter deck which included a sleeping chamber, a dining area, and a balcony overlooking the sea. It was more spacious than she envisioned, looking around to see it was well furnished with cushioned chairs, a sturdy desk, trunks, chests, small tables, a larger one for meals, and exotic displays from his travels. Dagon had to excuse himself when one of his crewmen sought a private word with him. He gave her complete freedom to look around the cabin before he left, but she hadn't moved from where she was when he departed, the private balcony.

Taken in by the beautiful view of the bay that stretched out before her. By the chorus of gulls that spoke to one another over the voices of the crew, who worked above her. By the breeze with its sharp, salty taste, running over her exposed skin as lightly as a caress. By the rhythmic swaying of the ship in the water, even docked, the sea ensured its presence was felt.

She let out a happy sigh. In her mind's eye, they weren't docked in Pentos, but were far away: Tyrosh or Volantis, Lys or Qarth. No longer living on the whims of strangers, but here, in her new home. No longer answerable to her brother, she was free of him. Their journey over, and a new one to begin with Dagon. A giddy rush skimmed through her as she saw her new life. When she rested her arms on the bannister, an uneven groove in the wood made her look down where she noticed cuts had been made into the railing. She ran her finger over one of the dips, seeing there were distinctive grooves that had worn down and cut into the railing. She wondered what could have made such scratches, but those idle thoughts quickly gave way when she saw something large and dark in the bay. Its outline was hidden more by distance than the bright blue waters of Pentos Bay. Whatever it is, Daenerys perked up, its coming this way.

As it neared, more of its shape and size was revealed to her. Its long, black body that seemed to go past twenty feet meant it couldn't be a dolphin which was what she first thought. Shark, the word flitted across her mind, as did a twinge of fear when it sunk into her. She had heard tales from various crews of the man-eating sharks that stalked sailors who fell overboard. And in the stories with tall, handsome heroes there was always that dreadful corsair captain who would force his captors to walk the plank where hungry sharks circled below.

The idea disappeared when she noticed the slightly curved fin cut through the water, showing that it was still moving straight towards her, like a well-aimed arrow. A spotted whale, she saw its white markings along its sides. Wolves of the sea, that's what the sailors called them. She saw no pack. It was just the one and to her dismay it had stopped just below the balcony. Its head bobbing out of the water, looking right at her. And then it waved at her.

A large fin that looked like a paddle rose out of the water. She laughed, the mirthful sound bursting past her befuddlement. Smiling, she waved back, unable to understand the absurdity she was witnessing. The spotted whale let loose a couple clicks before it submerged underwater. A sea mirage? She wondered trying to make sense of what she was seeing, but then she saw its black outline rising back towards the surface. It didn't stop, it launched itself through the water with an incredible jump that left her speechless. It seemed to hang in the air forever, its white underside glinting when the sunlight hit it. Finally, it crashed back into the water with a spectacular splash. The water shot up like geysers while an echoing slap followed in its wake. It disappeared beneath the water.

She wasn't left waiting for long, but it was Dagon who returned, not the spotted whale. He carried a pair of goblets, offering her one of them.

"I must say, Daenerys, I was not expecting your love of the sea when I made your brother my offer."

Daenerys took the goblet, but the sweet wine couldn't dampen the heat blooming in her chest at his praise.

"You know your way around ships," his continued praise had her heart close to bursting. "Do you know what is needed for a ship to set sail?"

"I do," Viserys would already be in their cabin, but not her. She loved to watch, to see the movement of so many all working together, singing as they went. To feel the first push of the sea when they cast off, to ride the wind, to watch the harbor slowly disappear from view. It was to be free.

"We can't go too far, but I think we have enough time for our first voyage together," his eyes were green and thoughtful when he flicked his gaze over to her as they climbed the steps to reach the deck. "The first of our many adventures together, Daenerys."

A delightful thrill fluttered through her body at his words, his smile, his promise. So deliriously distracted she nearly missed his next words.

"Give the men their orders."

So, she did.

Floating.

She was floating, even when her feet hit the wooden boards of Dagon's dock. She felt lighter than a cloud. A happiness that spread through her, warm and comforting. Daenerys' thoughts remained on Inevitable even though their brief voyage was at its end. In her mind's eye, she replayed it, wanting to see it, to feel it, again and again. At how her orders had been followed without hesitation by men she had just met. They were quick to their stations, to their duties. Not one thought to question her, or to glance at their captain.

Dagon stood at her side, and she took comfort and strength in his presence. Each nod or smile he gave her filled her heart with joy. Impressed, the word circled around her mind. He was impressed. Daenerys had never impressed another before. And for it to be done by her deeds, not beauty, meant even more. Threading this wonderful memory was the song they sang. An ironborn song, he had told her. I hope to hear them all, she replied, humming this new and favorite song. And you shall, the smile that accompanied that promise brought a blush to her cheeks. She could not conjure a memory in her life that had made her feel that happy as she felt on the deck of Inevitable, with Dagon and their crew and the open sea in front of them.

This is all because of it. No, not it, she corrected. He had heard her prayers. Dagon's Drowned God had answered them. She was certain of it, her prayers to the Seven had never made her feel such hope, such happiness. Daenerys had never felt their comfort. Their protection. All she knew under them was fear and hardship, hunger and uncertainty. "Dagon, what's it like to be drowned?"

His face was drawn in thought, considering her unexpected question, but he didn't keep her waiting for long. "It's to experience death," he answered, his tone brimming with reverence. "To see the face of Him. So that we can be brought back anew." His hands were clasped behind his back. "It's both pain and pleasure, dark and light. An act of faith, to believe in Him knowing only he can save you," his gaze was on her, but he seemed to see through her, past her. "And when you are brought back, you are blessed in knowing He has seen you. He has breathed life into you." A wistfulness fell over his expression, a half-smile playing on his lips. "It is everything."

His words stirred inside her, Daenerys felt the devotion in his voice that swept through her like a storm. His certainty is as clear and bright as the starlight above their heads. His conviction was stronger than valyrian steel.

"And here I've gone and bored you, prattling on like some wrinkled septa," he chuckled.

"No, you haven't," she reached out to touch his arm, wanting him to see her face, her eyes, to see she was speaking truly. That his words had ensnared her. He had ensnared her. Body and soul. "And what of our children?" The word brought fresh warmth in her chest. "Will they be drowned?"

"Yes, but it's different for a babe."

"How so?"

"It's just a few drops of seawater."

An image rushed to her, unbidden, of her and Dagon, a babe in her arms, with her hair and his eyes. They stood in the sea, the water lapping their ankles as one of those Drowned Priests said the words and blessed their babe. The yearning inside her was a living thing, moving and aching of what played before her. Of home, and family, of him, of freedom, she wanted to grip these dreams with both hands, to turn them into a keepsake, she could hold onto, now and forever. Daenerys wouldn't let her brother take this from her. I must be bold, she told herself. She made a choice that wasn't for her brother, but for her and her alone.

Daenerys finally did what she wanted to do, and she kissed Dagon Farwynd.

Chapter Text

He found the captain looking at one of his newly arrived gifts. 

They were colorful tapestries that hung on screens. They were of beautiful, lissome mermaids with gleaming tails and shimmering scales who gave coquettish smiles in provocative poses, pleasuring themselves in some scenes and ironborn in others. Uninterested in them, Lonnel still waited to speak until he was addressed. 

Dagon murmured something, before he turned away from the mermaid, who wore clamshells for modesty. His captain on the other hand was dressed mostly in black made from the most expensive fabrics found in Qarth. His cloak was as black as the night sky with a leviathan made of pearls and a kraken made of rubies sewn onto its back. The captain wore more wealth in garments and gems from the iron price than nobles of the green lands wore paying the gold. “Do you have it?”

“I do, Captain,” Lonnie stepped forward to deliver what he presumed was a message. 

Dagon took the offered scroll, placing it down on one of his gifted Qohorik tables, which was carved to resemble a turtle. He smoothed out the parchment.  “Do you know what this is?”

Lonnie didn’t and said as much. 

“The future,” Dagon beckoned him forward. 

As he neared, he was able to see that it hadn’t been a letter Lonnie had been sent to deliver to the captain, but a map. It wasn’t quite complete. There were still colors to add for the waters and the lands. Many of the standards for the ironborn lords had been added, but some still needed to be colored. He noticed that the map didn’t just include the Iron Islands, he saw a portion of the Westerlands were drawn and labeled. The lands from Fair Isle to Banefort, with the standards of all the families who lived on those lands. 

“The Hoares were right to keep land on the mainland,” Dagon knew where he was looking on the map, “But they lost sight of the sea. I won’t.” 

“Why just this?” He pointed to the strip of the Westerlands his captain had marked for himself. “Why not ask for all the West?”  He suspected his captain wanted nothing more than to place the Seastone Chair in Casterly Rock, and to rule a kingdom of iron and gold.

“Because” he said, “That’s not how the game is played.” 

Plots within plots. It made him grateful that he was a lowly squire. 

“We can already count on the Westerlings,” Dagon tapped their standard, one of the few that had been colored. “They’ve earned more in my service than they ever will under the Lannisters.” 

The Westerlings had been one of the few non-ironborn houses to set off with him when he went on his first expedition to Qarth. The noble family had Lady Sybell Westerling, formerly of House Spicer, to thank for their great change in fortunes. Her family’s merchant connections brought Lord Dagon to their attention. While their recent hardships and humbler origins through their Spicer marriage meant they were without the prejudices that had stopped many other houses, big and small from either wanting or willing to sail with an ironborn. 

His attention moved to other spots on the map, representing lords he didn’t think would be as welcoming to his captain as the Westerlings. The Hooded Kings of the Banefort had gone up against the ironborn countless times. While Fair Isle had once been ruled by the ironborn, they eventually pushed them back into the sea.  

“Why would these proud families of the west kneel to an ironborn?” 

Startled, he looked up to see the captain’s enthralling gaze. His blue eyes bore into him as if Lonnie’s thoughts were written on ink for him to read. He shuddered, shying away from the captain’s stare. Tight unease collected in his chest. 

“Not to worry, Lonnie,” The captain seemed to continue to be able to read them. “I don’t need my gift for that.” His tone was reassuring. “Besides, if I was in your mind,” He paused, “You’d know.” 

He stuttered, hoping he didn’t insult his captain. His heart stumbled in his ribs. He shook his head when his words seemed too thick and clumsy in his throat. 

“Peace,” The Captain’s hand was warm on Lonnie’s shoulder. It was a calming presence that helped to ease the tightness in his chest. “Shall I fetch a healer?” 

“No, Captain,” Lonnie said quickly, embarrassed, expecting his cheeks to be a bit red from his fumblings. He gave himself a few seconds to rally before speaking again. “I know you wouldn’t,” He replied to the earlier remark. “I trust you, my lord.” He didn’t want him to think he thought ill or suspected him of such an act for even a moment. 

“Good,” He sounded pleased, as his eyes dropped back to the map. “You wondered why the west lords would kneel to me.” 

“Yes, captain.” 

“Because, if they don’t, I’ll make new lords,” He answered simply. “Do you think these lords will receive any sympathy once King Viserys ascends the throne?” Lonnie shook his head, “His Grace has not forgotten what the Lannisters and their bannermen did to his family.” He turned back to the map, “If it’s new lords, well then I have a pair of younger brothers,” he had one finger on Fair Castle. “Farwynd Isle, mayhaps?” He japed. “As well as countless second and third sons or brothers from a great many families, old and proud, and ambitious,” he added, “but here is where the seeds must take.” 

Lonnie looked to where the captain moved his finger and frowned. “Castamere?” 

He nodded. “It’s important that we have a presence on our new lands.” He explained, “This will be the sight of a new keep. The mines of Castamere may be filled with water, and its castle ruined, but a castle can be rebuilt, and mines reopened.” He leaned forward with a half-smile. “The mines of the west will ensure my family’s future long after I’ve entered His Watery Halls.”

“Captain?” Ramsay had slipped into the room without his notice, but not the captain's. “The lords are here.”

“Let them in,” Dagon ordered while he rolled up the unfinished map. He walked over towards the fireplace and tossed it into the flames. He watched it burn before he turned to Lonnie, who understood at once. 

You’ll speak of this to no one. He nodded. “Should I leave, Captain?”

“Stay,” Dagon ordered not unkindly. “I want you to take notes,” he pointed to the parchment and quill on his desk.

It was not the first time his captain ordered him to record his meetings. The captain had seen to it that he learned, before taking him on. And Lonnie did, thanks to a patient maester.  He took the parchment and quill, not daring to use the captain’s own desk. He instead moved to a smaller Norvosi table. The legs were made of ivory and carved in the shape of dolphins in mid leap, their tails down to touch the floor while their noses were pointed upwards to make it look as if they were holding up the top. The chair was shaped like an open clam with soft cushions for the back and bottom. From here, he had a great view of the captain’s impressive room. Like most of the captain’s manse, this room was filled with splendid decorations from the captain’s many travels. The pair of ironborn lords didn’t even notice him when they walked in. 

The Drumm was already considered an old man during the time of Robert’s Rebellion, but he was well respected on the islands. The Drumm name was an old name and the family prided themselves on being the guardians of the holiest places on Old Wyk. 

The Blacktyde was an ironborn lord who had been forced to foster at Oldtown after Greyjoy’s failed rebellion. He held no love for the Greyjoys, but he had turned his back on the Drowned God. He had heard the captain once say of him: his time on the green lands hadn’t made him soft, but shrewd.

Captain waited for them across the room, but both guests were slow to make the move to join him. He knew it wasn’t out of protest or disrespect, but curiosity at all the splendor that filled the room.  Lonnie made sure to note where each ironborn lord was and what had caught their interest. 

Dunstan Drumm was looking at seahorse statues carved from pale stone. According to his captain, these statues once decorated High Tide in the time of the Sea Snake, but had been looted by Tyroshi soldiers when they had attacked Driftmark and sacked Spicetown along with Myrish men. Lonnie had never asked how the captain came to find them. Or how they fell into his possession, gold or iron, he knew no price was too great for the captain when it came to collecting something that once belonged to the famous Sea Snake. Meanwhile Baelor Blacktyde was taking in the towering terracotta warriors that the captain had brought back with him from Yi Ti. 

The Drumm would be the first to speak. “You had a feast the other night, Farwynd.” 

“I did,” Dagon answered, “But don’t worry I still have several casks of that Norvosi black beer, you like so much.” 

The Drumm chuckled. He had moved past the seahorses, eying a pair of walrus statues that flanked a painted screen of a kraken pulling down a ship. 

“And what of before the feast?” Blacktyde asked, “we heard you murdered a priest.” 

 “It’s not murder when you execute a criminal.” Ramsay was off to the side. He watched the ironborn lords like they were the exhibits from the captain’s travels.

Blacktyde glanced in his direction. “And what crime did the priest commit?”

“I didn’t think you’d mourn a dead priest, Baelor,” Dagon’s eyes were on Blacktyde's silver seven-pointed star pin. 

“The priest was a spy.” Ramsay answered, “And no blood was shed.” before adding, “But amidst his confession, he claimed to have a message for my captain.” 

“And what message was that?” Drumm asked. There was a touch of indignation at Ramsay’s brazen admittance to killing a priest. The Drumm was quite familiar with many of the Drowned Priests with his lands overseeing several holy sites. 

“It was a betrothal between me and Asha.”

“And you refused?” Drumm’s wrinkled mouth frowned. “If I were you, I would’ve accepted what was offered and made that alliance.” 

“So would I,” Dagon said back, “If I were you.” 

“Asha is Balon’s chosen heir,” Drumm reminded a room filled with those who didn’t need the reminder. 

“The first mark against her,” The captain’s dislike for the Greyjoys ran deep. 

Lonnie dipped his quill in the inkpot in the silence that followed. It was the Blacktyde who broke it, who had finally moved away from the terracotta warriors to where the captain was waiting for them. 

“So, you marry a Targaryen?” His voice thick with disbelief while his eyes studied the captain with the same interest, they had the terracotta men. “The king will not let you within a hundred leagues of Westeros if you are to call her your wife.” 

“Not if,” Dagon corrected politely. He looked between the two ironborn lords and chuckled. “I wasn’t aware I was in the company of such leal men of the stag.” 

The jape only made Ramsay smile. Lonnie noticed neither Drumm nor Blacktyde appreciated what went unsaid in what the captain was referring to-the rebellion. One of which they all fought for Greyjoy over Baratheon. 

“The Usurper should’ve killed Balon after his doomed rebellion.” 

“But he didn’t,” Blacktyde pointed out, “like it or not, Balon Greyjoy is Lord Reaper of Pyke,” he said in a tone clearly conveying his opinion was the latter. “And his brother commands the Iron Fleet.” 

“Victarion?” The name brought neither respect nor fear out of his captain. “The ironborn who lost to a green lander on the open seas?” Dagon scoffed. “And he didn’t even have the decency to die in the battle to spare us the humiliation that his constant presence brings us.”

Drumm’s old legs and tired bones made him finally seek out his seat. “And you could beat, Lord Stannis?” He sat in it with a contented sigh, 

“With my eyes closed,” Dagon played it off as a playful boast.

But his words weren’t empty, Lonnie knew the truth of it. He had seen it. He had moved onto a new piece of parchment but had carefully moved the first so as to not smudge the ink. 

“Lord Drumm,” Ramsay had stayed in his spot on the far side of the room. “He wants something, captain.” 

He bristled. “Don’t presume-” 

“Speak freely,” Dagon encouraged, “All words are safe here.”

“I want to know why I should stay,” Dunstan Drumm’s hands were wrinkled, but his fingers remained strong. The Drumm still proudly carried and used the valyrian steel sword, Red Rain. Instead of his sword, they now gripped the armrests of his seat. “When I can just as easily go home, like so many others have.”

The Drumm spoke true. After the captain announced his decision to pursue the princess, many ships quit his fleet. Those came from lords and men who had fought against the Targaryens in the Rebellion. Still, many stayed with the captain, some Lonnie noticed were from families who had fought for the dragon, while others, he imagined, stayed for profit over politics. The captain’s expedition to Asshai was bound to be his most successful voyage, and given the riches that came first from Qarth, and then the Jade Sea, that was too alluring to ignore. 

“If you wish to leave, Drumm, then leave,” The captain wasn’t one to beg. 

“Even if we go to the capital?” That was Blacktyde. 

The captain had remained coy, committing to nothing. If Drumm and Blacktyde were to set sail for Westeros tomorrow, what would they say? That the captain was set to marry the princess? That news has likely already reached the capital.  

“And tell them what?” 

 “The Iron Throne for her brother,” The Blacktyde said softly, “And the Seastone Chair for you.” 

“That’s treason.” 

Dagon gave the Drumm a lazy smile. “We’re all well-rehearsed in treason.” 

“And what it cost us,” Blacktyde replied, with a bitter twist of his mouth. 

He wears the loss of his father as closely as his seven-star pin, Lonnie believed, and then wrote it down. 

“ If,” The word hung heavy between the three ironborn. “I was to take The Seastone Chair, would you truly object?” 

“Balon’s the Lord Reaper,” Drumm’s protest was weak, a limp sail on a windless day. “We’ve all sworn vows to that effect.” 

“Count the gold you’ve gotten from me and then compare it with what you’ve gotten in all your years following the Grejoys,” Dagon leaned back in his seat. “I’ll wait.”

Drumm’s expression shifted to show he didn’t appreciate the cheek, but he mustered no response in refuting the captain’s claim. 

“And what would the Iron Islands look like under a new Lord Reaper?” Blacktyde stood behind his seat. 

“Stronger and richer.”

“And what of the Faith?” Blacktyde’s fingers gripped the back of his chair. 

“I’ll not welcome them,” Dagon denied him.

Blacktyde’s disappointment marred his handsome features. “Then why should I join you?” he demanded. “I should just stay true to Greyjoy and take the gold I’ve gotten from you and sail home.”

“Because I wish to make a better kingdom for our people,” Dagon answered. “Can Greyjoy say that?” he challenged them, “Does he even want that?” He looked between them. “He wishes to build on shifting sands wet with blood, but I will build on stone.”

“This is still war,” Blacktyde had lost some of his firmness. 

“It is.” Dagon’s voice was as soft as a whisper. “There was once an old ironborn king,” he rose out of his seat, “and on his deathbed, his sons, his brothers, and his best captains all gathered around him.” While talking the captain walked around some of his glittering displays, exotic trappings, expensive trophies, all pieces to show what he’s accomplished. He made sure the ironborn lord’s eyes were on them, that they too could see everything he earned, everything he took, and everything he offered. 

“And they asked: Who was to succeed him?”   Dagon continued reciting the old and popular legend.  “And the king answered: the strongest.”  He stopped to turn to the two ironborn lords. “Is Balon Greyjoy worth your loyalty?” He asked them, “Your life?” He gestured to the door, “If you believe he is then declare your intentions. Leave my manse, my fleet, and return to him.” 

Neither of them moved.

Lonnie thought his captain’s confidence wasn’t misplaced, every ironborn who served under him lived a better life with him then they ever had under Balon Greyjoy. He truly was the strongest amongst the ironborn. Captain is the leader we need, he believed this with every fiber in him. The Seastone Chair should be his. He made sure to note how the ironborn took to his words. They knew it too;  he saw them trade a look. They were his. 

“The houses loyal to the dragon,” Drumm muttered, “They serve the stag now.” 

“So did we until we didn’t.” 

The Drumm understood. “There are others?” 

“Yes.” It was Ramsay who answered.

Plots within plots.

“What would you have of us?” The Blacktyde finally asked.

His captain told them.

“The Dothraki are forty thousand swords that I’ll need to take my throne,” The King blustered. 

Her master took the king’s blistering tone with a bland smile. He was lounging on a padded couch. They were in the magister’s garden. He lay in the shade while the king paced angrily along the stone path.

Doreah was off to the side, quiet, but watching. She didn’t look for herself. Her eyes didn’t belong to her. They belonged to him. As did her ears and fingers, she listed my mouth, and she thought of what was to come, my cunt. 

“You’ll also need ships to bring them over, Your Grace.”

“I have the ironborn for that,” He waved a dismissive hand. 

“Lord Dagon will not give you his ships or anymore of his gold, unless you give him what he wants,” He tried his best to guide the king with his honeyed tone, “And that’s your sister.”

The king spun on his feet. “Who is he to make demands of his king?” 

“In order to secure your rightful crown, Your Grace,” He bowed his head, “you’ll need to reward loyal men,” her master was of those men. Doreah can only wonder what her master’s reward would be. “And Lord Dagon is the only lord from Westeros, who has openly sought you out.”

“I’ll give him those shitty islands, and a position on my Small Council.”

“That isn’t what he wants, Your Grace.”

The king purpled. “A dragon doesn’t mate with a horse or a hound!” He argued petulantly, “You’d have me give up my sister? With her pure valyrian blood, her virgin cunt to him ?” 

“Your Grace,” her master’s voice remained calm and soothing. “This is an offer that would be unwise to refuse. And it must include the princess.” 

“Then let him have the Usurper’s daughter,” the king offered. “He can have her after I kill her father and brothers,” his fingers were on the borrowed sword. 

“You can’t give what you don’t have, Your Grace,” Dagon Farwynd approached them with a king’s grace. He was dressed as richly as the king, but his clothes were not borrowed. “And if I want the Usurper’s daughter then I’ll have her,” his eyes were eerie and ever changing. “But today, I’m here for the Targaryen princess.” 

Her master snapped his fat fingers and when the servant came. He ordered the reedy girl to fetch the princess. Her eyes moved to the king to notice he didn’t dare rage at the ironborn like he had to her master.  But it was still there with his taut face and angry twist of his mouth. 

The chest was brought forward. This one was older and larger than any of the previous ones. Doreah thought you could fit two if not three of those earlier chests into this one. The men who carried it, put it down before the king, one opened it, to reveal the chest’s golden, glimmering maw. She was close enough to see that the hinges appeared rusted. The wooden chest looked worn and rotting. The gold looked different too, she couldn’t recognize it. 

“With only today and tomorrow left of the courtship, Your Grace,” Lord Dagon said, while his king didn’t even look up from the gold. “I thought it important to show how my generosity only grows towards my friends and allies.”

The king scooped up a handful of coins. His eyes flicked to the gold and then to his guest, a lord, who was willing to serve him, and to help him secure his long-desired crown. Still, the king’s expression didn’t shine with gratitude. “You ask for a lot, Farwynd, a kingdom and a princess, but what do you offer me?” He asked, ignoring the large chest of gold in front of him. 

“A new name,” Dagon replied, “Aegon was the Conqueror, Jaehaerys the Conciliator, and you, Your Grace,” he said, “You will be Viserys the Restorer.” 

She saw the words take hold of him. She saw his lips move to repeat the name again and again. His expression shifted, dropping the coins back into the chest. He slowly smiled, which helped to compliment his handsome features.

“ Ah , Princess,” Her master greeted the princess before the king could speak. 

Doreah remembered seeing her return to the manse last night. It had been a brief passing, but it was enough for her to see the princess had been glowing. The glow was still there, her face shining as she approached her betrothed.

 “And such a beautiful dress,” her master complimented her, as if surprised at its appearance, and acting as if he had never seen it before, even though it had been another one of his gifts he had presented to her.  

The dress was black with billowing sleeves. It curved around the chest to give glimpses of her pale skin and the tops of her breasts. It glittered with black pearls and rubies that were sewn into the bodice and along the sleeves. She saw the king’s eyes follow her, and she knew what that meant. My face in a pillow. Him behind her, saying his sister’s name as he fucks me. She had endured worse humiliations, saying his sister’s name when he spills his seed inside me. This was what was expected of her. This was her life. And then my name when I’m dismissed. 

She had told her master of the king’s obsession with his sister. “Mayhaps, I’ll visit my sister if I let her marry this ironborn”, he had said one night, “And give the couple a wedding gift,” he had chuckled, “a kingly gift.” It hadn’t been drink that made his tongue wag, but desire. “ Give my sister the royal seed before she’s fucked by that sea savage.” 

Her master started to place guards at the princess’ door at all times after Doreah had told him. She continued to watch mutely, serving as a decoration as Lord Dagon and the princess went away after parting words with her master, who had gotten himself to sit up. The king was barking orders at her master’s servants to get his chest, and to bring it to his room. He then turned his eyes on her, and she meekly bowed her head.  

“Doreah,” Her master stirred her attention, shifting from the king to him. “I need to speak with you,” he then sent an apologetic look towards the king. “She’ll be with you soon, Your Grace.” 

The king gave a tight nod, not as if he was in a position to deny her master. I belong to him, not the king. She suspected the king would slate his lust on another one of the master’s servants, while he waited. 

“Master?” She asked when they were alone. 

He had slowly risen out of his seat. “I wanted to commend you, Doreah.” He lumbered around the table. “You’ve given me great service since I brought you to my home.”

Bought you, she demurred, her lessons from Lys left sharp imprints. “Thank you, master.” She said the words as sweetly as his favorite summer wine.

The rolls of fat on his forehead looked like slugs when they creased. “But I have decided that our time will be coming at an end.”

I’ve been sold. An icy slick of fear wormed through her. “Master?” 

His hand was sweaty and greasy when he placed it on her shoulder. “There, there, my girl,” He comforted her, leaving behind sticky stains on her skin. “You’re still mine for another day or more.” 

She thought of those street puppet shows the children loved so much. That’s what I am. A puppet whose strings are for others to control. Never her. “Who?” 

He was standing behind her. She could hear his labored breathing. “I’m to give you to the princess,” His fat fingers roamed over her skin like slimy worms. “A wedding gift,” she smelt his odious breath, but kept smiling. Still as a statue, she reminded herself, pretty and permanent as a portrait. One of his fingers was in her hair, his hot breath on her neck. “You are to help our sweet princess,” His hands then moved to her breasts and he squeezed. “Do you understand?” He asked gently. 

“Yes, master,” she said softly, and she finished her answer with a moan. She was an instrument to be played, and sweet sounds were expected of her. 

“Good,” he panted in her ear. “If only I could see what lessons you teach her.” 

She gave him what he wanted with another moan, knowing she struck true at how he held her. He grunted as he gripped her, moving her like she was a piece of furniture. 

Here? She cut the cold panic before it could bloom inside her. Before it could hurt her. Doreah didn’t think of the garden they were standing in as she placed her hands on the couch. Didn’t think of the watching guards as she presented herself to him. She didn’t think of the bright sun and birdsong when he pulled up her dress. 

I’m not here. She slipped away, not feeling him pressed up behind her. Nor his fat fingers bruising her skin. Where she was, she couldn’t be touched. She couldn’t feel any of it or him. She was away, and was waiting to return once it ended. 

Chapter Text

Gods, this was boring. 

Renly drank until his cup was empty and when it was, he refilled it. He offered to top off Davos, who sat across from him, but he declined. He looked to have barely drunk from his. 

The sea was a shitty road. His stomach roiled; he thought a carriage was bumpy. The ship was always in motion, moving and swaying, and rocking. Even when he moved slowly across the ship, he stumbled. Renly also had to be mindful of everything he put down, especially his food and drink. He started to hold his drink after it had spilled on his lap the first day. Thankfully, he was alone for that gaffe. But holding the cup meant he kept drinking from it. 

He was in his cabin with Davos, the captain of the Black Betha. However, Renly needed him more for this mission, so he moved Davos so he could serve him on Fury. Being its captain in all but name. While Black Betha fell under the command of Davos’ third son, Matthos who had previously served as his father’s second. 

The time seemed to slow to a crawl out at sea. Renly had thought he could pass the time by listening to what Davos knew of this ironborn, who they were after. He hadn’t had time before they left because had much to do in the passing days between Robert giving him the mission, and when the ships departed. He threw a feast to announce the news of his important mission. They had cheered and congratulated him, toasting to his success. Loras had been quick to volunteer to come with him, and Renly gladly accepted him. 

But Loras wasn’t here. Before they were to set off, a raven came from Highgarden. Lady Olenna was unwell, and he needed to return. She’ll outlive us all, Renly had told him, wanting to comfort him and the smile Loras gave him had been one of the last good things he’s seen since he left King’s Landing. A bump or a swell or whatever the sailors called it, broke his musings on his beloved Loras and returned his focus on the Onion Knight. 

Only having half listened to what had been said, Renly still knew what to say. “He collects more names than ladies do baubles.” In these stories borne from rumors and gossip, this ironborn had been given many names: 

Dagon the Devout, The Drowned Herald, The Hand of God.

Ser Davos didn’t chuckle or even crack a smile. 

Loras would have laughed, Renly missed his laugh. Davos was a good man, but he wasn’t his Loras. He forced himself to push aside his knight, knowing it would only bring him longing, and returned to this Dagon Farwynd. He admired his ambition, but thought the ironborn had blundered and overreached. “All that gold he has,” Renly did pay close attention to that part, “he may as well have tossed it into the sea for his god to claim because he’ll never get to spend it once we catch him.”

“If.”

“What do you mean if?” He straightened up in his seat. “We have more than a dozen war ships and this,” meaning the ship they were currently on, Fury. “He’s no ship in his fleet to match Fury.” He pointed to him, “You said that yourself.” 

“Aye, I did,” Davos agreed, “But it isn’t losing a battle against him that concerns me. It’s him slipping by us,” he revealed. “I can’t reckon if he has some holy blessing from his god, or what deeds he’s done, but I do know his ship is fast and he’s never been successfully captured or cornered.” 

“Until now,” Renly declared. 

“But what if he does?” Davos asked respectfully, “What then?”

Renly thought this whole thing was getting absurd and was starting to get annoyed at this insult whether the Onion Knight meant it as one or not. “We give chase,” He couldn’t return empty handed. 

Davos bowed his head, finally sensing he overstepped himself. “My apologies, my lord.” He rose from his seat to excuse himself and return to the deck or that’s what Renly thought it was called. He decided to go with him. His cabin was becoming insufferable, and he thought the sun could do him some good.

It did not do him any good. 

The sun was beating down upon him like an unrelenting hammer. Reaching above deck, the crewmen greeted him and Davos warmly. He liked the Fury crew. They had been wary of him when he came aboard. Likely not used to being in the presence of such a high lord or mayhaps, they thought he’d be as boorish as Stannis. They had been as easy for him to win over as the smallfolk. Simple minds want simple things. And Renly could do that. And did for them. 

A squawk from overhead made Renly look up to see there was a large bird on the mast or was it the rigging? He forgot what it was all called and left that to Davos. Fury had left King’s Landing with more than a dozen ships, including the war galleys: Lord Steffon, Stag of the Sea, The Lionstar, Horned Honor, and Queen Cersei. He hardly traveled by ship, and only did so when he had to, such as visiting his bannermen on Tarth. But none of those trips lasted this long. The ships he liked and were used to was the pleasure barges having taken many on the Mander when he visited Highgarden. 

He brushed aside the Tyrells not wanting to linger on his missing Loras. Instead, Renly thought about the gold he was going to get. If it was as much as Davos believed it was, he would throw a feast and tournament upon his return to celebrate his success. Strengthening his popularity with the smallfolk and shoring up his support with visiting lords and knights. And I’ll still have plenty left over, he’d need it to keep the support of old friends and to recruit new ones at court. A good tournament and feast would also soften his brother. And he had plans for Robert. 

His brother would be so happy, that he’d be sure to listen to him when it came to Robert’s queen, the uncaring shrew who thought she was a lion.  Renly would tell his brother all about Margaery’s beauty, a rose waiting for him to pluck. And weren’t you always complaining about there being too many Lannisters at court, brother? He would ask him, remind him. And he’d listen, and he’d agree. And Renly would be rewarded. 

Hand of the King? He smiled. Jon couldn’t live forever. With the new title, he’d sweep the Lannisters out of court and send them back to the Rock, replacing them with true and reliable friends in the Reach. Friends that could be trusted for what was to come. 

A low screech pierced his thoughts. It was that damned bird. He looked up at it, as brazen as it could be, with the golden sails of Fury behind it. He turned his attention away from it and onto this powerful ship. 

It boasted three hundred oars, with catapults topside and scorpions covering the deck. She was a ship ready for war. He wasn’t sailing towards war, but to stop one. Once the ironborn saw this, he thought, they’ll know its over. He was already picturing his arrival back at court: the princess in gold fetters and her ironborn husband clapped in irons.

Another obnoxious squawk followed by a ruffling of feathers made Renly glare up at the stupid creature. He saw Davos talking to the Fury’s second. He was starboard or was it the prow? Renly gave up with an exasperated breath, annoyed by all the different and new names for everything. What was so hard about just saying front or back? He was sweating through his silks with this smothering heat, and he was regretting how much he had drunk before he had left his cabin.

“Lord Renly,” Davos greeted him cheerfully, while being out on the ship had made Renly miserable, it had buoyed the spirits of the Onion Knight. “You’ll get your sea legs yet, my lord.”

Renly doubted it but smiled in thanks. It proved hard to keep with his trembling legs and roiling belly. “How is-” he failed at remembering the right words, “Everything?” He finished lamely. 

“Good, my lord,” Davos answered, “We’re still a few days from Pentos.” 

That did cheer him up. “And won’t they be surprised to see us,” Renly remarked, picturing the bride and groom’s faces when they sailed out of Pentos and into their waiting ships.  “Not the reception they’ll be expecting.”

A squawk loud and clear filled the air, setting his teeth on edge and making him forget all about his future triumph. The bird had followed him. A creep of a headache was beginning to set in. Don’t any of them hear that damned bird and its incessant squawking? Its mere presence was rankling him. It was Davos who gave a name to the pest. 

“That's an albatross, my lord,” He took Renly staring at it as if he was actually admiring the bird, instead of beginning to despise it, and its nettlesome noise. 

“A silver stag to whoever shoots it down.” Renly offered, having had enough of the bird’s company. 

In an instant, the crew stopped their work. It made for an unsettling sight. His words had stirred something amongst them because now instead of working, they gave him dark looks and were muttering amongst themselves. Their mood had swiftly soured.  

“My lord,” Davos tried to soothe them with a gesture, before turning back to Renly. “It’s ill luck to kill an albatross,” he explained. “Haven’t you heard the story?” He looked taken aback at the mere idea that someone didn’t know it.

Others take that story! A tiny knot of tension had nested in the back of his mind and pulsed with everyone of that bird’s damn squawks. Which was becoming quite frequent. He wished Loras was with him. He would’ve done it without needing a stag. He would’ve done it for me simply because I asked. But not them, not this crew. Smallfolk and their small minds, he didn’t think they could all be that stupid. The anger throbbed inside him. 

“Two Stags!” He thought it more than generous, but his offer was met with stony silence. They’re trying to get a gold dragon out of me, he almost laughed at their audacity. The offer or even an order for them to just kill it disappeared in an instant when turned from the bird back to them.  

There was a chilling stillness on the deck. The dozens of crewmen stayed where they were. Their expressions darkened and their eyes had hardened at his request. For the first time, he felt unwelcomed amongst them, an interloper. A faint unease washed over him. 

The albatross made another squawk as if mocking Renly. 

Davos was saying something, but he couldn’t hear over the roaring in his ears. He needed to leave. The panic was cold and climbing within him. “As you were,” he grumbled, stumbling backwards, trying to beat a quick, but dignified retreat below deck and back to his cabin. His footsteps were the only sound he heard on the ship as they watched him pass with their cold, quiet looks. 

The last thing he heard before he scrambled below deck was that albatross and its parting call to him. 

Renly comforted himself with drink once he was back in his cabin.

He pictured himself off this ship, away from this superstitious crew, and back at the Red Keep. I was hosting my friends at court. Renly was telling them all about his trials during his successful mission. “You’ll not believe them,” he told his waiting friends, “But they refused to kill a bird,” at their stunned silence, he’d add, “they were scared,” he would chuckle with them, “of a bird.” 

They’d titter in amusement at the sailors’ simple minds, and gasp in disbelief at such superstitions. They’d be quick to offer him their sympathies for his ordeal. They’d praise him too at how he managed to be successful despite his crew’s many shortcomings. The Targaryen princess was a prisoner in the Vale, and her husband’s head decorated one of the pikes outside Maegor’s Holdfast. 

“To Renly Baratheon,” they’d all raise their glasses to him. “The one who accomplished what his brother could not!” Rousing a great cheer and chuckles as they drank to his triumph. 

And Loras was right there by his side, as he should be. “If only I were there.” He’d shake his head in frustration. “I’d have peppered it with arrows.” He promised. His beautiful brown eyes were bright, taking the crew’s inaction to Renly’s offer as a personal slight. 

Renly would smile, and then carefully so that none of the others could see, he’d move his hand to rest on Loras’ leg, to show his appreciation for him and his support. “I know,” Renly would say, “Thank you.” 

Loras would smile and place his hand atop Renly’s which made him want nothing more than to dismiss his friends and be who he really wanted to be with. 

“My lord?” 

Renly blinked in confusion, hearing Davos’ voice but it was coming from Loras’ lips.

“My lord?” 

Renly woke with a start. “Yes?” He replied, voice thick with sleep, not knowing how long it’s been since the incident on the deck. “Come in.”  It was only then that he noticed it was now night. 

Davos did. “We’ve received word,” his face was grim. “The Lord Steffon she’s,” he hesitated, “she’s gone, my lord.” 

Renly had the two survivors from Lord Steffon brought to his ship.

It had been Black Betha who had found them, and the ship’s captain, Davos’ son Matthos, now joined them in his cabin. The two survivors were sitting across from Renly, between them was the ship’s surgeon-barber, who was called: Uncle Deadly. Gods, he thought, where do they come up with these stupid names? He was a hoary sailor with a deep voice, and deeper superstitions when it came to the sea. Dark eyes, a frowning visage, and a sour view meant Renly tried his best to avoid him. 

Standing off to the side closest to Renly was Davos, who had barely spoken since giving him the news of Lord Steffon’s fate. The news of the two survivors hadn’t loosened his lips. Across from his father was Matthos, young, agreeable, respectful, he was one he knew he could count on in the days to come. 

He gave out wine from his private stock, Arbor gold, but none were drinking. The survivors hadn’t spoken since they were brought to him. They had already been given new clothes and towels to dry off after being in the water. They now had blankets draped over them like cloaks, but they were still shivering. 

Black Betha who had been behind Lord Steffon had watched its demise from a distance, but the captain nor her crew could say with any certainty what had happened, only that Lord Steffon was gone. And by the time they reached where they saw it disappear, all there was to find was flotsam and two survivors, Garrett and Max. 

“What happened?” Renly thought he gave them enough time to mull in silence. The quiet was beginning to unnerve him, and the uncertainty of what had happened only made him feel worse. “Was it ironborn?” 

“Ironborn,” Max mumbled, looking down at his cup as if it had the answer to Renly’s questions. He had cut his hand by some floating debris he had clung to. Uncle Deadly had bandaged it, and seemed certain it wouldn’t worsen. 

“It wasn’t ironborn,” Garrett had broken his nose in the chaos and confusion of the sinking ship. Uncle Deadly had set it, but dry blood caked parts of his face, including a smear over the bridge of his nose. “It was a wave,” He said, “A great wave that plunged our ship into the sea.”

That agitated Max, stirring under his many blankets. “It was a kraken!” he hiccupped, “I saw it!” He shuddered, “It was in the wave!” 

 Renly laughed, but he was the only one. All around him he saw somber faces. It dispelled whatever mirth he had felt at what he thought was an obvious jape or some absurd yarn. In its place, a cold unease crept over him. 

Garrett shook his head, but before he could refute his friend, he was cut off.

“Red as blood, it was,” Max declared. “It cracked our ship in half like it was a chicken bone.” He looked to be on the verge of sobbing. “And then it feasted on the others.” 

“Others?” Matthos asked.

“We were not the only ones who survived,” he was trembling, “Only the last.”

It was Uncle Deadly who was the first to find his voice and Renly wished it had been anyone else. 

“It’s Him,” he said in his gravelly voice. “He knows we’re trespassing.” He made a gesture with his hand, as if fending something off. “The sea belongs to Him.”

“Who?” 

“He means the Drowned God,” Davos answered, without giving a hint of what he actually thought of the words being spoken.

“He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves,” Uncle Deadly went on. “T’was His hand that pulled their ship down.”  

Garrett, who had claimed it was a wave, took no comfort in Uncle Deadly’s ominous words. His face had lost all color. 

Max wouldn’t let the issue lie. “It was no god, but a kraken.” His eyes were bloodshot.  “It made the wave, it cracked our ship,” his face pale from the distress. “And with its great, terrible tentacles, it pulled ‘em down one by one, drowning and devouring our crew.” Max moved to stand, stopped, and then heaved all over his boots and floor. 

Renly hid his grimace, while Matthos helped Max back to his seat. Uncle Deadly used a rag he had with him, got onto his hands and knees and began to wipe up the vomit. He hoped that cleaning the floor would keep Uncle Deadly busy and quiet, but he was wrong. 

“It ain’t the Seven we should be praying to,” he spat on the ground where Max had heaved, “but Him and only Him, while we’re in his dominion.” His scarred face turned to Renly. “I’m liking this mission, little and less,” Uncle Deadly spoke like he was the captain of the ship and not the barber. “We should go back.” 

“Go back?” Renly scoffed, “Don’t be absurd,” the hoary sailor had cracked. Gods, this Uncle Deadly has made him long for the days of Pycelle. I’ll take the bumbling grand maester over this sailor’s mad babbling. He got to his feet, towering over them whether they sat or stood. “Our king gave us a command and we must see it through.” 

Uncle Deadly wasn’t convinced. “What’s a king’s wrath in the face of a god’s?” 

He turned to Davos, needing him to talk sense to them. 

The Onion Knight hesitated. His hand went to his bag of bones. Why? Renly could only guess. Gratitude? Fear? Reassurance? “Every man who leaves port knows he may not see home again,” He was still holding his bag. “We’ll make sure their families are seen to, but Lord Renly is right. We must carry on.”

The men grumbled their agreement. 

Satisfied, Renly next gave the orders that nothing of what was spoken in this cabin was to leave it. The last thing he needed was a panic amongst the crew which would be fervently fanned by Uncle Deadly’s vague threats and portents. The men agreed. He’d keep the survivors on Fury, so he could watch them to make sure they didn’t stray from the agreed upon story. One that didn’t include sea monsters and sea gods being responsible for bringing down Lord Steffon. 

Let that be the last we hear of krakens and this Drowned God.

Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:

The not killing the albatross and Davos referring to 'the story' is a nod to the very popular poem: “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Garrett and Maxwell are named after Garrett Hawke and Maxwell Trevelyan, the names of the default human male protagonists in Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age Inquisition respectively.

Uncle Deadly is named after the Muppet Uncle Deadly. 

Chapter Text

The sea of stars glimmered along the glassy surface of the Bay of Pentos.  

They sat side by side on his dock, their feet dangling over the water. The kiss was behind them, but the heat in her belly hadn’t faded. The mere thought of it, had her recalling his taste on her lips, his hands on her, skimming along her bare skin. Hers on him, gripping and appreciating the firm muscle that lay beneath the silks. Besides the brief appearance of a thrall who brought them wine and sweet cakes, they were left alone in the starlight. 

I used to go to bed each night afraid. Now, she didn’t want this night to end. Dany worried that this was all some dream, and she’d wake up to find herself back in Tyrosh or Volantis, squatting in an alley, like they had so many times before. She picked up one of the cakes, more food than she’d sometimes eat in a couple days during the hard times. This would be a terrible dream, she decided, before taking her first bite. Because of how cruelly it teased her with what she could never have. To wake would be to return her to her brother, whom she still cared for. She had to. He’s all I have. She’d tell herself, all I hope to have. 

He was her brother who was supposed to be her king, her husband, the father of her children. That future was so certain in her mind for so long, but no longer. Now it was written in the sand that was swept away by the tide. A new and better future emerged, and one she’d run towards instead of fleeing like the ones before. 

She leaned into his side, comforted by his presence. “Could you tell me another story?” 

In the quiet of the night, he had been telling her stories of his people. He had told her of Gwayne, a knight, who had been called, The Salty Ser. He went on several quests for powerful and influential ironborn to try to prove the Seven’s strength and virtues. And then finally of his eventual failure and death. 

To change our faith is as foolish as trying to reshape the sea. 

She quickly learned that not all of the stories were as clear as Ser Gwayne’s. 

“Why so many?” she had asked, after hearing several tales of why the sea was salty. He had only told her three versions, but apparently there were several more.

One reason had been the actions of a jealous son, wanting to cast out the Drowned God’s newest creation-ironborn from His Father’s watery domain. While another told it was due to the tears of a goddess forever in mourning for all she had lost, and another spoke of it being from a poisoned gift after one of the Drowned God’s suitors had been spurned. 

“Different islands, tell different stories," he had answered. “Different kings, and different priests, all who wanted different messages, different songs.”

Which led to more different stories since they would stem from the other tales. 

Dany was struggling to keep them all together, but she enjoyed them all. Such as the different telling of why the ironmen left the sea. It was said by some because of it being salty. They could no longer drink its water. They ascended onto land, with bare bodies and bold hearts, ready to start anew. While others claimed they rose out of the sea, to serve the Drowned God, and to conquer new lands just as He had conquered the sea. Another telling was they left for the surface because of a war between the merlings, vying for His favor. So, to keep the peace between His children, the ironmen moved onto the lands to worship Him while the merlings kept to the sea. 

“Certainly,” He seemed pleased by her enjoyment of them. “There was Ceta, she was a sea goddess and a wife of the Drowned God, who was tasked to create guardians of the sea to protect their dominion and creatures of war for His endless fight against the Storm God. This is how leviathans and kraken and sharks were born into our world.” 

She listened to him intently, as she finished her second sweet cake. Her eyes on the stars shining reflection in the water. “A leviathan rider?” She asked, after Dagon spoke of the Drowned God and Ceta’s son being one. 

“Yes,” he never chided her for interrupting. She didn’t have to fear his anger like with her brother, and the wroth her interruptions would stoke within him and the pain that would follow. “Think of them as your knights who ride horses.” He said, before he changed his mind, adding. “Except they carried many men instead of just one.” 

She tried to. Picturing large leviathans with many riders along their back and sides. How many could they carry? She saw them swimming through the sea, carrying them into one of the many battles Dagon spoke of. Daenerys heard his next words: of how the son of the Drowned God and Ceta was his leviathan’s only rider. She saw this son, alone, atop his leviathan, and he looked like Dagon, resembling the heroes in her favorite tales. 

“He died in a great battle,” his voice punctured the idyllic image she had nurtured in her head. “So, the Drowned God taught leviathans how to speak and to sing, so that their son’s death would never be forgotten.” 

She felt a sad smile play on her lips, having heard their songs during her and her brother’s countless trips across the Narrow Sea. Daenerys had always been struck by the eerie beauty of their songs. 

“Songs are the memories of life and love,” he said softly. His silhouette was alight in the glow of the stars. "They are the lifeblood of our people. It's why our skalds are so revered." 

What songs will we have? She wondered and hoped there were many. Dany touched his cheek, making him turn to her, and she kissed him again. A chaste touching of their lips. “Could you tell me another?” 

“As many as you like, Dany.” 

She felt her belly flip, at how he said her name. He sealed that promise with a kiss. 

“Do you know why there is lightning?”

She shook her head, not trusting her voice after their latest kiss. Her body was flush, warm against the nightly breeze. 

He started from the beginning. “In one of their early battles, He wounded the Storm God, three drops fell into the sea. The godly essence frothed in the salty sea, and emerging from the seafoam, was the Storm God’s daughter, a beautiful maiden. She had barely taken in not just this new world, but of her own father when the Drowned God took her, pulling her into the sea and claiming her. She would become His first concubine taken. We would eventually call those women salt wives.” 

Salt wife, she had only recently learned the difference between Rock and Salt wife. Daenerys was to become Dagon’s rock wife. She was familiar with men taking multiple wives, knowing her own ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, took both his sisters as his brides. The tradition went even further back to the days of the Valyrian Freehold, but she knew the ironborn way was not the same as what her ancestors had practiced. 

He had taken no salt wife before her. She would be his first wife, but she didn’t know if she was to be his only one. She had asked him if he planned to, the question had slipped out of her lips like a breath. He gave no answer. His voice swept away her thoughts before they could fester, leading her back to his story. 

“When the lightning lights up the sky, it’s the Storm God looking for his lost daughter. And the thunder is his rage because he can’t find her.” 

“Dagon,” both heads turned to see Gwyn Farwynd walking down the dock. “The hour is getting late.” 

“Of course,” he stood before offering her his hand to help her, which she took. He then turned back to his kin. “Do you have it?”

She nodded, and Dagon smiled. “Your gift, princess. Though it’s a poor gift after what you’ve given me.” He handed her what she thought was a toy. 

It was a ship. She looked down to see it was skillfully carved and painted. Thank you,” she appreciated the many, fine details of the tiny ship. She thought it would make a good decoration. 

“That’s your ship, Princess,” he returned to addressing her formally, now that they were no longer alone. 

“My ship?” 

“Dagon has given you the ownership of one of his ships, Princess,” Gwyn explained. “You’ll receive an owner’s cut of its cargo and contents whenever it makes port. You’ll make more on your travels before you even reach Asshai than all the gold your brother has been given.” 

Dany blinked; the ship suddenly felt heavier. Another gesture, another gift. “It’s too much,” she offered it back to him. She knew it was part of his courtship, but it didn’t lessen the inadequacy that lingered on her heart like a bruise. “I don’t deserve such gifts.” The model ship wobbled in her hand. “I’ve given you nothing.” 

“Our marriage will give us the Iron Islands, Princess,” He reached out his hand, but not to take the ship from her. “You will give me sons and daughters,” he closed her fingers around the gift. “Their worth is far more than any gift I've given or could give you, Daenerys.” 

His hand lingered over hers. She looked to their joined hands and then to him.  I could drown in those eyes. Deep blue and inviting, her heart fluttered in her chest. 

“She still needs a name."

A name? She hesitantly returned her attention back to the gift. She recalled all the names of the ships she traveled on, and those she had read about. But it was a different one that came to her, a name rising above them all. “I want to name her after my mother,” she decided, “The Queen Rhaella.” 

“Your septa bit your brother?” Her sides were hurting from all her laughing. 

They were in Dagon’s carriage traveling to his manse. He had arrived later in the afternoon, closer to supper than luncheon. During their ride, he had been telling her stories about his life as a boy growing up. There were no chaperones with them, just like with the night before. Her brother had become so consumed by all his gold and transfixed by his new future, he had been too distracted to consider her, all but discarding me. It was more freedom than she ever had, and she savored every precious second of it. 

“No, not a septa,” he corrected, “Septa, it's the name of one of our seals.” He sat across from her. His presence seemed to dominate their small compartment. 

“You keep seals as pets?” the more she heard about Lonely Light, the more she wished to visit it and see its wonders for herself.

“Yes, we have several. My family’s been breeding them for centuries.”  

She tried to picture a castle where instead of hounds, the lords kept seals. It was a difficult image for her to conjure, and what bubbled up, made her want to giggle, because of how silly it seemed. 

“We breed seagulls as well. We use them as our messengers.” 

“Not ravens?” She frowned. Dany had never learned about other birds that were used in the Seven Kingdoms to dispatch messages.

“At seas, a seagull is more reliable,” Dagon answered, “My family has perfected the creature.” He brushed aside the dark curtain, a glimmer of sunlight cut in like a blazing knife. “And we use them at Lonely Light after my grandfather banned ravens.” 

“Banned them?” 

“Yes.” He kept his eyes out their window. 

“What if a lord needs to reach you?” 

“A raven can be sent to Lonely Light, but it will not return,” his tone conveyed what happened to any visiting raven. “One of our seagulls will then deliver our response. Lonely Light does not receive a lot of messages, and those castles who do correspond with us regularly, have a seagull they use.” He twisted the curtain between his fingers, causing glimpses of fluttering sunlight to fill the compartment. The light moved like it was a living thing. “My home is not like the rest of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess.” 

“I still wish to see it,” She was pleased at the small smile her words brought to his lips. 

“Then you will,” he turned to her, still smiling.

She smiled, the memories of their kisses from the night before played before her. A warm flush creeped up her neck. Dany was about to lean forward, spurred by her newfound boldness, when their carriage gave another jolt. Her teeth clicked together, and she tightened her grip on the cushioned armrests to keep from toppling out of her seat. The jarring discomfort doused her desire for another kiss, like tossing water onto a fire. Afraid that if she tried again, she’d embarrass herself. Me sprawling into him, hitting his nose with the crown of my head. She dispelled that humiliating picture with a question that had been on her mind as he talked about his days in Lonely Light.  “What about your youngest brother?” He was the one she knew the least about. 

“He’s a squire at Stone Hedge. Lord Jonos says Yohn is the best rider he’s ever seen,” He answered, with a hint of pride that her own brother would never hold for her. “I have no doubt my brother could win any race or tourney against the best knights of the realm.” His smile seemed slyer with his brotherly boast. 

She saw parts of Pentos pass them by from the corner of her vision. “Will he become a knight?” 

“My brother is both free and burdened to choose his own path, but I know no anointed oils could turn my brother’s heart against Him.” His countenance shifted. “Knight or not, I do know that he wishes to wed one of Lord Bracken’s daughters, and that I can and will help him with.” 

“Your brother is grateful to have you,” she thought of her own brother, and a sour feeling swelled in her belly. It’s not all his fault, she reasoned. She and Viserys didn’t have the same pleasant memories that Dagon had. What childhood I had died behind the red door in Braavos along with Ser Willem. A pang of melancholy went through her as she thought of the old knight and all he had done for her. There were no fun memories of playing games for her and her brother. They were chased from one city to the next, fearful of their lives, of the very real dangers in the dark. Running and hiding, those were the games she knew. Hunger and fear were my childhood companions. Her face must have betrayed her thoughts. 

“Princess?”

“Do you think my brother will be a good king?” She asked, unsure of what caused the sudden shift in her thoughts. It had been nettling her these past few days, especially now that their marriage was all but certain. Does Dagon see something in Viserys that I can’t? Daenerys knew her brother was the rightful king. That the Seven Kingdoms were his to rule, but she had seen so many allies over the years, close their doors to them. The Golden Company laughed at him, after eating his food and hearing his pleas. Did they reject him because of their chances or was it his character? 

“Since the first man crowned himself a king, there have been bad men who made good kings, and good men who made bad kings.” 

So, you think- she was about to ask, about to hope her brother would be one such bad man who could be a good king, until he finished his thought. 

“But, no, I don’t think your brother will be a good king, but he’s necessary for what I want.” 

“And what’s that?” 

“The Iron Islands,” he said, “and you.” 

“You’d go to war for it?” For me? 

“Yes,” he kept his voice low, but she could hear the fire in his tone. “If you kill a man, they call you a murderer and take your head, but kill thousands,” he let his words hang in the air, the dark implications of what was to come. “They’ll name you a king and place a crown atop your head.” 

She thought of the wars they would bring to restore her brother to the Iron Throne, to make her and Dagon the rulers of the Iron Islands, and all the deaths that would come with it. I am the blood of the dragon. She reminded herself to gain her courage. Ours is taken with fire and blood. Daenerys then turned her gaze to the window, upwards into the blue sky, her dream from the night before coming back to her. 

It rose out of the sea, scales glimmering in the sunlight. The seawater on its body sizzled, turning to steam hiding some of its beauty from her.  It streaked through the sky like a lightning bolt. A blur of color covered in a fading mist, before she could see it in all its glory, it spiraled towards the sea, diving into the waves. A great splash rose from its graceful dive. Its head emerged after a few seconds. The water around it boiled, as a steamy haze rose around its body, concealing parts of it from view. Its bright eyes could still be seen, and they were on her. 

“Princess?” The word nudged the dream away. 

“Dany,” she was still looking out the window. “I wish you to call me Dany.”

“Dany,” He obliged her. 

It sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine. “Yes?”

“Did I-” He hesitated, thinking he made a mistake in what he said to her. 

“No,” She told him, “I was just thinking.” Her dreams wove in what she was seeing, the dragon was now flying above their carriage, hidden in the clouds, but she knew the truth. The dragons were dead. “It’s silly,” she dismissed, “It’s more a dream I had than a thought.” 

“A dream?” The interest in his tone surprised her enough to turn away from the window and back to him. 

She dismissed his curiosity with a smile and a wave of her hand. “It’s nothing.”  

“Why do you say that?” She hadn’t been able to shake his interest. If anything, he looked more attentive. His eyes looked her over, as if the dream was tattooed on her. 

“Because it’s just a dream,” she felt silly speaking it aloud. She carried it like a secret. It was not something to say in the open, to others. A mistake which she meant to bury.  Will he think me mad? She feared. Once the fears started, they spiraled beyond her reach, bringing with them a tumbling coldness down her back. Will her dreams be what makes him realize that she isn’t worthy of his attention, his gifts. A princess in name, but a beggar in truth. Despite all his assurances, and her own growing confidence, she still worried and waited that this would end. They would end, and she’d be her brother’s once more and forever. 

“Wasn’t it a dream that saved your family from the Doom of Valyria?”

The reminder brought pause to her rising fears. “It was,” she knew about Daenys the Dreamer, and how her family had fled the Freehold, moving to Dragonstone, the place of her birth. When she looked back at him, with his encouraging eyes, she felt more of the fear ebb away, and when she felt him squeeze her hands, the last remnants of its hold fell away from her, a dying grasp that could no longer hold her. 

“Dreams are messages from the Deep.” His voice was grave, reciting the words with clear reverence. “One of the gifts the Drowned God gives His children.”

“Gifts?” Daenerys didn’t think he could actually mean her when speaking of Him and His gifts. She was not amongst them. 

His nod was solemn. “We believe the Drowned God gives us gifts to make us strong, to remind us, we are made in His image. Though only some are given truly exceptional gifts.”

“Do you-?”

“Yes,” he answered, before she could finish her question. His stare shifted; an eerie hue fell over his gaze. “And I’ll tell it to you, but after you speak of your dream.” 

She nodded, thinking he’d be disappointed by it. Once she started, it poured out of her, from the beginning of Viserys’ hurts and taunts, of him chasing her, of her nakedness, and wounds, she bared it all to him, and when she came to the dragon finally revealing itself in her latest dream, she didn’t hesitate, tethering herself to him, trusting him. “A dragon rose from the sea, but it was like none of the dragons in the book you gave me.” 

“A dragon?” He murmured in disbelief just as she finished speaking. 

“Yes,” She noticed his body had gone taut. 

Their carriage was slowing down. She braced herself for the halt, but Dagon didn’t even wait for it to come. He opened the door. He ignored his driver’s dismay and hopped out. “Come with me,” he offered her his hand, which she took without hesitation. 

Dagon took her to a part of his manse she had not seen before. The walls of the corridors were covered with fine woven tapestries. She was only able to catch glimpses of them: 

There were pretty mermaids swimming, a fleet of ships with white sails, a castle that seemed to rise out of the sea, a burning village, and reavers sacking a castle. 

And then they were there. Two tapestries were hanging between the doors they stopped at. One was of a great white leviathan swimming away from a shipwreck and the other was of a red kraken dragging a ship into the sea. 

He led her inside, having never let go of her hand. Thankfully, he had not dragged her to wherever they now were. Nor did he speak to her. He was in his own world. The room was dimly lit. He let go of her hand and went straight to a continuing tapestry that covered the walls. It was larger and more grandiose than any of the ones she saw in the corridors, and she suspected those were worth small fortunes. He moved to a particular spot. “This,” he pointed to something stitched into the fabric. “Is this what it looked like in your dream?” 

Daenerys took a few steps closer so she could see what it was he was pointing to. When the stitching became clear to her, she gasped. “It is,” she couldn’t believe it. The colors and size were different, and even though she never got a clear look, she knew in her gut that this was it. The dragon that had been in her dreams. “What is it?”

“A sea dragon.”

A sea dragon, dismayed and amazed by this creature that until recently, she never knew existed. Her brother had never made mention of them. He spoke often of the dragons that were his birthright, of the ones their ancestors foolishly lost, and how the eggs could no longer hatch. These were the dragons of Dragonstone, fire made flesh, their family’s legacy. That allowed them to conquer and then rule the Seven Kingdoms. These were the dragons she knew. 

They were sitting at a table that she had missed when they first entered. Thralls had come in to bring food and drink, but she didn’t eat, she was too excited to eat. Daenerys made sure to take a seat so she could continue looking at it. While Dagon took a seat beside her so as not to obstruct her view. The one on the tapestry, she learned, was Nagga, the first and mightiest of the sea dragons.

She was created by Ceta, a blend of water and fire, sea and sky, a creature who could take the war to the Storm God’s domains. That’s what Dagon had told her, those were the songs that many skalds wrote and sung. The Nagga on the tapestry, stirred to life in her mind’s eye, its smaller wings flying in place, while letting out gouts of flames. 

“Do they exist?” She asked with mounting excitement. “Have you seen one?” 

He answered her second question first. “I’ve not seen one, but I’ve chased a rumor or two,” his tone thick with disappointment. “If you asked a maester if they exist, they’d say they were myths, but no maester could ever know the sea like an ironborn and they’ve forgotten a simple truth: The world is filled with awe.”

“What do you know of them?” She wanted to learn everything. 

He was happy to indulge her. “Some will say it’s impossible that they breathe fire, and mayhaps, they’re right, but in the Deep, creatures lurk, nameless things, because words have yet to be created that could describe them in all their dread and glory,” he said, “or that’s how the songs go,” he hastily added. “Ceta created special caves for them within the sea, so her dragons could breathe air since they were beings of sea and sky. This was where they dwelled and slumbered and ate. They were known to hoard great treasures from the ships they sunk.”

Dany had gotten up while he spoke and returned to where Nagga was so beautifully stitched into the fabric. She knew the dragon in her dream wasn’t Nagga. It couldn’t be. That sea dragon was dead. Dagon had said she was killed by the Grey King, earning the begrudging respect of both Drowned God and Ceta, the former allowing him a mermaid to wed for his reward. Though Dagon went on to say that Ceta never truly forgave him for killing Nagga, and there were songs that spoke of different trials and curses the Grey King went through because of her wroth. 

The excitement bubbled within her, but a question began to creep up on her. It grew and grew inside her mind until it was no longer the sea dragon she could think of, but the question: “Why me?” 

“The Drowned God chose you and His will can’t be easily gleaned.” 

But I’m not one of you. She wanted to point out, but she didn’t think her words would sway him. The certainty in his faith could not be budged. “What about you?” Remembering what he told her back in the carriage. “What’s yours?” 

“I’ll show you.” He rose out of his seat. “If you truly wish to know.”

“I do.” She gave the tapestry with Nagga one final look before following him out.

He made no effort to tell her what his gift was as they walked through the corridor. He was satisfied with the silence, looking ahead. She wasn’t even sure if he knew her hand was tucked in his arm. 

“I’m not ashamed of my gift,” he sensed her gaze. “I’m proud of it, and all it let me accomplish, but I must be careful with who I tell.”

“Why?” She asked while secretly pleased that he was going to trust her with it when, so few others knew it. 

But he never answered her, seeing two men approaching them from the other direction. She recognized them to be Ramsay Snow, Dagon’s spymaster, and Lonnel, his squire. 

“What is it?” He left her to approach them. 

His spymaster didn’t answer until he was at his side, and when he did, he whispered it to him, but watching his face, his expression didn’t change, and when Ramsay finished, Dagon gave a stiff nod. He turned to her. “It seems that I must give you a different demonstration from the one I intended.” He gestured for her to join them. 

“Where are we going?” 

Ramsay’s smile was sharp and sinister. “We’re going hunting.” 

Chapter Text

It wasn’t until they were on Inevitable did she learn what was happening. 

They were going after a ship. An ironborn ship

“I don’t understand,” even after Lonnel had explained it to her. “I thought you could leave whenever you wanted.” She had been told several ships had left when it was announced Dagon planned on marrying her.

Dagon had his back to them. He had barely spoken since stepping out onto his private balcony. Daenerys wasn’t even sure if he was listening to his squire and spymaster. 

“They can, Princess, but that time has passed,” Lonnel answered. “Any ship still here is expected to travel with the fleet. It’s a complicated endeavor, arranging our travel across such a great distance and with so many different and diverse ships. It takes time, so at this stage, our captain wants to know the count, and what to expect before the formal pledges are made.” 

“If you wish to leave you still can,” Ramsay said, “But you must inform the captain.” 

Their captain didn’t stir at his repeated mentions. His eyes were following something in the sea that only he seemed to be able to see. 

“And they didn’t,” she correctly guessed given Ramsay’s nod. “But what if the crew thinks their captain got permission?” 

Again, it was Lonnie who answered her. “The crew presents themselves with their captain when seeking to leave, Princess. That way no crew can say we didn’t know.” 

“They’re fleeing in the night,” Ramsay said with a growing tinge of disgust. “And why would they leave without first speaking with our captain?” He asked them, but he was the one who answered, “Because they’re working against him.” His face darkened. “Everyone on that ship are traitors,” He then turned to his captain for the first time. “Captain Guy Bloodsleeves is one of Drumm’s men.”

Dagon met his spymaster’s stare. “Do you have proof of The Drumm sending him?”

“I don’t.” The disappointment was painted plainly across his face. “But give me time and some of their men…” He let his suggestion linger, a hopeful gleam in his pale eyes, but Dagon had already turned away from him.

“You know the traditions of the people,” he said softly. “Every captain is a king aboard their ship.” 

“This king was about to lose his head.”

Dagon’s chuckling was what alerted her that she had muttered aloud her thought. “Not exactly,” He replied, “But death comes for Guy and his crew.” His eyes were a wall, but he still smiled at her. 

She returned it, not even realizing it until her lips had already moved. That flicker of heat returned to her chest, that spark that his eyes always seemed to ignite in her. 

“Captain,” Morgan, one of Dagon’s crew, appeared before them. “The ship’s been spotted.”

“They really thought they could escape,” Ramsay snickered. “The Hand of God’s reach is boundless.” 

Dagon merely nodded. “Prepare the men,” he turned back to the sea. “Let them know he is coming.”

“At once, Captain,” Morgan flashed a look at Lonnie and Ramsay, all three sharing a secret she didn’t know, but it had them excited. 

Daenerys tried to ignore the slight uncertainty that was eating away at her. She was used to its hunger. Its constant presence in the company of Viserys. At the pain that would follow, if she guessed wrong when it came to her brother’s moods. She opened her mouth to speak, to ask him, wanting to quiet it, to banish it, because that life was over for her. There is no uncertainty with him. She was so sure, but before she could, he spoke, and his voice stilled her.

“I have seen the dark abyss yawning, where the black waters roil without aim, where they roll their horror unheeded, without knowledge, or luster or name.” The voice was unlike anything she had ever heard. It was a guttural growl that made her skin prickle. “Loathsomeness waits and dreams in the Deep.” He had a white-knuckle grip on the railing. “Close!” The word was a rasp ripped from his throat. 

She felt the icy needles skimming down her back, but Daenerys Targaryen stepped forward not backwards. I am the blood of the dragon. She moved towards him, but Ramsay and Lonnie intervened, it was the latter who spoke. 

“It’s time to leave, Princess.”

She didn’t budge. Daenerys was about to refuse them, but he spoke.

“You wanted to see my gift?” His voice was strained, a fading reflection.

“Yes.”

“Then you need to leave,” A violent shiver went through him. “Now!” 

She wasn’t allowed another word before she was ushered off the private balcony and then the captain’s quarters. They herded her onto the deck like a lost sheep, who needed to be returned to the flock. She didn’t understand, and they didn’t try to explain it to her. 

Daenerys stood upon the forecastle of Inevitable. 

The moon swam in a sea of indifferent stars above her head, but her attention was not on the beauty of the night sky. Nor was it on the spotted ironborn ship, The Red Drum, the one they were after, the one they were closing in on. No, her mind was focused on one thing, blooming incandescently, dimming all other thoughts.  Dagon, she couldn’t forget how he sounded, or how he looked. That fleeting glance of him. His eyes, she shivered, but he still saw, she was certain, watching me. 

It came back to her, his infamous name, Demon of the Tides. Is that what she witnessed? She had dismissed it as gossip, but now she wasn’t so sure. 

Was that his gift? But how was she supposed to know what it is if he wouldn’t tell her? How was she supposed to see his gift if she couldn’t even be with him? 

It was the drums that broke her musings. The soft taps that reminded her of the first drops of rain. On the deck of Inevitable the crew quieted in an instant, all of them listening.

Ramsay stepped forward. “We are the drums on which He beats out His message!” His words sparked a burst of cheers from the crew. The drums met it with a growing rumble. 

The wind let out a soft sigh, but the drums swallowed it and all the sounds of the sea, as they grew louder.  Pulsating, as if it was the steady heartbeat of the sea itself. The sound slithered in her ears, sinking inside her in a hot rush. The drums continued, their growing thrum, soothing and rhythmic. It washed over her in calming waves. 

Then she heard voices. They pierced the low rattle of the drums, before following the sound, as if it was their procession. It was a word. A single word, but she didn’t know it. The crew’s chanting intertwined perfectly with the drumbeat. So ensnared by the steady rhythm and the reverential tones, she didn’t know she had a visitor, until he was at her side. 

“Princess,” Lonnie announced himself as to not startle her. His voice barely carried over the din on the deck.

She greeted him with a nod. Daenerys turned away from him and out onto the sea, wishing it was Dagon and not his squire who was with her.

Lonnie’s voice hadn’t joined the others. “It’s a name.” 

“A name?” Daenerys had never heard it before, but they chanted it as if it was worth worshiping. 

“Yes,” he said, “the name of His warhammer.”

She knew who the He was. “Why?” 

“You’ll see, Princess,” and then his voice was no longer part of their conversation. It had joined the chorus of chanting this-Grond. 

“Grond!”

“Grond!”

“GROND!”

And then, something answered, a deep rumbling. Daenerys trembled at the noise, a great bellowing that sunk into her bones, rattling her. A primordial sound that seemed older than the sea itself. 

The response roused a deafening and frenzied cheer from the crew. Fanning their excitement, and their growing bloodlust. They were celebrating with savage glee, spurring their chanting and the drums. 

It was a glimpse that made her turn her head. That made her see it. 

A leviathan. Pale as bone, scarred, and endless in size. It was said Balerion was the largest living thing since the fall of the Freehold, but it was this. She knew it as soon as she saw it. The whale’s enormity was astonishing. This was a living, moving thing, her mind seemed to say, while still trying to comprehend what she was seeing. The thought that this was some conjured illusion was dispelled in an instant, because the Inevitable crew saw it and they cheered. This was Grond, she realized. 

It let out a hollow wet roar that had her pulse pounding in her neck. Up and down her arms, goose pimples bloomed along her flesh. The whale’s enormous body was etched and riddled with old scars, including along its large battering ram shaped head. It was off the prow of their ship, allowing her a long moment to marvel at its size. The leviathan moved in the water with such dignity and grace. 

And it was moving towards the other ship. 

They saw it too, The Red Drum.  She could hear their reactions. Some were shouting pleas of mercy, others crying in fear while a stubborn few responded with rage cursing them and this creature. She suspected more than saw that there would be a flurry of activity from the ship, likely trying to escape by the means of their smaller, row boats. But how? She thought, how could anyone or anything escape it? 

Daenerys watched the leviathan slip into the darkness of the sea. The last she saw of its pale form before it was swallowed up was its huge, horizontal tail dip into the waters. Its disappearance only made the Inevitable chants grow louder. As if they could summon the terrifying creature by calling out its name like a holy rite. The drums returned, thumping louder and louder with each strike until she thought her ears would burst. 

She didn’t see the strike, but she heard it. Wincing at what sounded like the sky being rent open, spitting out a terrible thunderclap, a great CRACK cut through the night. The Red Drum’s mast fell into the sea with a loud groan like the felling of a towering oak. The cries of the crew grew louder, helplessly watching their ship splintering apart. 

Inevitable drew closer so that she could now see the scurrying of sailors onto boats. Two small ones had been launched, while others bobbed in the water, crying for help. The crew of Inevitable did not answer. They are traitors, she reminded herself. Flotsam floated out of the sinking Red Drum like the spilt innards of a dying beast.

A flash of pale gleamed in the starlight caught her eye and was her only warning before the deafening BOOM followed. The leviathan’s enormous tail smashed into one of the two smaller boats, shattering it into splinters, killing most and scattering the rest. The remaining boat followed not long after. This time it came from below the water, rising out of the sea, breaking the boat with the force of its great head. It sent the sailors high into the air, screaming, before they crashed into the sea in several splashes. With all the sailors in the sea, and no more boats, the leviathan left them to their watery fates, but the sailors were not left alone for long. 

Sharks! Dozens of them were ascending from the dark depths of the sea. It was as if the pits of the Seven Hells had been torn open, and its demons were free to roam the waters. She saw small and large ones, some were blue, others were grey or brown. Their sizes and colors varied, but they all came for the same reason:to feed. 

The sailors had bunched around each other in small groups, clinging to flotsam while other bodies could be seen, floating, but unmoving. They slapped their arms into the sea, kicking the waters around them, shouting until their voices went hoarse, but the sharks weren’t afraid. They kept coming. 

One sailor broke away from the group, looking to be swimming towards some drifting wreckage from one of the small, broken boats. A grey fin rose several feet out of the water to give chase. Under the starlight and at their distance, it was hard for her to gauge its size, but she thought it had to be well over twenty feet. The sailor looked as small as a babe in its presence. The shark’s pursuit was snake-like with its movements in the water. Its crescent moon shaped tail propelled it forward, cutting the distance between it and the sailor in a blink. 

She didn’t look away at what happened next. Daenerys watched the shark’s teeth longer than fingers bite down onto the sailor, halting his escape in a bloody, painful instant. He screamed, trying to flail himself free from the shark’s toothy grip, but the shark didn’t release their prize. It whipped its head back and forth, severing him in half, but he was still alive, and he was screaming. For a few more heartbeats, he wailed and whimpered as the shark ate him, before death finally took him. Again and again, the shark threshed its kill upon its serrated jaws and hard shakes of its monstrous head, guzzling up pieces of the sailor’s flesh in hungry spasms. 

The crew of Inevitable sang and cheered over the sailors’ screams. The drums were loud, but their prayers were louder. 

The sea was seething with dying sailors and feasting sharks. The water flashed with twisting tails and slicing shark fins. The sailors wailed, overcome with terror, as they died. The sharks tore and threaded through the dwindling survivors, ripping and tearing, eating the living and the dead. A stripe of red as wide as a river cut through the black sea, floating lumps of flesh looked like small islands in the crimson stream.  

Daenerys Targaryen never turned away. She felt oddly detached by the butchery despite never seeing such death before. It didn’t turn her stomach. It didn’t make her afraid. Her heart was steel, and their dying throes couldn’t reach her. 

Traitors, she told herself, while in her mind’s eye, she envisioned different traitors were the ones being killed. Those that had betrayed her family. Let their screams be next, she prayed to Him. It was the quieting of the crew that finally got her to turn away from the slaughter. Dagon had arrived on deck. His eyes scanned the ship until they spotted her, and with a gesture, he left, and she followed.

“Dagon?” 

“What I say can't be unlearned, Dany.”

“I don’t care,” She wasn’t going to abandon him. He was her path to a better, happier life. How could she abandon it? Him? To do so meant a return to Viserys, and that she wouldn’t do. Dagon’s my hope, my future.

He took her hand and led her in silence. His cabin was plunged in a smothering darkness, but he led her in as smoothly as if it was awash with light. In the night she heard a squawk that echoed in the room. “This will change everything.” 

Dany shook her head, realizing the folly of that in the darkness only afterwards, but before she could say the words, he was already responding to her. 

“You’re so sure even though you don’t know what it is I’m to say.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, “We are to be married.” She clung to the words as tightly as she clung to his hand. 

“Very well,” a lamp was lit, and his body was covered in its haunting glow. 

She saw that they were at his desk. He offered her the seat across it, but she hesitated, not wanting to release his hand, her tether. 

“Dany,” he said gently, and she let go and took her seat. 

He poured them drinks. She noticed hers was wine, but his was something different. She took the offered drink with a smile in thanks but didn’t drink from it. He, however, took a long draft from his cup. He didn’t look at her when he started speaking. “You may not ask questions. Do you still wish to hear?”

“I do.” She wouldn’t let him dissuade her. 

“We’ll not speak of this again,” His voice was final and firm. 

“I understand.” She just wanted to know. 

A ghost of a smile played on his lips before he drank again from his cup. “No, you don’t.” Dagon poured himself another, but he didn’t drink from it. “A sea change is what my family called it. Do you remember the story of Belit and her husband, Kull? And how they led my ancestor to our new home.”

She did and said as much. 

“The family legend goes that Belit and Kull had a daughter, and she fell in love with Lord Farwynd’s son and heir. They had a child, a girl. It was said, she inherited it from her mermaid mother, since she was born of the sea, and with this gift, she could still see her mother’s home.” He sat down. The light of the lamp gave his color changing eyes an ethereal glaze. “But that’s the past, and while my family considers this sea change a gift. It’s not how others would see it, but I’ve seen much with it.” He paused, and for a split heartbeat, she thought he had changed his mind, but he hadn’t. 

“In the wastelands of the sea there are crabs the size of horses that continue to grow. Eels that carry the power of lightning. Clams with pearls as large as cats. I’ve recovered shipwrecks from both famous and forgotten empires. I’ve explored the tottering ruins of vanished peoples and the oily stone idols they left behind, but I was not sated. I wanted to see more. I wanted to know more, so I went deeper.” He spoke of these wondrous things without expression.

“Pure and perilous creatures that would never know the fisherman’s hook or nets. Here, they dwell only in His shadow. The nameless things that sneak in the dark depths of the seas. Some with eyes that kept growing, to try to see into the endless black abyss while others had faces bare of all features save for a mouth filled with jagged teeth as long as swords. There was one hunter that could make their own light with a lantern of living flesh that dangled above their heads. An enthralling lure because in this everlasting darkness, light was an undreamed visitor.” He finished his cup, and poured himself a third, and took a long sip. “Some I saw only once because upon seeing them, I fled. Those glorious grotesques that were closer to gods than beasts. One had many mouths that were always eating. Their black fangs were great and terrible. They could puncture skin, scales, shell, and likely steel itself if given an opportunity. Then there were slimy things with many tentacles, but at their ends they had hands that resembled human fingers which they used to kill their prey and hatch their mischief.”  He was quiet for a long heartbeat.  

“With a thousand perceptions, I’ve lived and seen this watery oblivion like no other before me, so how was it that I could do it?” His color changing eyes shifted from his cup to her, wary. “The same way that I smashed that traitor’s ship.” He drank, but his eyes stayed on her. “I’m a skinchanger. And that leviathan is one of what we call our seaskins, but he has his own name,” he finished with a tired smile, but his guarded expression remained. 

It was so much, and yet she had her answer before he even finished. “This doesn’t change anything.” She wouldn’t let it. Dany rose out of her seat, her wine glass still untouched when she placed it down. He’s surprised, but she was determined to make sure he’d never doubt her. “Why would I be afraid of that power? Of you?” She walked around the desk to him. “You’re using it for us?” She asked him, “Right?” This was how they were going to win. 

“Yes,” He slowly nodded, nonplussed. 

She smiled. Dany enjoyed being the strong one, the reassuring one. In their time together, it had always been him, but now it was her turn to give him comfort. To be his support, to make him know that she was with him. She could not recall a mention of skinchangers in the histories or stories that she knew. Besides, she thought, her own ancestors had bonded with dragons, was this truly any different? She didn’t think so. And then to prove she meant what she said, she kissed him. 

When she was finished with their brief, but satisfying kiss, she moved to stand behind his chair, where she rested her chin on his head, her arms draped over his muscled chest in a warm embrace.  “Is it always like that?” She asked, remembering how he had acted the way he did before she was escorted out of his cabin. It had scared her not knowing, but reliving it now, with the truth in her heart, she wasn’t afraid. How could she be? He’s doing it for me. He’s doing it for our future. 

“No,” he answered, “Sometimes you’ll not even notice.”

“Truly?” She asked in a tone torn between dismay and excitement. “Are you doing it now?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “And yes.” 

She laughed, moving around so she could see his face to see if he was teasing her, but then she heard another squawk and her attention moved to the balcony where a great and beautiful sea eagle was perched on the railing. Daenerys turned from the bird to him, “You?” 

His smile was genuine and open. “Me.”

Chapter Text

The spymaster was waiting for her in a barely furnished room. He was standing behind his desk. The sunlight slanted through long and narrow windows.

“Doreah?” 

“Yes, master,” she answered. Today was the day. Doreah had been retrieved by a pair of armed thralls of Lord Dagon, who escorted her back to his manse. 

“Not master,” he clicked his tongue. “We don’t follow that custom. You’re not a slave, but a thrall. And you will address your betters as lord or lady. Is that understood?”

A new name, but it was all the same to her. The Magister had called her a servant, but she was his slave. Now, she was called a thrall, but experience had taught her a change of words would not change how she was treated. When she was a bed slave in Lys, she recalled a patron who visited her weekly, in their time, he’d always ask her before he did anything to her: May I fondle your breast, May I touch your hair, but the questions were hollow. It didn’t soften what would follow. They both knew she could not deny him. He had spent good coin for her services. It was all an illusion for him, a trick of his to try to soothe his conscience while he ignored hers. 

“Yes, m’lord,” she answered, the thoughts flitted through her mind as quickly as a heartbeat. 

He gestured for her to come closer. 

She obeyed, but not before curtseying to him first. 

He didn’t notice. His eyes hadn’t left whatever it was he was looking at on his desk. “Do you know why you’re here?” 

“Yes, m’lord,” she answered. “I’m a gift from the great Magister Illyrio.”

The spymaster scoffed. “I suppose he’s great if girth is considered.” 

She took his words in silence, that was what was expected of a servant. Doreah had heard of Lord Dagon’s spymaster and had even seen him a time or two, but only at a distance. Here, she could finally take him in. He had short, dark hair, a pale face, that was neither handsome nor hideous. “And what were you before you were sent here?”

“A servant to Magister Ilyrio.” 

He looked up at her then. His eyes were as strange as the captain he served. While the latter’s were unsettling because of how they changed colors, his were strange by their absence of it. “You were a slave.” His pale eyes were cold and hard as ice as he took her in for the first time since she arrived.

Were, she noticed the inflection of the word, as if her fortunes had truly changed. She had made good money for her master at the pillow house in Lys. A lady whom they called Domina, said she’d never be sold, only to sell Doreah when Magister Illyrio inquired after her.  

“You have the pleasure and honor to serve someone better than those who owned you before,” He said zealously, “The privilege to be counted among Lord Dagon’s own thralls.” 

She didn’t share his enthusiasm or his reverence but feigned it well enough. “I’m happy to serve m’lord.”

“You’ll go back to the Magister’s tonight to begin your teachings for the princess,” he ordered her, “to prepare her for tomorrow’s wedding.” 

“Yes, m’lord,” Magister Illyrio had told her as much. 

“You go under the protection of Lord Dagon Farwynd,” he said. “That means you are a guest, not a slave. Do you understand?” She didn’t and he noticed. He sighed. “That means you can’t be ordered by either the magister or the king.”

She nodded, but she doubted the spymaster’s words. He spoke as someone who expected his words to have weight, to be listened to and followed. He didn’t know what it was to be powerless. She did, and she knew what would happen to her if she told powerful men-no. King Viserys would laugh as he fucked her. He’d likely hit her too at the mere thought, she could tell him something. 

“Good,” the spymaster believed the issue was settled. “Now before you were the magister’s slave, you were a bed slave in a Lyseni pillow house?”

“I was, m’lord,” she answered, thinking he likely knew as much. Was he testing me? Doreah was used to such things, traps and tricks to try to confuse her, to catch her in a lie, and get her in trouble. 

“If I was to put a man or woman in front of you,” he began. “Would you know what they would want? What they’d think? To anticipate their needs?” 

She hid her confusion behind a placid smile. “Yes, m’lord,” she answered, “I was taught how to read my clients, as well as how to seek out new ones.” Doreah had used such means to bring new ones to her bed. To walk through the feasting and dancing, to see if the man drinking his third glass of wine would be receptive to her, or was it the sullen man, standing off to the side, appraising them within seconds to know who’d want her, and who wouldn’t. 

That pleased him. Doreah wondered if he’d ask for a demonstration of her ability. When Magister Illyrio wanted to buy her, she had to pleasure him in several different ways, reading his wants and lusts to help insure she was purchased. Does he want me to seduce him? He was better to look at than Illyrio, fit instead of fat, but she didn’t expect it to be any different than those before. She learned long ago that the prettier ones were often the worst in bed. They brought little ability, having relied solely on their handsome features and nothing else. But then again, she reminded herself, she was paid for their pleasure not hers.  

“Come forward,” he ordered, confirming what she suspected that she’d have to prove her worth to him. 

Doreah did, but as she moved to walk around the desk to get to him, he stopped her with a look. “Not that,” he chided her, “This,” he pointed to a piece of parchment on the desk. “I want you to read this.” 

She blinked, a flustered second passed before she composed herself. “I can’t, m’lord.”

He ignored her answer. He tapped it impatiently. "Read."

“I don’t know how, m’lord.”

His nostrils flared. “Do you think you are the first thrall to pretend they can’t read or write?” Then he was moving around the desk, she kept her face low, demurring to him, but she didn’t resist when she felt his hand grip her chin, and tilt it so she was staring down at the piece of parchment. “Read it,” he snarled. 

His hold on her was firm, not painful. Doreah saw only scribbling and marking on the parchment, unable to decipher any part of it. “I can’t, m’lord,” she answered softly, “I don’t know how.” 

He let go of her hand with a scoff. She heard his receding footsteps and then the opening of a drawer. “Do you know what this is?”

Doreah looked up to see he had unsheathed a small knife with a thin blade. “No, m’lord.”

He smiled, it turned his unremarkable face into something different, something cold and threatening. “This is a flaying knife,” he said. “My father’s house is famous for its history of flaying their enemies. A flayed man even graces their banner, but sadly flaying has been outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms for centuries,” his colorless eyes flicked from the knife to her. “I’m under no such restriction, and it's a freedom I’ve enjoyed on several occasions when I have to,” he placed the knife on the desk, the thin blade pointing at her. “I’ll ask you one more time,” he said quietly, “Read it.” 

“I can’t, my lord,” Doreah prepared herself, to slip away, to leave the husk of flesh behind to bear the pain and anger. To go deep inside where his wrath couldn’t touch her, but it never did.

He merely nodded and sheathed the knife. “Very good,” he sounded neither angry nor disappointed, but rather something different. “My captain doesn’t keep slaves as you know, but thralls. You’ll pledge yourself to him, do you know what that means?”

“Yes,” she answered, he was to be her newest in a string of masters. Doreah recited what was expected of her, which included keeping his secrets, laying down her life for him, and to serve him by any means, he asks. The spymaster was silent throughout her answer. She heard him opening another drawer, but she kept going, going on about her body was but an extension of his wants and wills. She only stopped when she heard a loud jangle. Doreah looked to see that it was a coin purse. 

“You’ve been misinformed,” he told her simply. “It’s as I said you are the captain’s thrall not slave,” he gestured to the coin purse. “This is yours.”

She didn’t make any move to take it. Doreah sensed a trap. 

“A thrall is not a slave,” he told her, as if expecting her to believe there was a distinction between the two, and then her eyes drifted to the coinpurse, and a single thought started to grow. “Unlike your former master, Lord Dagon respects the treaty between Braavos and Pentos, and maintains a good friendship with the city of Braavos, with their shipwrights, merchants and Iron Bank. He’ll not see it inconvenienced by something as trivial as a few coins. This,” he gestured to the coin purse, “Is yours Doreah, because there are no slaves in Pentos.”

Doreah hesitated. She sensed truth in his words and saw no deception in those pale eyes. She trusted her own skills, and slowly went for the purse, but she was prepared if it was a sprung trap, but she wasn’t stopped. She reluctantly picked it up, noticing its weight, and the sound of coins jangling within. Doreah flicked her eyes towards the spymaster to see him nodding. His lips nearly crooked upwards, as if amused by her antics. Her finger trembled when she loosened the laces and when she looked inside, she nearly dropped it. There inside she saw glints of silver, several of them. 

“This,” His voice pulled her eyes away from her newfound silver and back to the parchment that she couldn’t read, “Is your contract,” he told her. “It says you will serve the captain by the means of being a handmaiden to his wife, the Princess Daenerys Targaryen for the duration of his expedition to Asshai and back,” She assumed he was reading the words on the parchment. “Upon the return to Pentos, you’ll be given the rest of your payment and whatever other gifts or additional payments to reflect your service.” 

“Additional?” The word slipped out, too surprised to stop herself. 

“Yes, the captain rewards his thralls and good service,” he answered, “And so do I.” 

“And then?” She asked, realizing it made no mention of what was to become of her once the expedition was concluded. Doreah expected she’d be given back to the magister, her task done. What other use would the princess have of a bed slave who taught her all she knew? 

“You’ll be free.”

“Free?” She blinked. 

“Yes,” he answered mildly, “If you wish.” 

She did, but she didn’t say it. His pale eyes seemed to read her face as if her desires were written on her face as clear as this contract. “Make your mark here,” he tapped to the bottom of the parchment. “You’ll also make a vow of loyalty to the captain and princess, with me and Gwyn Farwynd present, thus swearing your loyalty in both ink and action,” he explained. “I don’t think I need to tell you what happens if you break it.”

“No, m’lord,” She’d seen enough punished slaves, tortured and killed. 

“Good,” he said pleasantly. 

Doreah took the quill and went to where he had indicated. She didn’t understand anything on the parchment, or what she was doing as she dragged the quill across it. She left behind an inky black trail of swirls and squiggles. She had never had to make her mark before. She had seen others sign their names, the Magister often did for his various businesses but he also used stamps and other symbols too. When she finished, she looked down on what she did, wondering if it meant anything. She handed the quill back to him, and saw his raised eyebrows, but he said nothing. He then made what she assumed was his own mark or signature before returning his attention to her. 

“Though you’ll serve as Princess Daenerys’ handmaiden, I may have use of you.” 

“I understand,” she’d not squander this opportunity of freedom, this sliver of hope that awaited her. If she had to pleasure the spymaster to help secure it then, she’d do so, and every day if she must. 

“No,” he chuckled, “I don’t think you do.” His wry tone had her look at those colorless eyes. “I do not want a bed slave, but something else,” he told her, “Something better.” 

She frowned, her brow furrowed, slips that she couldn’t let happen. Doreah had been taught to hide how she felt, to ignore it. Otherwise who would want to fuck a miserable whore? She had to maintain the performance that he was a good lover and she was a willing one. It meant she knew when to smile and what to say. That she could never let even a whit of what she thought or felt to surface, to be seen in her expression, or posture. 

“And I’ll pay good coin too,” he finished, and then his eyes moved past her. “There you are.” 

Doreah turned to see a pretty, plump girl was standing behind her. “You’ll be shown to the quarters that you’ll be using and sharing for your brief stay in the captain’s manse before we set off for Asshai,” he said, “And you’ll be sent for and then escorted when it’s time for you to to the Magister’s manse to begin your lessons with the princess.” 

“I understand,” she said, even though there were parts she still didn’t, including what it was she could do to help the spymaster, but it would have to wait, as she knew when she was dismissed. “Thank you, m’lord,” Doreah curtseyed, and this time his eyes were on her, he gave a bare tilt of her head, and then went back to his work. 

She had come in as a slave but was leaving as a thrall with her own coin and an end in sight. 

“Is the leviathan the largest?”  

The two of them returned from the balcony where his sea eagle, whom he named Sam had enjoyed their attention before taking flight into the night sky. Dagon thumbed through his pile of parchments before picking something and then sliding it across the desk. “I’m honestly not quite sure which is larger.” 

Daenerys barely registered his words as she looked at the drawing. “This?” She gasped, pointing at it. 

“Yes,” he smiled proudly. 

Her eyes went back to the picture and Dany figured he earned that smile. Grond himself was difficult to comprehend with his enormity, she was not sure she’d fare any better when she eventually saw this. “Where?”

“Aways from us,” Dagon took back the parchment containing the beautifully detailed sketch of the creature and returned it to its place in the pile. “Do you want to know what it's doing right now?” She nodded, “Hunting.” 

Never had a word sounded so ominous as it did in his tone. She imagined the creature on the drawing, coming to life, moving to hunt, to kill, and it was terrifying. “Well,” she pivoted, mostly in jest when she asked. “Is there anything else I need to know?”  

“There is,” He answered, “My spymaster has a lovely singing voice.” 

“Princess,” that was another voice, an intrusion. It rippled over her laughter, pulling her out of the memory from last night and back into the present. “It’s done.” 

Daenerys was no longer on Inevitable, but back at Illyrio’s manse. His servants stood off to the side, finished with their work on the dress she’d be wearing to tonight’s feast. They took positions so that they wouldn’t be seen in the mirror where she stood in front of, to go over her dress. Atop her shoulders was elegant dragon metalwork, with their mouths open, their jaws glittering with diamonds for their teeth. Her sleeves were red silk with rubies sewn into it to resemble a gout of dragonflame spewing from the dragons’ mouths. The rest of her dress was black, made with a more conservative cut than the last few ones she wore.

It was another beautiful dress from the Magister. It made her think of Dagon’s gift from last night, the sixth of seven gifts. He had given her chests of clothes. Dresses from Lys, gowns from Qarth, silky shifts from Asshai. As well as materials to make more. There was Myrish lace, flowing silks from Yi Ti, fine velvets and rich damasks, the best in all the Free Cities. As well as other clothes for their travels. He had doubted that she’d want to wear dresses every day of their voyage. Those clothes included beaded silk tunics, trousers, and skirts as well as some outfits and material from his home. 

“From a fish?” she had remembered her incredulousness when he told her of its source and process. She had never heard of such material, this thread he said his family had perfected long ago. 

He had nodded and explained it came from their slime, and that when it was stretched and dried it turned into a soft, fibrous thread that could be skillfully woven into very durable and tough fabric. Stronger than boiled leather, he further claimed it had protected past Farwynds from even sword thrusts and dagger cuts. Daenerys wasn’t interested in testing its toughness, and when she said as much, he laughed. 

She returned her attention to Illyrio’s servants who had been patiently and quietly waiting for her reaction. “Thank you,” she wanted to allay any concern that may have risen within them at her reflective silence. She saw their shoulders lax and their smiles seemed more natural before they hid their faces behind bent heads. 

“Princess,” Illyrio stepped into the room in waddling strides. “Each day your beauty grows,” he complimented her. “Lord Dagon is a fortunate man.” 

“I too am blessed,” she replied, thinking her husband to be handsome and strong. And free, excited to start her new life with Dagon. 

“Ah,” he smiled, “Young love, I recall its own hold on me many years ago,” he then gestured to his immense size, “A slimmer man,” his eyes twinkled, “As hard as that is to believe.” His mirth turned wistful in the brief silence that followed, but its hold didn’t last, brushing it away with another one of his empty smiles. “One of my servants has picked up the sword,” he said mildly, as if he hadn’t already spent a small fortune for her and her brother. And he was still giving, she thought, this dress, and now this sword. 

It was an ironborn tradition to exchange swords between the bride and groom. The groom would present a sword to his bride with the intention for it to be passed onto their future sons while the bride would give one to the groom, to symbolize the shift from her being under her father’s protection to her husband’s. 

A small part of her worried that her marriage to Dagon would be doomed because she and her brother weren’t following the traditions of his people. It had been her brother’s responsibility to secure the sword, but he couldn’t be bothered to commission one let alone retrieve it. They were no longer so poor and desperate, unable to afford the sword and the expected bauble that too was to be given to the groom. Viserys now had chests of gold more than enough to procure the few items needed for her wedding with Dagon, but he didn’t. 

“Thank you, Magister,” she couldn’t stomach her brother’s indifference. “I’ll reimburse you,” Daenerys offered despite herself having little to call her own. Most of what she possessed had been gifts from Dagon during their week courtship. Still, she’d insist if she had to. She’d not allow her brother’s sudden stinginess to ruin something so important to her. 

“There’s no need, Princess,” he waved away her words with his fat fingers. “Your brother already did,” He chuckled, causing his many chins to quiver, amused by her reaction.

“Viserys paid?” She repeated, dumbstruck.

Illyrio’s head bobbed side to side like a fat, bearded cobra. “Yes,” he was still smiling. “He just isn’t aware of his generosity.” A glint in his eyes conveying what his words didn’t. 

Daenerys understood and felt herself smiling. Not feeling the least bit upset at what was being hinted at. She was more embarrassed at her brother’s entitlement, and his strangled grip on all his newly gifted gold. “He has my thanks.” 

“I’m sure he’d tell you he was honored and happy to help you.” He looked like he was going to say more, but a servant came forward, whispering something into his ear. Illyrio nodded and dismissed the servant before he seemed to be finished speaking. “Princess, my guests have arrived,” he held out his meaty arm which she took. 

“And what guests are these?” She hadn’t realized the magister was entertaining other guests. She gripped his arm tentatively, feeling the fatty rolls of skin and sweaty silks beneath her fingers. His heavy and constant use of perfume made her nose twitch, threatening to coax a sneeze from her. She fought against it.

“A counselor for your brother,” He told her, leading her into a room where they were waiting. “Princess, allow me to introduce to you, Ser Jorah Mormont,” Illyrio said, “And his wife, Lady Lynesse Mormont, the youngest daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower.”

“I don’t see my gold,” Viserys said when they were escorted into a room within Dagon’s vast manse. They had just arrived at his home where a sumptuous feast was to be held. After greeting the other guests with them, Dagon had her and her brother follow him while the others made their way to their seats in his great hall. 

Daenerys was quietly relieved that her betrothed didn’t react to her brother’s petulance. He shames us, she thought of her brother, unseemly and greedy. 

“There is no gold today, Your Grace.”

She nearly winced, a cautioning peal inside her head of her brother’s impending wrath. Wake the dragon, she was all too familiar with her brother’s anger. Daenerys discreetly took a step back, instincts moving before her own thoughts, a way from Viserys and closer to Dagon . He noticed too, she thought, grateful when he took a comforting step towards her. His tall form serving as her shield. 

“No gold?” The laughter that followed fell sharply against her ears. “You said,” he raised his shaking finger at her betrothed. The accusation plain in his purple eyes, despite him being too cautious to say it openly. 

“I know what I said,” Dagon replied calmly. Seemingly bored at her brother’s rising temper, taking him in as one did a fussy housecat. “I said you’d be just as rewarded as your sister, ” he said, “And the last six days I showed that with gold, but today, the last day, I decided a different gift, a better gift would be more proper.” One of his thralls had slipped inside the room holding a box. “This is more valuable than gold, Your Grace.”

“Better than gold?” Viserys dismissed his words and his offer with a barely contained growl. “You presume this marriage is set,” he gestured to his sister, “But I am your king,” his warning was clear.

“Exactly, Your Grace,” Dagon was impervious to her brother’s threats or rage. “And what does every king need?” He asked while opening the box to present what was inside to him. 

It had been years since she had seen it, but she still knew what it was. It was their mother’s crown. 

His anger faded in a blink, his face crumpling. And there was something in his eyes she had not seen for a long time. A softness that had perished all those years ago, but even when presented with what was rightfully his, he hesitated. She looked lower to see his hands were trembling. 

“Your Grace,” Dagon bowed his head, “this belongs to you.”

Chapter Text

“What about the feast?” 

Dany had been surprised when after he presented the crown to her brother, Dagon led her out of the manse. She had heard sounds from the guests coming from the great hall, showing the feast had already started. They were walking across a ground covered with tile mosaics, beautifully done and finely detailed. They depicted battles, myths, family legends, and other glorious adventures, ancient, and recent. 

She just walked past one where she noticed the ships were bearing Dagon’s personal banner. And they were sailing away from sinking ships, whose sails all had the same image. A harpy, which had a woman’s torso, bat’s wings instead of arms, an eagle’s legs and a scorpion’s tail. In its talons they clutched a chain with open manacles. 

He was leading her to the beach. “It’ll be fine.” 

“But we’re late.”

“Good,” he sounded pleased. “We’re expected to be.” 

“Expected?” Daenerys wondered if she’d ever figure out these ironborn. 

He nodded. “We’ll make our grand entrance after the ales have flowed freely and the skalds have molded our guests into a very joyous mood.” He then looked at her for the first time since they left the manse. “Your beauty and bravery will inspire my skalds with many new songs, Dany.”

Bravery? She didn’t feel brave. She wanted to marry him. Daenerys wanted to be with him. There was nothing to be brave about. He seemed to be able to read her: my face, my thoughts, my heart. 

“You do yourself an unkindness, Dany. You lived a hard life,” a touch of sympathy in his tone. “A life that would’ve worn down others, grinding them into dust. I can think of lords and knights, and countless other men throughout my travels, who would’ve perished having to live with such uncertainty, hunger, and fear.”  

She was already shaking her head, to stop him. Dany felt this need to deny it, deny his words, because it just couldn’t be. She couldn’t be this person he was describing. No, she found herself thinking, not letting those dismal thoughts a place to purchase. They were from who she used to be, but she couldn’t be that anymore. She was different now. A path had been shown to her, letting her feel bold for the first time, letting her feel strong, to be strong, and she’d not return to who she once was. “Thank you,” she said softly, still feeling a bit strange at such a compliment. I was told I was pretty;  she received those countless times. I was never told I was strong or brave. 

He nodded and smiled. “My mother once said there was none braver than a bride. A woman who marches into a stranger’s castle, into a stranger’s arms, and yet she bears no steel nor wears any to defend herself. She comes only armed with her will, wits, and her womb ,” there was a reflective hue in his eyes, making his smile wistful. “She said an ironborn woman was a better conqueror than any reaver. She makes the castle hers. She makes the men hers. She then secures it for her and her future children, and the only blood she spilt was that of her maidenhead.” 

Dany hadn’t thought of marriage in such a way. Nor of the bravery of those nameless and faceless brides, who had no choice in their castle and groom, whether they be old men or faraway lands. They left and then they ruled. “Your mother sounds like a strong woman,” she had heard only a few stories about Lady Farwynd, most of them from when he was younger since he hadn’t been home for many years. 

“She is,” He agreed. “And she’ll think the same of you, Dany.” 

She smiled, hoping he was right. 

The next mosaic they walked over was of a beautiful mermaid, red hair, sea blue eyes, with her tail covered in green scales. Her gaze made it seem that her eyes were following Dany. In one hand she was holding a weapon, a wide, flat club that had serrated shark teeth along both its edges. And with her other hand she was holding onto a man’s hand, a man who bore a striking resemblance to Dagon.

“The Grey King with his mermaid bride.” He said, giving a name to what she was looking at. 

She had heard of the Grey King and his many stories and accomplishments. “He looks like you.”

“Yes, he does,” he looked from the mosaic mermaid and then back to her.  “The artist wanted to flatter his patron. He’s hardly the first,” he shrugged. “I’m sure Magister Ilyrio has mosaics depicting himself doing great feats and deeds that are attributed to Pentoshi heroes and gods.” He gestured for them to continue. She took his offered hand, leaving the mosaics behind to tread on grass and stone steps carved to resemble different creatures that dotted along their path. 

They had walked over a sea eagle, an albatross, and a kraken before he spoke again. “I had promised you that I’d introduce you to my oldest friend.” 

Her feet sunk into the warm sands of the beach. “You did,” remembering that conversation and his promise. Back when I thought he was speaking of a person, a woman, not a- her thought trailed off when she saw the grey fin emerge from the Bay. He led her in. She couldn’t think of the cool water nipping at her shins before rising, or of her new dress and how it stuck to her. All she could focus on was that great fin and how it was rushing to meet them. 

This shark had been there that night feeding on those ironborn traitors. It looked large from a distance, she remembered, and getting closer has only made it look larger. “How long?” It wasn’t until after; she realized her question could mean two completely different things.  

“She’s about twenty-seven feet,” Dagon answered mildly, as if sharks were expected to grow so long. He had gone a bit deeper than her. “She’s been with me since I was a boy.”

Daenerys knew she was safe, but she couldn't ignore the trepidation grazing down her back like a cold finger. Her feet were in sliding sands, but the urge to flee still flickered through her mind. She shivered, but it wasn’t because of the cool water. She had seen this creature rip apart a man as easily as a cat killing a rat. 

“Dany,” the warmth in his voice brought immediate comfort to her as if draping a cloak over her shoulders to stem away a nightly chill. 

“Yes?” Her voice was clear. The primal trepidation slid away, and into the sea. 

“This is Rhaenys,” he was treating this introduction between his soon to be wife and his oldest friend as if they were at the feast, and his oldest friend had come to speak with them at their table. The idea and the image it conjured nearly made her laugh. 

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting for the shark’s name, but it was certainly not a Targaryen name. “Rhaenys?” 

“The Queen-Who-Never-Was.” 

This Rhaenys cruised around them. The shark passed her very slowly. Daenerys thought it was done purposefully, as if Rhaenys was showing off just how big she really was. The conical snout was first, then her mouth, slacked and smiling, filled with rows upon rows of sharp, serrated teeth. And then it was her black eye, holding Dany’s stare with a knowing sheen. She nearly turned to Dagon, but the creature’s presence was too captivating to look anywhere else. She could feel the change of water as the pectoral fin swam past. Then there was the towering fin that seemed more fitting on a small boat than a shark. 

She heard his voice, his permission. He sounded so far away, but she listened to it. Her feet were the first to move and they moved closer, and then it was her hand. She was reaching out, touching nothing. Dany was dimly aware of what she was doing, almost as if she was watching someone else move, but then she was touching her. 

The skin was cold and hard, but she didn’t move away. Her fingertips glided over the shark’s flesh as it made the rest of its pass. On and on, it swam past her, her fingers taking in its rough hide until finally, she drew her hand away and stepped back for the shark’s long scythe tail which swept side to side, and then Daenerys felt water. Dagon laughed, and she realized why. That was on purpose. 

She found herself smiling too. “Well met, Rhaenys.” 

“She likes you.”

Dany used the back of her arm to wipe the water off her face. “I would hope so.” 

“Should we go in?”

She shook her head. “It’s like you said, they’re not expecting us.” She felt him smiling at her while she was watching Rhaenys. “How did you meet her?” 

And he told her. 

The day of his wedding found Dagon floating on his back, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his bare skin. He kept a blindfold over his eyes to shield them, but open or closed he could always see. 

See beyond, those were his family words and words he lived by. Dagon had seen what others couldn't, wouldn’t. He loved his father, but the west wasn’t the answer. They had tried that once, he pushed the memory down, never again. It was to Westeros, the green lands where he turned, where he forged friendships with different houses, helping to make his fortunes and reputation. I even tried to join them. Those brides-to-be flickered and faded because he had no regrets on the path he had been put on. 

Rhaenys was swimming around him in lazy circles before shifting her body and moving right at him. It was a game they played, and one they both enjoyed. He felt the wake she left behind, gently carrying him as the water rose before returning to its calm motion. She had come close, and to anyone else it would look as if she had hit him, but she never did. She’d return to circling him before repeating the charge, going left or right, or sometimes she’d try to swim completely under him. 

He was letting her win on this warm morning. Dagon’s thoughts were elsewhere. In a few hours he’d be married. Half a world away from home, he thought, and I’ll be marrying a Targaryen princess. He smiled, and when his thoughts lingered on her, so did his smile. He had desired Daenerys before he ever saw her because of what she meant to him, his ambitions, and his legacy. That desire only grew the more he got to know her. Daenerys Targaryen was not what he was expecting. This princess who loved the sea. The way she seemed to glow aboard the ship, taking in the sea and all its wonders. She knew sailing, he’d not forget how quickly she gave the orders for Inevitable’s crew. She put them through their paces and didn’t make a single mistake. She impressed him. 

Dagon knew he was there before he heard his spymaster’s call. 

She sensed him too. She pressed against the edges of Dagon’s mind. Soon, she obeyed, her tail slicing the water in agitation as she returned to her position near him. He held up his hand to his spymaster as the signal to proceed. 

It was time for the sacrifice. 

The goat took tentative steps into the bay, being led on a line by Ramsay. It bleated in protest as the water got higher. It senses us. He didn’t need to urge her. He just had to let her go. She surged, jaws open, she struck hard and fast. The goat was screaming and thrashing.  Momentum carried her even further than she intended, missing a grinning Ramsay, who cheered her. The goat clutched in her jaws, in its last painful throes, crushed between her teeth. Pieces of flesh and blood were already spilling into her throat in hungry spasms and down into her gullet… 

Dagon pushed out a breath and removed his blindfold. Blinking in the sunlight, he turned over and started to swim. She had retreated to deeper waters. In a few strokes he was there. A mangled goat leg was left behind, floating. He picked it up and casually tossed it deeper into the bay. The water was warm with swirls of red with bits of flesh. Shallow enough for him to stand which he did, standing in the middle of her kill. 

“Captain?” 

“That’ll be all.” 

Ramsay said his prayers and left him to his. 

Dagon cupped the bloody frothy water and poured it over him. He felt the warm streaks of blood and brine run down his cheeks. Again and again, he bathed himself in the gore, while he prayed. They were prayers of gratitude, guidance, to the Drowned God, who had given him everything and was still offering him more.

You who have blessed me with my gifts, my glories. The coppery taste of blood on his lips.  And my bride. 

The sun was shining bright and warm the day of her wedding. 

T’was a good sign, she had been told. Ironborn don’t marry when it rains and believe a cloudy sky is a poor omen. A miserable marriage, they had said, A Storm God curse. Daenerys thought it made sense that they didn’t marry when it rained without considering the gods since the ironborn held their weddings outside. They married on the beach, to be close to their god, to receive His blessing instead of His rival’s. She had never thought about this faraway land and their people until a week ago. And now they are to be my people. And those lands will be my home. 

A single senight, she thought, that was all it took to change her life. A bold stranger who had come to her brother, seeking her hand, and in exchange he’d help her brother finally get his crown. It sounded like a story out of one of her favorite songs. The handsome hero who set out to marry the princess. And very soon, she told herself, it’ll all be true. Daenerys would’ve said she smiled as the thought passed through her, but the truth was she hadn’t stopped smiling on this day. And she saw no reason to stop. 

This morning, she left Illyrio’s manse as a bride, but neither for her brother or some Khal, like Viserys had wanted for her. I’ll not be my brother’s Queen and broodmare, she thought, I’ll not be sold off to a horselord. She had her own future, a better future. The Lady of the Iron Islands. To her, it was an easy choice. Instead of being tethered to Viserys and his whims, she’ll be free with Dagon. They’d sail the seas, seeing new lands and people, seeking out new adventures and creatures. Even when we returned, she knew nothing would change. I’ll still be free of him. Now and forever, he’ll live in the capital and her in her new home surrounded by her people-these ironborn. 

She wore the dress of an ironborn bride. It was white as seafoam. Made so it could slip on and off easily. It opened like a robe that cinched at the waist. The sheer silk showed she was bare underneath, wearing no smallclothes. It will be easier, he had said. The ironborn brides that came before her hadn’t balked at these traditions, their traditions. And now they were mine. She thought. I’m blood of the dragon, she told herself, their ways wouldn’t frighten her. 

Did they wear silk like me? She thought of other ironborn brides, or was it rough wool or cotton? She tried to picture these women, her people. Were their dresses paid in iron or gold? Hers was gold. The dress had been presented after the feast yesterday. She had taken it back with her, examining it, and thinking even in its simplicity, it was still special. She doubted it could’ve been commissioned so quickly if her marriage to Dagon had been so uncertain like her brother believed it was. They had always had it, she realized, because they always knew. 

This is a farce, sister. Her brother had told her on the first day. And he was right, remembering how adamant Doreah had been during the courtship that the marriage would happen even when her brother said nothing. But he was wrong about who was playing who. The farce wasn’t her and Viserys entertaining Dagon’s offer. It was them entertaining her brother. 

Besides the rich material, it was an unremarkable dress. The only other aspect of it was of her family’s standard sewn onto it, a single patch of color. Her dress was shamefully bare. It was missing ornamentation. It was tradition for the ironborn bride’s dress to be decorated by the baubles and trinkets from her family’s past. They’d adorn her garb to display the family’s vaunted history and their trophies. Both gold and iron were to be expected. Though the bride was leaving her house to join another, it was important to show the strength of hers and the glories her family had earned. The more they had, the more prestigious their house.

Daenerys had nothing. We lost it all to the Usurper. Their gold, their home, and everything else they called theirs. She knew if she had that great wealth to choose from then she’d glitter as bright as a star. She was the blood of the Dragon, of the Conqueror. It was her ancestors who took the Seven Kingdoms. All that gold and glory would have been more than any ironborn bride who came before her or any who’d come after her. 

And it will be ours again. Looking back after her brother ascends the Iron Throne, after all the Seven Kingdoms bow once more to her family. All will know their journey back began here. It begins with my wedding. 

Daenerys Targaryen didn’t recognize most of the guests at her wedding. 

The sands were hot from baking in the sun, but she walked barefoot across them without crying out or flinching. She liked the heat. Daenerys was the blood of the dragon. 

She could feel Dagon’s eyes on her body, admiring what he saw, and he could see everything. She enjoyed how he looked at her. At how he dragged his gaze across her body, leaving a feverish tinge beneath her skin, warming her blood with his dark green eyes. 

He wore loose clothes in the colors of his house. His tunic was a dark red and bright orange. His buttons were in the shape of shark teeth. His trousers were loose and dark. 

Then it was time. She left her brother’s side, leaving him behind and stepped towards Dagon, all but gliding to him, putting herself on a new path, a new life. The wet sands sunk beneath her feet. They stood in its shallows, the tide a steady ebb and flow, lapping her feet. She recognized the priest who stood between them. It was Sharkey. He still had those strands of seaweed through his white hair and beard. He looked from her and then to Dagon, smiling, and it was time to begin. 

She felt the salty tang of the sea on her lips when she pressed the waterskin to her mouth. She tilted her head back and drank all of it. The sharp salty taste stung her tongue, filled her mouth with its foulness, but she didn’t cough it up. She swallowed it all, and smiled while it burned its way down her throat. 

The ceremony had passed in a blur for Daenerys Targaryen. The priest had spoken of the Drowned God, speaking of his blessings, reminding them that they were made in His image. The sea was life and death, and his words had brought her strange sense of peace and security. It was reassuring to know of its continuity. The sea was here before them, and it would be here long after them. 

The skalds had followed the drowned priest. They sang one after another, first of her history and then of his. Until the end, where their voices intertwined perfectly in complete harmony as they sang new verses of the joining of their house, their promising future, filled with glories and triumphs, and of their children. 

And then it was time for the vows. Holding hands, the priest bound them with rope. Her skin had been practically humming, thrumming with excitement, but she still managed to speak clearly when she pledged herself to him. He had watched her with those color changing eyes. They had captivated her since the first time she saw them. The first time he saw her. 

As he had said his vows, his eyes were bright blue, gleaming with desire. She felt it too, twisting and coiling in her belly. And when it had been time to drink the seawater, not even that could douse the smoldering flame she felt churning inside her. 

The priest’s closing words brought her back to the present, expecting them and what they’d unleash. “To the sea we belong, and to the sea we return.” 

Let it be said that Daenerys Targaryen didn’t flinch when the guests descended on her. She didn’t tremble when their hands touched her skin, when their fingers grabbed at her dress, and her flesh. They laughed at their bawdy jokes and shouted their compliments of her beauty, touching and admiring her wherever they could reach. The crowd was smothering her, but she weathered the storm.

I am the blood of the dragon. She told herself in the few seconds that this all came to pass. Daenerys felt the water on her feet, its touch cool and calm, compared to their rough groping. She ignored her brother’s voice that tried to reach her, to remind her what they were doing. She then heard him hiss in what sounded like pain, but she didn’t look to see. And then it was done. The dress came off quickly, pooling around her feet, where it soaked in water and the sand. 

The crowd parted, and she was free. She felt the wind on her face, the sun on her skin, and she breathed deep. She turned to see Dagon was as bare as her. 

Their respite lasted barely a few heartbeats because at the priest’s urging, the guests chased the bride and groom into the sea to make their final pledge. The surf was gentle in its greeting, splashing her as she ran into the sea, spraying herself and him. Dany had done her hair up in a braid so it wouldn’t fall over her face when it got wet. 

Her strides were graceful, and the waves were not strong enough to make her stumble. She knew the guests had stopped in their pursuit, all of them standing on the beach, cheering and hollering for her and Dagon, shouting their encouragement. She started to move more slowly as the water rose over her hips. 

She had heard him beside her, the whole way, making larger and louder splashes, but she didn’t turn to him until the water had risen to between her waist and chest. Dagon looked to have dove in headfirst. His black hair was wet and tousled. He gave her such a smile, that she nearly flushed and turned away, but she didn’t. He’s now my husband. Taller than her, the water didn’t come up as high on him as it did for her. Her heart quickened at what she saw and admired. His muscles glistened in the sunlight. Water droplets caught her attention, watching them trail down from his chest to his flat stomach before falling into the sea. Desire flared inside her, hot and writhing, threatening to devour her. She swallowed. 

She forced her gaze upwards, noticing a few scars here and there, but it was the one on his shoulder that made her stare. An ugly wound that peppered his skin in a pattern that no weapon could make. 

“An eel bite,” he said. He was then wrapping his arms around her.  “Are you ready?”

She was and she nodded. It was time to seal their marriage. To make him my husband, and me his wife. Their kiss was wet and salty, but to her it was perfect. 

“Wife,” he murmured against her lips.

She shuddered. A delightful thrill fluttered through her body. Distantly, she could hear the guests celebrating their kiss, but the sounds of the bay muffled their cheers. In the Bay of Pentos, in the arms of her husband, Daenerys Targaryen was finally happy. She was finally free. 

She looked good in his colors. 

Their colors.

Like the first ironborn, Dagon and his bride ascended from the bay, their hands clasped, returning to the beach, to thunderous cheers. They had entered the waters as two, and emerged from it as one, remade and blessed by Him. He would later be told: That they came out of the sea looking like glistening gods, glorious in all aspects and worthy of worship. That he couldn’t say, but he did know that the sacred sea had cleansed them. He had felt it, and looking at her, he knew she had to. 

Before he had put his bride in her new dress, in her new colors, he first had to dry her off. An intimate and important ritual, that had the guests singing and the priest praying. Some lords balked at this tradition, and had their thralls or salt wives do it, instead of them, but not Dagon. 

His awareness had shrunk to just him and her, husband and wife. Her violet eyes burned with lust watching him while he carefully, and gently used the towel to not only dry her, but to appreciate every contour of her beautiful and bare body. Bare himself, he couldn’t hide his own mounting desire for her, not that he’d even want to. Let her know how much I want her. Let her see and she did, and she smiled. Her pale skin was warm beneath his fingers, heat seemed to pool from her pores. He watched her reaction, noting where his touches elicited soft sighs and moans. At one spot, she bit her lip and slipped her toes deeper into the sands and he smiled. Dagon wanted her to feel good. He wanted to give her a glimpse of the pleasure he had planned for her when it came time to consummate their union.

All too quickly, he was facing her brother, after having helped Dany into her dress, and then her helping to first dry him off and then putting on his clothes. 

Viserys Targaryen presented him with a silver pin bearing the three headed dragons of the royal house, with rubies fixed for their eyes. Wordlessly, he pinned the shiny bauble onto Dagon’s chest. It was not just a gift, but a reminder that he and Daenerys’ children will descend from two great houses. That they may not take their mother’s name, but their mother’s blood flows just as strongly as that of the father. In the Iron Islands, it was expected to respect both families, because both sides had storied histories filled with great warriors and renowned rulers. 

This was the man Dagon would make a king. With his newly made wife beside him, and the future ahead of them, he considered it a fair trade. The guests then hoisted them up, first Dany and then him. They sang a ribald tune, as they carried the bride and groom to the feast. Dagon put aside his future ambitions, because in this moment, it was time to celebrate. 

Part One: ‘The Courtship of the Princess’ is complete.

Part Two: ‘The Princess of the Tides’ begins with chapter 19.

Daenerys' new standard:

Description: "Quartered: First and Fourth Quarters; Sable, a three-headed dragon Gules breathing fire Sanguine. Second Quarter; Per fess wavy crested Sable with a sky Tenné, A ship Sable affront a sun Gules. Third Quarter; Azure, a shark Argent."

I want to thank JaimelelConquistador on DeviantArt for turning my request into a reality. Thanks again!

Chapter Text

Daenerys’ wedding feast overwhelmed the senses.

The air was thick with the appetizing aromas of dozens of foods that wafted between their guests, making their mouths water and their stomachs growl. There was no order to the courses. They supped greens, and soups, cakes, and cheeses. There was beef and chicken, ducks, fish, and crabs were brought out by dozens of thralls letting guests choose which they wanted. They were also given numerous choices of what to drink with Dagon providing casks of ale and barrels of wine from throughout the world: Dornish Red, Arbor Gold, a thick stout from White Harbor, fruit beers from the southern Free Cities and brown and black beers from Braavos and Norvos. 

When the first two of many roasted pigs were brought out, one had been given antlers made from twigs while the other had been given a mane of flowers to resemble the stag and lion. The crowd hooted and laughed and even her brother smiled, amusement dancing in his eyes and he happily accepted the first cut of each. At one point, early in the feast, her husband rose and made a toast to his absent liege lords, the Greyjoys. A large cake in the shape of a kraken was then brought out and presented to his guests, who came upon the dessert in a hungry fervor. Within minutes, there was no sign of the great kraken cake, the golden platter that it had been brought out on was bare save for a few sticky crumbs and sugary stains. 

It was a storm of revelry, and she was at its center. Lively music played and sweet voices crooned, their melodies bouncing off the walls. She counted more than a dozen singing skalds, scores of musicians, playing lutes and drums, pipes, harps and horns. Though it was never a noisy clatter, it was a rhythm that rose above the din of the guests, who laughed and talked amongst themselves while others stomped their feet and took to dancing, clapping, and cheering, and bellowing requests for the next songs. 

The sights of glittering splendor and gleaming opulence could be seen wherever she looked.  Stone sphinxes and gilded dragons watched the guests eat and enjoy their feast. Strings of seashells hung over their heads jangling and chiming against each other. Beautiful banners and long streamers of fine silks and velvets adorned with numberless jewels wove throughout the hall as if made and placed by giant spiders. A large banner of her family’s three headed dragon was draped behind the host’s table, joined by Dagon’s personal banner as well as the standard of House Farwynd of Lonely Light. 

There was a leviathan carved from marble, a kraken made from a sheet of silver, bronze shark heads and actual shark jaws. They were placed on stands allowing guests to stick their heads in between the sharp jaws and many did. And there was so much more. 

It was an ironborn custom that the bride and groom took most of their wedding courses amongst their guests. Daenerys didn’t even know what course they were on. She knew that over greens, she ate with Tyroshi sailors who gifted her with dyes for her hair and clothes. Over soups and bread, she and Dagon were with Braavosi guests that included merchants, a shipwright, and even a representative of the Iron Bank. The latter talked mostly to Dagon. The shipwright was an old man with bushy eyebrows, dressed in rich purples, he asked after her ship, The Queen Rhaella. It had been made by him and his men, and when she complemented its beauty and remarked on its clever design, he drank to her health and invited her to tour his shipyards whenever she came to the city.  

They shared a brief drink with a Qartheen couple, whose names she didn’t catch. The husband was tall and pale; he wore fine silks with a tiger fur trimmed cloak. His wife was pale and beautiful, wearing a light blue gown that left one of her breasts exposed. Some guests had turned for quick, covert glances while others openly stared, but she ignored them. She acted serenely and affectionately towards her husband, who fed her the small pieces of a cake they were sharing. In between bites, they spent their time going on about their own wedding day which included their people’s custom of the husband asking for one of her possessions. In his case it had been an ivory figurine. The mere memory of his wife’s gesture was enough to make him cry. When it was time to leave them, Dany feared she insulted them since the husband began loudly weeping, but before she could apologize, Dagon thanked them, and promised to visit them on their return from Asshai. 

“Don’t let his tears fool you,” he had whispered to her. “The Qartheen can be as brutal as the Dothraki when they need to be. The only difference is that they’ll just apologize and weep as they kill you.” 

When it had been time for her brother to give Dagon the sword from their family, she and him were back at their table. It was a brief exchange, but she had watched it unfold in nervous anticipation. Afraid, Viserys may do something foolish, but to her relief, he didn’t. He gave a somewhat decent speech that had those in the hall cheering when he finished. She wasn’t sure if it was her brother’s words that spurred their reaction, or their bellies full of ale, but she was just pleased that it had gone smoothly. Dagon had gladly accepted the gift, and thanked her brother. The two had then shook hands, and toasts were made for Houses Targaryen and Farwynd. 

At their next course, a Volantene noble insisted that they split a duck that had been dressed and slathered in butter and peppered with a handful of spices. 

“You will be sure to visit me when you’re in Volantis?” 

“Of course, I always enjoy beating you in cyvasse.”

There were specks of meat stuck between his pearly white teeth when he smiled, but his mirth faded quickly. “I would be derelict in our friendship, Dagon, if I didn’t advise you about your expedition to Asshai.” 

Dagon’s posture made a slow, barely noticeable shift, which she felt since she was leaning against him.  “And what is that?”

“You’ll find no safe harbor in Slaver’s Bay,” he said softly. “They haven’t forgotten what you did on your return from your last expedition through their waters, nor have they forgiven you.” 

“Their ships attacked me,” Dagon said in between sips of Arbor Gold. “I was simply defending myself.” 

The noble chuckled. “And that extended to taking his slaves and making them your thralls, taking all his cargo, his ships, that Wise Master’s life?” He asked, “You could’ve ransomed him for a great fortune.” 

“I already have many great fortunes, Albo.”

“That you do,” Albo agreed, “but part of my city’s fortune is tied to our trade with them.” 

“And your own.”

“Any my own,” he agreed, “But right now I’m speaking as your friend. There are murmurs that they’ll not stop at Slaver’s Bay in their revenge. They’ll go beyond their borders. Unsullied, and sellswords are nothing to scoff at.” 

“Let them come for me,” Dagon wasn’t worried, “I shall give them a great welcome.”

“That you may,” Albo wiped his greasy fingers with his silk napkin. “But it might interest you to know that they’ve found common cause with one of your own.” 

“And who is that?” His tone conveyed nothing. 

“Euron Greyjoy,” Albo then looked at Dany, as if just remembering she was with them. “And here I am speaking of such dark tidings on a day intended for celebrations, my apologies, princess.” 

And there was no more talk of Slaver’s Bay or of this Euron Greyjoy. 

They were back at their seats. It was time for the second exchange of swords. 

Her brother had already gifted Dagon, a family sword to symbolize the transfer of the father’s protection of the bride to the husband. Now, it was time for the groom. He would present a sword from his family to his bride, with the intention for it to be passed onto their future sons. 

If Viserys can do this, she thought, remembering the crowd’s warm reception to his words, then so can I. Daenerys felt a tightness in her belly. She watched as the sword was brought out on an orange samite cushion. There was a small engraving on the blade showing a rising wave. The sword had an ivory hilt. Its crossguard fashioned into ships sailing away from each other. The pommel of the sword looked new. It was in the shape of a dragon’s head with amethysts for its eyes. 

Dagon held it, and when he raised it, the guests cheered and stomped their feet. It was a great wave of noise that made her stomach clench. In her head, she struggled with what she was going to say. She never had to do such a thing before. Her heart gave a nervous flutter at the thought of speaking in front of so many people. She tried to dispel her nerves with a slow breath. Reminding herself once more that her brother had done this with success, so she could too. 

I will be the Lady of the Iron Islands, Dany told herself, I am the blood of the dragon. And then it was her turn. 

She rose when she was supposed to, smiling, trying to focus on Dagon and only him. My husband, and those words proved a safe harbor for her from this storm. Daenerys took the sword, holding it carefully. She saw Dagon’s encouraging smile, and the lingering touch of his fingers on hers before he had relinquished it to her. She turned to her guests, but saw none of them. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs, and when she started speaking, she feared they’d not hear her words over the loud sound of her drumming heart.  

Afterwards, she’d not be able recall what exactly she said at the feast, but Daenerys would always remember their reaction. A great roar that would rival any dragon. Their throaty cheers and loud applause washed away the last remaining vestiges that she couldn’t do this. I can, she thought with exhilarated triumph, and I must for our son. 

Our son, the words wrapped around her in comforting warmth. She felt Dagon’s hands on her, one joined hers on the sword and the other was on her shoulder. Her husband’s ironborn began chanting their names. My ironborn, she reminded herself. With fire and blood and steel, we’ll take the Iron Islands. She raised the sword their son would one day wield and took in the rousing noise that made her feel powerful for the first time in her life. 

The distinction between late evening and early morning blurred for Dagon Farwynd.

The dim light of the lamp at his elbow gave him enough to see without bothering his wife’s sleep. My sweet bride, he looked up from his book to see her. She lay on their bed, asleep under their sheets. All save for one, Dagon had his thralls take that sheet. The one that proved her purity. Such blood was considered potent and would be carefully extracted. The consummation of their union had been met with enthusiasm by both bride and groom. They spent much of the night, exploring and enjoying each other's bodies and in many different ways. Chasing and savoring the carnal pleasures and indulging their lusts. 

“A few minutes of rest,” she had murmured, clinging to him, in the lazy afterglow.

Dagon had said nothing, and simply held her. He didn’t leave her until the steady rise and fall of her chest signaled, she was asleep. 

He couldn’t afford to sleep. Not yet.  

The pounding headache returned. It was them. The doors rattled inside his mind. He kept a firm hold, refusing them entry. He reached for his goblet and finished the potion in two sips. He grimaced from its foul taste. 

It was a slow fade, their retreat. And only when the numbness came over him did, he realize he had been gripping the edge of his desk in a white-knuckled grip throughout their withdrawal. He loosened his hold and sighed. The numbness made his thoughts seem slow and clumsy. The aftertaste on his tongue was an unpleasant tartness. But it had to be done. He told himself this was only temporary because he couldn’t keep taking it. 

The drift dreams didn’t come to him every night. Sometimes weeks or even months would pass in between them, but he thought it was wise to be cautious. 

Dagon didn’t wish to startle his new wife with his thrashing and shouting as his mind sunk into the fathomless abyss of the dark seas. He couldn’t risk another to wake in his body while his mind wandered. It was too dangerous. 

That was why he found himself up at this hour, trying to keep his mind occupied with books and missives. The potion was slow acting, and had to be taken in doses. It was powerful, and too much, too quickly could have dire consequences not just on the bond, but of the mind itself. 

It was her stirring that made him blink up from what he had been reading or trying to. She had rolled over, her hand absentmindedly touching and reaching out to the side of their bed, his side. It was a slow second of weary realization before her movement quickened. 

“I’m here,” he called out to her in the sleepy silence. 

That calmed her. “I was worried.” 

The confession was softly said, but it cut him deeper than he thought. “I’m sorry.” 

Her violet eyes said more in a tender glance than any further word that could be shared between them. “I had a dream.”

Dagon lost all interest in his book. “The dragon?” He asked hopefully. 

“No,” she rose out of their bed. She grabbed one of their sheets and draped it over her shoulders. “My brother was on the Iron Throne,” she paused, “I think.” She walked over to where the hearth’s dying glow offered slim threads of light in the darkness. “He was in the shadows, but I saw their outlines.” 

“Their?” He found some of his interest shifting from her dream to her. The sheet she used as a cloak left much of her for him to admire which he did, taking in her lithe form, her small breasts, her lovely legs, and her sweet cunt. 

“Yes,” her own attention was torn between the retelling of her dream and that of the eggs that she had placed in the fireplace, having nestled them into the kindling like a bird’s nest. The dragon eggs had been his final gift to her, the seventh. When he had secured them, he had thought them mere decorations, relics of her family’s proud history. Until her dreams. Even still, his hope was a small seed, but it grew. 

She treated them like living things, and not the stones that most believed they had become. The fire hissed as she poked it. Embers danced and new light stirred from the flames as they lazily crackled and grew. She worked it well, knowing where to prod, and what to move and soon the fire’s glow grew brighter and brighter. Satisfied, she returned the poker, and moved to the eggs.

He was about to caution her of the danger of the fire but stopped himself. The dragon’s blood, she had told him, and then showed him when she first handled the eggs in the fire. They should’ve been scalding hot. But they left no burns or calluses on her delicate fingers . He had heard Viserys rant on it countless times, and had dismissed it as pure boasts, but there was truth to their claims. This fire in their blood, he had noticed her own flesh seemed to burn hotter too, remembering his fingers on her skin. With anyone else, he’d think the person struck with a fever, but not her. He had liked it, that heat. A lot, he admitted.

“They were impaled on the swords of the great throne,” She went back to her dream, moving the eggs calmly as the fire burned around them. “Stags and lions, wolves and hounds, all of them skewered, struggling and sinking deeper into the swords,” She recited it mildly while her eyes remained on her eggs. Her hand was on one of them for a long heartbeat before she withdrew it. 

His wife’s dreams continued to astonish him. It may not have been dragons, but this dream was surely a sign of a future victory for them. And a portent of woe for our enemies. “You’re amazing,” he said in sincere awe. 

In the firelight, he saw the pink in her cheeks. She half turned and began to shyly dip her chin before she stopped herself. Instead, Dany raised her head proudly and smiled at him, radiant and grateful. “Thank you.”

He returned her smile and nodded. 

“How long have you been awake?” She opened the balcony doors, letting in the sounds and smells of the bay. “You should’ve woken me.” A gust of wind billowed through, rustling the sheet. She laughed in clear joy as the sheet swirled around her. 

He watched her, enjoying the sight of her. In the pale moonlight she seemed to glow. The sheet’s swishing gave him enticing glances of her arse. With reluctance he returned his attention to her question, putting aside his growing desire that she effortlessly stirred within him. “I didn’t wish to disturb you.” He could hear the lapping of the bay’s waves in the distance. The smells of the sea intermingled with the lingering scents of sex and incense. 

She took his answer with a nod. “So, what were you doing?” She stepped off the balcony to return to their room. “That could keep you away from your bride on our wedding night?” She grew bolder in her teases and her smiles came easier. She seemed a different person from the one he met a week ago. 

I would’ve gladly wedded and bedded that stranger. However, he didn’t mind the changes that he saw in her, so he felt no need to correct them. Dagon stood up, offering her his chair. “It’s a family chronicle.” 

“Really?” She didn’t move to sit in the empty seat. Her eyes were on the opened book. He watched the interest in her countenance change to confusion. She frowned. “These aren’t words.” 

“They are,” he watched her silvery-gold hair tumble down one of her shoulders when she turned to face him. “This,” he tapped one of the words. “Is the language of Lonely Light.” 

“But some look like pictures,” she pointed to one. 

They were taught a different way to write to safeguard their secrets and knowledge in the many books and records they kept from their skinchanging experiences. He nodded at her unasked question, as she turned the pages, she grew more awake with each passing page and of the words she tried to read. 

The family songs say we were taught by the mermaids. A way to protect what the sea change had shown his family. To ensure that outsiders couldn’t steal their knowledge or their secrets. They shared some of what they learned. Dagon translated some of it himself for Irwyn and his acolytes, but most remained unread by outsiders. The oldest tomes back on Lonely Light were considered more precious than all the gold that Oldtown could offer. 

“What does this one say?” Her question pulled him from his thoughts of home to see which one she was pointing to. 

He had done that one. One of his older lessons from when he was still a boy, bursting with information after collecting his first two companions. “It’s about sharks.”

“Oh,” she looked at it more closely. “It sort of looks like a fin.” Somewhere in her reading, she had sunk into the seat, too engrossed at the pages to notice. 

“It does,” he said, more for her benefit than in truth. 

“And what does it say specifically?” 

“I wrote that when a shark stops swimming, they sink.” 

“Truly?”  It was excited curiosity that drove the word from her not an intended insult, but she still caught herself and the possible affront that could be given. “I’m sorry.”

He kissed her hair to show her he knew she meant no insult. “Yes, they do,” he had learned that lesson himself. “I went on to write about some other things including their diets, and their travels.” 

“It says all that?” She gestured to what she thought were just strange symbols. 

“Yes.”

“Did you draw this?” She asked after flipping a few pages getting closer to the beginning of the book. 

“No,” like with writing, he was taught at an early age how to draw. Some things were difficult to translate, so they had to learn how to capture such experiences through sketches, plants or animals, or places. The one she pointed to had been done by the person who owned this book before Dagon. “My uncle did that.”

“Uncle?” she asked, “I didn’t know you had one.” 

Her confusion was warranted since he never made mention of him before in any of his stories of Lonely Light and his kin. “He died long ago.” His uncle had been younger than him when he killed himself. 

It was a madness that took him. His grandfather had said. A sickness, Maron Farwynd was certain of it, and what caused it. It was that Three-eyed raven! His grandfather cursed this thing as if it was real, as if it was possible. His grandfather had gone to the rookery and killed every raven they had and then forbade the bird from ever living on the island again. 

Don’t trust it, Dagon. His grandfather’s grip on his arm was tight. Dagon was a boy of seven, confused, and scared. If the bird comes in your dreams, send it away. He’d not forget his grandfather’s sobs that followed. 

A three-eyed-raven never did visit Dagon, but he remained vigilant of this creature. When he was older, he learned it had been mentioned before by past Farwynds. 'A herald of death and madness' was what one Lady Farwynd had written in grief after the loss of her daughter. ' It’s the work of the Stormgod,' another Farwynd had written after losing a brother, ' His means to try to hurt us and He has.' Even in this book, his uncle made a reference or two to it before he succumbed to it. ' The Three-Eyed-Raven promises me answers,' his uncle had written, ' to know more than any Farwynd before me.' There would be no answers for his uncle, only a painful death. 

“I’m sorry,” she took his silence as mourning. 

“It’s no matter,” he assured her, “I never knew him. He died before my own father wed.” 

Dany skimmed a few more pages, but she seemed to have lost interest in its contents for the night, until finally she closed the book. She turned to face him, her sheet falling away as she stood up. Her skin was hot beneath his admiring fingers. She moaned when his hands came to her breasts. “More,” she encouraged in between her kisses. He understood, scooping her up in his arms, he carried her to their bed to fulfill his wife’s request. 

The potion worked and he was able to sleep peacefully until she woke him up with her mouth. They enjoyed themselves once more before they came. 

Gwyn Farwynd entered their chambers with a few of her thralls trailing behind her, all of them women. Gwyn wore a veil made to resemble a fishnet. The mesh was silk and encrusted with white and black pearls. The thralls wore humbler veils of roughspun thread with bits of coral instead of jewels. 

Gwyn’s role was usually tasked and overseen by the mothers of the bride and groom, but Dagon’s was far away, and Dany’s was dead. Neither did they have sisters, so it fell to Gwyn. Dagon had already told Dany of this, so at their arrival, she knew what to do. Daenerys didn’t try to cover herself up but moved to lie still and naked atop the sheets. He moved to her right side and took her hand in his. The bowl was brought forward by one of Gwyn’s thralls, a plain, sharp featured girl of ten and seven. The seaweed floated in the sea water that had been blessed and prepared. He couldn’t see them, but he knew the seeds were at the bottom of the bowl. 

While the other thralls sang one of the songs of Her, the sharp featured thrall took the seaweed and wrapped it around Dagon and Dany’s interlocked fingers, binding them to each other. Gwyn brought her wet fingers and began with the tops of Dany’s feet and of her open palms. The wet markings could be seen against Dany’s skin. She dipped her fingers and did it again, this time bringing the blessing with dabs below both her eyes. The thralls behind her prayed in murmurs as she continued. She next brought it across her brow, Her mark, and then smeared her fingertips across Dany’s mouth. 

“The sea is the bringer of life,” the thralls said, “the nurturer of our world.” 

Gwyn cupped her hands into the water before raising them, letting it slip through her fingers in a steady dribbling back into the bowl. She then brought her hands to Dany’s breasts and said the words while making the outlines of Her sign upon each of them. 

Dagon was proud of his new wife who remained quiet and still through this important rite. He watched as Gwyn made the same sign above Dany’s sex. 

She then returned her hands to the bowl. “May his seed quicken and may the waters of her womb prove to be as fertile as the sea itself.” She then brought her hands to Dany’s flat belly, and in his mind’s eye he saw it swell with their child. Gwyn was saying the final words while making the last blessing when Dany squeezed his hand. He turned to his wife and knew her thoughts were the same as his and they smiled at their unspoken hope. 

Chapter Text

The Princess looked different this morning.

It had been the third morning since her wedding night. The first morning, Daenerys had been glowing, giddy, and grinning. Doreah was even more impressed by the princess’s mood because that had been after that strange ironborn ritual that the princess had been put through. That first morning, Doreah listened and was pleased to hear that her lessons with Daenerys had helped. Quite well, she had thought, given what she had been told. But there’s still more to teach, so Doreah also spoke in places where she thought she could offer further advice. 

Doreah had been surprised to learn the effort and ways Lord Dagon would attend his wife. She has more experience than me now. Her clients in Lys never bothered themselves with making sure she was satisfied. What were my needs to theirs? They paid for their pleasure not hers. It made her think well of the princess’s husband in that regard. 

Yesterday, the princess was still happy, but there was something behind her purple eyes. Most would be unable to see, but Doreah did. She had been taught too, but she didn’t pry. It would be unwelcomed, she knew, and unsuccessful. 

“I thought the point was to get you with child, Princess,” Doreah had teased.   It had been bold, and one she never would’ve made as Illyrio’s slave, but she wanted to banish that distant look in her eyes that didn’t suit the princess. It worked. The Princess had laughed, so she was quick to add. “I’m certain that way will bring you no child,” Doreah had winked at Daenerys’ reflection who met it with a proud smile. The princess was lucky indeed.  

The first two days acting as her handmaiden, Doreah thought went smoothly. She had accepted the princess's request to call her Daenerys, after having to reject it before. Before, I had been the Magister’s slave. A time where she could’ve been undone with a single mistake. The games the servants played against each other were just as vicious as the ones their masters played. Now, she was a thrall. It was still a collar, but it had a longer leash. I’m still not free, she wouldn’t let a different word try to fool her.

It was true she had yet to be woken in the middle of the night, dragged by his guards to his room on a lusty whim, and expected to perform flawlessly regardless of how tired she was or how she felt. Did you ask a chair its mood before you sat on it? To be pushed to her knees, having to smile and moan while the pain dug at her skin. To be mounted, and to pretend you wanted it, to be treated as a walking cunt with a pair of lips for sucking, not talking. To have your hair pulled or yanked like the reins of a horse, or to have it cut because he didn’t like how it looked. 

No, thralldom wasn’t freedom, but it brought her closer. That she did see, but she knew it wouldn’t be easy. But it was real. It existed, and she wanted it. 

This the third morning, she was struck by the princess’s stillness. “Princess,” Doreah announced herself, and curtsied when Daenerys turned her way. 

“I’m already dressed.” She was wearing a lovely lavender gown. 

She wasn’t sure if that was a dismissal. Doreah planned to take it as such. “Very well,” she bowed her head, and just as she turned, the princess blurted out. “I think he’s with another.” 

“Princess?” Doreah feigned confusion. Careful, she reminded herself. She was the princess’ handmaiden, but she knew who the real power in this manse was. It’s not the wife. She didn’t turn to face her until she was certain her face was neutral. A trick she had perfected in Lys, and one she’s been tested on many times throughout the years. 

Why would they ever want to see how you really feel? She’d not forget how callousing her former master’s words had been nor the cold laugh that followed. Doreah hadn’t been ten and three then, and even now she was always careful. Especially now, she thought since for the first time there was that allure of freedom. She’d chase it till the ends of the world, and back. Which is what I have to do to earn it, remembering the spymaster’s words and her duties to acquire it. 

“I think he’s with another,” She repeated herself instead of pretending it hadn’t been said. For some strange reason the princess had looked to the windows of her room and to her balcony before she had spoken. 

Doreah was impressed by the princess’s composure. She didn’t have her training, but she supposed living with someone like her brother would’ve brought its own harsh lessons. 

“He doesn’t have salt wives, but I think he may be seeing one of his thralls when he’s finished with me.” Her voice was brittle with despair. 

Lord Dagon had acquired some very pretty thralls throughout his years of raiding and reaving. Doreah shared a room with one of them, Neela, was the girl’s name. They were of similar age. She came by way of Yunkai, and had been taught the way of the seven sighs. She was dusky skinned with delicate features and bright brown eyes. Doreah knew she’d be highly sought after had Neela been enslaved in Lys instead of Pentos.

She had been here the same number of nights as the princess, but amongst the thralls, she hadn’t heard of any such warnings. Doreah remembered the stories some of the magister’s servants told her when she first arrived at his manse. Endure, smile, be happy. They had warned her, and they offered her no comfort. She was grateful for that. Comfort was a false thing when you wore a collar like a pet. 

Doreah hesitated, unsure what to say. She and the princess were strangers here. The thralls were utterly Lord Dagon’s creatures. They bore a devotion to him that she found unsettling at times. She knew as soon as she tried to ask after Lord Dagon no matter how discreetly she had been, she’d be brought to the spymaster within the hour. 

She moved to the princess, who seemed lost in her own stupor. “I know wives and husbands often don’t share their chambers,” the princess confessed. “It's what I saw when my brother and I would be guests to various nobles and wealthy merchants in the Free Cities.” Her purple eyes glistened when they finally turned to her. “You said as much, yourself, but I didn’t listen, because I thought this was different. He was different.” 

“Have you spoken with him?” Doreah asked quietly as a whisper.

She shook her head. 

Doreah didn’t fault her for that. She understood. A husband may have been a different title, but in much of the world, it meant the same thing- master. Just as a wife was another name for thrall. Some women were lucky, most were not. Doreah had thought the princess was one of the luckier ones, but mayhaps, she had erred in her judgment of him. Those silver pieces she had been given. Had they been scales meant to cover her eyes to who he truly was?

“He’s made me strong,” She said softly, “More than I’ve ever felt possible,” she gave a wet chuckle, “But the thought of even mentioning it to him has my belly twisting and turning.” 

Doreah reached out to take her hands in hers. “Dany,” she had never called her that before, counting on that to surprise the princess which it did, giving her such a sweet smile that Doreah’s heart ached for her. “Tell me everything.”

She did.

Lord Ramsay would like to see you. 

That’s what Doreah had been told. The armed thralls had come to her room shortly after her own return from her visit with the princess. He knows, she feared, but she allowed none of it to be seen. Inwardly, she felt the cold touch of worry and its spread throughout her chest. 

It had been phrased as a request, but it was a summons. The armed men were proof of it. For a few short days, freedom dangled before her, but it seemed, in the end, the only freedom she’d feel would come with death. She prayed it was a quick relief, but she hadn’t forgotten the flaying knife, he had shown her. The memory sent a shiver up her back. 

The spymaster was waiting outside his chambers. That wasn’t promising. 

“Leave us,” and they did.

The door was opened, and she turned down the corridor the guards were walking down and then down the other. 

“You’re not quick enough for that,” His voice shouldn’t have been that soft, that quiet. He seemed to be able to peel back her hair, her flesh, her skull, to see her thoughts, and they amused him.

“For what?” She turned to him, smiling, tilting her head, and shifting her stance in a way that drew the eye to her breasts. 

Ramsay didn’t fall for it. He chuckled. He placed one hand on her back and guided her into his room. She accepted his touch without protest, without reaction. Pretending as if it wasn’t there. Doreah was used to such pretending. Hands that weren’t on her breasts, cocks that weren’t in her cunt or arse. She blinked away such reminders to see his room was just as sparse as it had been when she was first taken there. 

He dropped his hand and moved his way around his desk. “Thank you for seeing me.” She didn’t have a choice, but such reminders were never welcomed. “Have you given my offer any more thought?”

Offer? For nearly a heartbeat, dismay found its way to her face, before she reeled it back. Doreah had thought she had been brought because he heard what she and the princess had discussed. But he hadn’t. The relief came to her like a warm fire on a cold day. “Yes,” she lied, she had given it some, but not recently. She needed the time to fix her footing, from her previous slip. 

“I need an answer.” 

“M’lord-,” she began, before he cut her off without thought. 

“Ramsay.” He corrected her. 

A means to endear himself to her, but it was poor bait. “Ramsay,” she repeated his name, smiling as if it gave her pleasure to be given such a reward. 

He smiled, making her think for a heartbeat he fell for it, but it was the hardness in his pale eyes that showed he hadn’t. She felt her stomach drop, and then he was speaking. “You’re very good,” he chuckled again, “Marvelous,” he clapped his hands, acting as if she was a mummer and had just finished putting on a show for him. “That’s why I need you for this.” 

“For?” 

“I offered you a chance to earn some extra coin,” he said, indulging her with a smile.  “And if you’re interested, I need you,” He picked something out of his pocket, “Tonight.” 

She understood, extending her hand to where he was waiting for her. When she opened her hand, she watched a gold coin fall onto her palm. Her fingers shook before they squeezed around it. She was half expecting to feel air, not the cold metal, pressing against her skin. It was real. “This is gold,” she murmured, bringing it closer, even nibbling it around the edges, like she had seen them do in Lys. I don’t even know why they did it, she realized only after she bit it. The metallic taste made her cringe and nearly gag. “What do you want me to do?” She couldn’t look at him. The gold had her in its sway. 

“To serve me,” he answered simply. 

“And the gold is mine?” She had served worse men for far less. Doreah hadn’t been paid a scrap for her service with the magister. Not gold, not silver, not even copper, or whatever else they used to make their coinage. 

“Yes.” He said, “And you’ll get another if you leave me satisfied.” 

“I can do that,” She was determined to keep this and get that second piece of gold. She knew he had said he hadn’t wanted that from her in their first meeting, but he had clearly changed his mind. And she was glad he had. Doreah went to the straps of her dress, pulling them down. Most of her breasts were exposed before he stopped her. 

“No,” he had been looking down, and when he looked up at what she was doing. His hand went up. “It’s not that.” 

She frowned. Goose pimples began blooming on her breasts from the cool air. “What do you mean?” She saw he was interested, beneath those colorless eyes, it was there, but he held it in check. She didn't understand his denial. How else could Doreah serve him? What else was there for me to do? 

Ramsay moved forward, she tried to hide the way her body clenched, but the way she was exposed, he saw it. He took the straps from her hands and put them back over her shoulders to cover her breasts. “I want you to spy for me.” 

 “Spy?” She was now thoroughly confused. 

“Yes,” He stepped back from her. “It will take you outside this manse.” 

“Is it dangerous?”

“Yes.” 

The fact he hadn’t tried to lie made her warmup to him and the idea a little more. She was so used to the lies. It won’t hurt, they had said, after that hoary man had bought the rights to her maidenhead. 

“There will be some precautions in place,” he said, “but I can’t promise you there won’t be any danger.” 

That gold coin weighed heavily on her mind. 

“I need you to work at a tavern for the evening,” he told her, “You’ll be a barmaid, and I need you to watch, and to listen. The one I’m after will be there, and I believe he works against my captain and the princess, but I need to be certain.” His eyes were on her, “I need you.”

Doreah had the right to refuse him. He had told her that at their first meeting. And he had told her again today. But she couldn’t deny this intrigued her. She had served drinks a few times at the pillow house. She had been expected to work even when she wasn’t working the upstairs, and if one of the customers wanted to fuck her downstairs out in the open. Who was she to protest, once he tossed the matron the coin. 

“What does he look like?” She finally asked. "This man you’re after.” 

They walked under the bright glitter of moonlight. 

Dagon held his wife’s hand as they made their way down to the beach. He could see Sharkey waiting for them, standing in the tide. The front of his robes was already wet. He was accompanied by a few of his drowned men. They wore the same mottled robes, salt encrusted, and sea stained. Two were kneeling in the waves praying. A third was filling up their waterskins.  

In the sky, and in a blink, he could see them all if he chose to. He kept Sam close while Mary was away. Through her eyes he saw what was coming, and who was leading them. It was more than just seeing. It was observing and listening. It was preparing, he then thought of her in the murky depths, and smiled. She was very hungry. He could feel it, in his mind’s eye, through her door, he saw through the darkness, could reach out and feel things in ways he couldn’t put to words. Senses that went beyond what they comprehended, he had them, and he used them. 

She was strong and smart, stubborn and powerful, but they found a way to work together. Drifting, he was directing her to where she’d be able to thrive, to feast.  Through several sets of eyes, pieces moved, through the sea and sky. It was an intricate game that often left him drained because of how much effort and attention it took from him.  Such distances and in such different places, but it worked, because they listened to him, they trusted him. They became we. Mastering their bonds had made him the master of the seas. And it was not something he was about to surrender. 

Let no man look up at the sky with hope, he saw the king’s brother with such precision he could be standing in front of him and his wife. Let his last days be cursed by we-

“Dagon?”

He was off Fury, closing the crystal door behind him in an instant. “Yes?” He turned to see his wife was looking up at him. He nodded, answering the unasked question: Were you gone? 

His wife was beautifully dressed in black. The cuts and slits of the skirt showed off her pale legs. She was why they were out at this hour. This had been her idea. It was what she wanted; he’d not forget the conviction in her gaze when he told her what it entailed. She wasn’t frightened. He thought proudly, because she believes.

Dagon doubted his potential brides would have cared half as much for the ironborn as Dany did. It was true she was to be their lady, but he knew she’d want to learn even if she was to never be the Lady of the Iron Islands. She would want to because of him. Because it was home, and important to me. 

He saw she didn’t get his attention for comfort for what lay ahead. Her countenance showed she was ready. That determined gleam never left her violet eyes. It only made them and her beauty all the more striking. A brave woman is a beautiful woman, an oft quoted ironborn verse. He thought himself fortunate that his wife was both. It was better to be made of iron instead of porcelain. One priest had said, when speaking of the wives ironborn should seek. Baubles will break and ornaments will lose their luster, only the strong will endure. She had gotten his attention because they were nearing the beach where the priest and his men awaited. Even as the distance closed, his mind wandered back to the night before. 

“Why so late?” she had asked when he had declared the hour for it. 

“Because, the sea and the moon are connected,” he had answered, “Bonded,” he had said, “Skalds sing that the first war between the Drowned God and the Storm God was over the Moon-Pale Maiden.” 

She had liked that answer. He had gone to sleep with her in his arms, telling her more stories and songs of them. The memory of that night dredged up the sourness of what came before. It had been her misunderstanding, and his mistake. Dagon wanted no breaches in their marriage, even the smallest one could sink a ship if it wasn’t addressed. 

The hour was late, but their evening had been well spent. Dagon had hoped that after she had washed herself, that she’d go to bed. Giving him a chance to leave for the night, to find sleep in different chambers without fear of waking or hurting her if the drift dreams came. He'd then return to their chambers before she woke with her none the wiser. 

It was not to be. 

When he was done relieving himself in the chamberpot, Dagon came back to the rest of their chambers to see his wife wasn’t asleep. She was sitting at the edge of their bed, looking at her dragon eggs in the fire. 

“I’m sorry,” she said to him, but she didn’t turn to face him. 

“Sorry?” 

“Yes,” she answered, “for upsetting you.” 

Now, he was very confused. “You’ve not upset me, Dany.” 

“Then why do you sneak off at night once I’m asleep?” The slight wobble in her tone was as surprising as the words themselves. 

Dagon stayed the immediate reaction that came to him. To deny, to lie, to threaten, all of them bubbling within, stroked by the old anger, the indignation of how she spoke to him. A wife is to obey her husband, not question him. 

In truth, he had hoped she hadn’t noticed. Then I wouldn’t have to tell her, he left, because it was easier. Just as it would be easier at this moment, to silence her. She was his to command, and if he wished for her silence then she was bound to give it. If he wished for her not to be sullen about it, again, she was bound to obey him.  

I want a wife not a slave. A weak wife can bring down even the strongest of marriages. And in this marriage, he planned to build a future greater than any Farwynd or even ironborn before him. “I didn’t think you noticed,” he said flatly. 

“I did,” She replied, still she didn’t turn to him. “Can you at least tell me her name?” She asked, “So I won’t be made a complete fool of.”

“Her name?” Dagon frowned, before realizing, she knew he left, but not the reason. “There’s no other woman, Dany. I don’t leave our chambers for that purpose.” That was what got her to turn. And seeing her face, he realized the mercy had been in not seeing her. “I leave to sleep, so as to not to bother you,” he saw her brows furrowed in confusion, “So as not to hurt you.” 

“Hurt me?”

He nodded. “They're called drift dreams. It’s when my mind can’t rest, so it wanders into theirs.” He watched his words sink in, shifting her expression. He expected fear, or disgust. For her eyes to widen or her lips to curl, but they didn’t. 

“Does it hurt?” she asked, “Does it happen often?”

“It can,” He was still waiting for something to flicker over her features to show how she truly felt about this truth, but her face remained calm. And when her eyes showed something, it wasn’t what it was supposed to be. “There’s no predictability for it.” 

“Then why are you bearing this burden alone?” The more they talked, the more self-assured she became. 

Nonplussed, Dagon hesitated, finding her answers and her reactions not at all what he predicted. He knew she had handled his truth of skinchanging well, but this was different. This was worse. And yet, the gleam in her look held him. “Because” he said, “It can hurt you,” thinking these are the words that will deliver the deathblow, “I can hurt you.” 

She looked him over without a touch of worry. “We share a bed,” Her tone brooked no argument. “I can handle any problems or pain that arise.” 

And he believed her. 

Dagon followed his wife into the waters. In a few steps, the cold water had reached above his knees, while she didn’t stop until it was above her waist. She showed no sign of the water being too cold. Two of Sharkey’s drowned men were trying to hide their own shivering in shallower water, but she stood unbothered by the chill in either the air or bay.

Blood of the dragon, indeed, he watched proudly of how she handled herself especially for something as important as this. 

“Daenerys,” Sharkey greeted her, “We came from the sea, and to the sea we must return,” As he spoke, he moved so he could stand beside her. “Are you ready to accept His blessing?”

“I am.”

The drowned men murmured to themselves. Their own prayers and blessings. 

“Are you ready for death?”

“I am.”

And then the priest pushed her head beneath the waves. 

It was time for Daenerys to drown.

Chapter Text

Lord Renly couldn’t sail his way out of a puddle let alone lead them across the Narrow Sea. 

Jason Lannister did, however, have to admit that the Lord of Storm’s End did possess some talents. He was seeing them on full display tonight at the feast the king’s brother was holding for them. He had invited the captains from all the ships who would be accompanying him. It was a sumptuous gathering and many of the captains who came from lesser standings were easily and happily swayed by the charming Lord Renly. 

He wasn’t won over. Jason had no love for Stannis, who had never been particularly warm to him, since his commission had come from the Queen instead of at his recommendation as Master of Ships. He thought my appointment was entirely without merit. Jason had been happy to prove that wasn’t the case. I wasn’t an oarsman on some pleasure barge. He had been the captain of Lady Joanna, a sturdy warship, one of many from the rebuilt Lannister fleet. 

“Are you enjoying yourself, Ser Jason?”

He smelt more than a hint of Arbor Gold on Renly’s breath. “I am, my lord,” He hadn’t joined the other guests who had left the tables for the fine couches. “I’ll be thinking of this food when we’re a week out at sea, eating hard bread and cold beef.” 

Renly chuckled, a rich, infectious sound that made his own lips twitch. “This feast will look like a beggar’s banquet, Ser Jason,” he said in a strong, convincing tone. “When we return with the Targaryen princess and the ironborn traitor.”

“I’ll hold you to that, my lord.” He’d be a liar if he didn’t say Lord Renly hadn’t made him smile or to feel important in a conversation that lasted all of a minute. But what did that matter? You can’t hope to charm your way out of a storm. 

Renly smiled, clapping him on the back, before excusing himself and making his way over to one of the couches, where three different captains jumped up to offer him their seat. Three men who called him a spoiled ponce a night ago in some dingy tavern. Now, they sought an opportunity. He wasn’t one of them. Jason may have been a Lannister of Lannisport, but they too paid their debts. He owed the Queen for his rise. And he would not turn his back on her. 

 She had plucked him from Lannisport and had given him the honor to captain a ship that bore her name. The generous queen hadn’t stopped there, she offered his daughter, his sweet Rosamund a place in her court to serve as a handmaid for the Princess Myrcella. 

“Ser Jason.”

He turned to see the familiar Ser Davos, and he nodded towards the former smuggler. And took his hand when it was offered. Jason thought better of the Onion Knight than most. He isn’t one to flaunt his new station. He was glad to note. He remained humble and knew his place was still below them. Jason thought there was nothing worse than up jumped merchants who thought themselves their equals because they had heavier purses. Blood cannot be bought, he thought proudly of his own heritage. 

“I heard you’ll be coming with us, Davos.” He was pleased to hear that Lord Renly would have him on-board Fury with him. 

“I am,” Davos looked a bit surprised by the appointment. “My son will be captain of Black Betha.” 

Jason raised his wineglass in honor of Matthos Seaworth’s promotion. “Are any of your other sons coming with you?” He couldn’t keep track of all the Seaworths. There were so many and were scattered throughout the capital.  

“No, ser,” Davos answered, “Wrath, and Lady Marya are staying. Maric was the oarmaster for Fury, but he’s not coming with us.” 

“Oh?” He asked more out of politeness than genuine interest. He saw the onion knight hesitate to answer, but he couldn’t stop his smile, nor hide that look in his eyes. I’m no different, knowing he looked the same when thinking on his Rosamund. 

“Lord Stannis is making him his squire while I’m away,” Davos said. “Maric wants to be a knight more than a captain. It’s a rare opportunity,” he admitted, humbly aware of how fortunate he was, and wise enough to know what he wasn’t. Equals. 

“My congratulations,” Jason was a knight himself. A title earned not given. He didn’t know Maric Seaworth well enough to know if he was worthy of such a distinction. Regardless, he’ll never be my equal.  

Davos’ response was lost in a drunken commotion. Jason saw it as it happened. Renly had risen from one couch and when he attempted to move to the one across from it, he stumbled. Lord Renly played it off as a jape that got the captain’s laughing, and then when he ordered more wine, cheering, but not him. 

Look men, he wanted to say, here’s our leader who’s preparing to cross the Narrow Sea from King’s Landing to Pentos, and he’s upset in trying to cross from couch to couch.

The day his daughter saw him off she was wearing an expensive red dress, but he hadn’t hesitated to commission it. Rosamund was in the company of royalty now, and she couldn’t look out of place.

Princess Myrcella had come too, curious and excited to see it. She had just recently celebrated her name-day, having turned ten and six. She was the mirror image of her queen mother and seemed the very model of a royal princess. Rose had often gushed about Myrcella’s kindness and generosity, giving her a beautiful golden bracelet for Rosamund’s last name day. The princess wished him well and said he’d be in her prayers for a safe return home before excusing herself so her handmaid could have a private parting. 

Rosamund ran into his arms before the princess could make her exit. “Be safe, Father.” The top of her head was now past his chin. 

When had that happened? He couldn’t remember. His little girl had blossomed into a lovely woman. She deserves to be a wife of a respectable lord, a lady to a great castle. Jason hoped that if he did well on this mission, he could secure that great marriage. She was already friends with the princess, and he was sure Queen Cersei would reward him for seeing these traitors dealt with. 

He kissed his daughter’s yellow hair, so like her mother’s. “I will, Rose.” He promised, “We’re bringing the might of the Royal Fleet to bear.” He looked her in the eye, to see she wasn’t swayed. She knows more about sailing than Lord Renly. “Perhaps, not all her ships,” he amended, earning a small smile from her, “But these are ships of war and are worth more than any ship this ironborn has to offer.” 

Her smile remained frail and slim. “You sound so confident.”

“Because I am,” he placed his hands on her arms. “You don’t think a few dirty ironborn can bring down this lion, do you?” His fingers then slipped beneath her arms where he knew she had been ticklish as a girl, and within seconds, he proved she still was.  

“Father!” She protested, in between peals of her own laughter. She looked back as if afraid the princess had returned. She hadn't, but when she looked back at him, there was a shift in her demeanor. Her eyes shone with concern. “In court, we’ve heard some of the stories about him,” she said softly, and shuddered, “I just want you to be safe.” 

Touched by her concern, he nearly smiled at her naivety at falling for court gossip. He didn’t even want to know what outlandish stories spread through the Royal Court like a sickness about this Dagon Farwynd. “I will, Rose.” 

Four deaths, Jason Lannister wrote in his captain's log. 

The latest had been a young man, Ham, who had been a good lad for smallfolk stock. His father had named him after his trade, a butcher who worked in the capital. And according to Ham, his father had given all of Ham’s siblings names that involved their father’s work. 

Death was no stranger to a man of the sea. Jason had seen many men die in his years across different ships. Men who were swept away by rough waters, brushed over the side as if they were weightless. It was how their first death happened. Martyn, a hoary sailor with a sore hip, but still had enough strength and wits about him to keep a position on ship. He claimed to have fought against Dagon Greyjoy, the Last Reaver. And he seemed tickled that he’d be there to see justice to another Dagon, who had flaunted the authority of the Iron Throne. 

After the fourth, he retired to his cabin wanting to think over these past few days and deaths. Roland, his first had suggested they send word to Renly, but Jason refused. I’ll not be blamed for this. It was why he was looking through his log. To ensure that the evidence would point to poor circumstances and not a poor captain. Besides, the last thing he needed was a lord who couldn’t tell starboard from port to mark him as a poor captain. A bad report could sink his aspirations. It could tarnish Rose’s marriage prospects especially if he lost the Queen’s favor. And he couldn't allow that to happen. 

He had started at the beginning, three days ago, when a rough swell had swept Martyn overboard. If I told Lord Renly about swells, would he even know what I was talking about? Jason doubted it. No one had seen poor Martyn go over. It was at night, but he had been talking with Blackbob, telling him stories about his travels and his exotic women, and then silence. There wasn’t even a shout. Blackbob raised the alarm, and squinted in the darkness, but Martyn’s head never emerged from the whitecaps. That hadn’t surprised him; he’s watched younger, stronger men be dragged down by the sea. A man of Martyn’s age, had no chance especially in such choppy waters. 

There had been a bright spot for them when the next morning, they were greeted to an albatross, a presence that delighted the crew. They fed the bird well, thinking it was Martyn returning to them, to give them all one final blessing. And the bird’s stayed since. 

He poured himself one of his favorite Dornish Red vintages knowing this was going to take a while. He gulped down only a little, the sour taste bubbled in his mouth and down his throat, but he welcomed the change in feeling. It was in his reread when he realized something that hadn’t stood out to him as it had been happening. It was about the sea. 

They’ve been traveling through rough waters since Martyn’s death. The skies were clear, and they were getting good winds, but they were enduring hard waves as if coming from a storm. But there’s no storm. Looking back on the last couple days, he couldn’t recall such a bad turn of luck when it came to poor sailing especially when the weather had been so good. It wasn’t just the odd change in the sea that got his attention. It was a passage after Martyn’s death detailing a conversation between him and his first. 

“A scratching?” Jason had just overseen Martyn’s rites when his first had come to him while the rest of the crew dispersed. 

Ser Roland Hill was a Lannet bastard, who seemed more pleased with how his mustache had been coming in on their voyage than over anything else. To Jason, it looked more like a yellow smear, but he kept that to himself.

 "Yes, Captain,” He replied earnestly, “He said he heard scratching along the underside of the hull, before the rough swell took Martyn.”

The he was one of their crewmen, Dale. A twitchy man of questionable reputation, who was thin as a reed with shrewd eyes, who shielded his bald head beneath a bright bandana . “Dale,” Jason repeated Roland’s 'reputable' source. “He thinks Dagon Farwynd consorts with mermaids and is working with the Deep Ones!” 

Roland frowned. “Is he?” 

“Get back to your station, Roland.” 

Scratching, he thought over the word before sighing. I’m considering the ramblings of a sailor who jumps at his own shadow. But he was desperate, he’d have to inform Lord Renly about the deaths eventually, but he wanted everything in order before he did, to show that he was blameless. And he was. The other three were tragic, he thought, but they still had reasonable explanations. Not Ham’s. He pushed down the cold dread that swirled inside him, and drained his cup, hoping the dornish red would smother it. It didn’t. 

“Gone?” 

The morning skies were bleeding brightly as night gave way to morning. He was greeted by a chill in the air, and an even chillier report. Roland had woken him with a sudden knocking, hours before he was expected to rise. Loudly blurting out the news that had gotten Jason to scramble out of his bed and onto the deck. Dressed more like a drunk sailor than a respected captain who carried the vaunted Lannister name. 

“He’s gone, Captain.”

The words bluntly pushed through the fog of sleep that made his thoughts hazy and partly formed. Ham was gone. “Did you check the cabins?” 

“Yes, Captain. I checked everywhere. Ham’s not on the ship.”

“That’s impossible,” Jason mumbled. “He was on the lookout.” He looked up to where Ham was supposed to be, high up in the crow’s nest. He couldn’t just disappear; lookouts had been lost before but that was usually in bad storms. Or in tragic accidents, where they’d crash back onto the deck. There hadn’t been a storm last night, just more rough swells. And there was no sign of where he could’ve fallen on the deck. 

“He was, Captain,” the crewmen said, “I came up to relieve him. I shouted his name, first thinking he was asleep, but when he didn’t answer. I climbed up and he wasn’t there.” He shrugged. “Nothing was there.” 

“Go back to lookout,” Jason ordered, before turning to Roland. “Wake up everyone. I want this entire ship looked over, top to bottom.” 

They found no trace of him.

With more time, he was sure they’d find something that would prove Ham’s death was another accident in line with the others. Renly’s hardly an expert on sailing. He’d likely believe anything I’d say. Jason wasn’t ready to do that quite yet. He flipped the pages of his log until he reached the next two deaths, which had happened the night after Martyn’s. 

They were the brothers, John and Blackbob. They hailed from King’s Landing, Bob earning his name Blackbob because he was apparently born in the Blackwater Rush, or so he claimed. Jason suspected it had more to do with his shaggy black hair. Unlike Martyn, the brothers were young, and had great futures ahead of them. He was certain both could be captains one day, but instead, he had to see to their final rites. A pity, he had thought afterwards, about the good dying young. However, he didn’t have the luxury to lament about futures that would never come to pass now. It was their deaths he had to focus on now. And only after a few lines he found something- Scratching. He couldn’t believe it, but the word had returned. He reread the passage in which it came up again.

“John said he couldn’t sleep,” the surgeon-barber Bill had said, after their deaths. “He complained he kept hearing some scratching.” The plump barber shrugged, “But I didn’t hear nothing.”

“That’s because you snore!” Jason hadn’t written which of the crew pointed that out. 

“He said he was going to get some air.”

“And you didn’t see him again?” 

Bill shook his head. He gave a sheepish chuckle, “I was already out again before he reached the deck.” 

“And what about Blackbob?” Jason had asked after the younger brother, who disappeared after John. 

Someone else answered. “He was getting worried, Captain.” 

“Probably because he’s listening to your nonsense, Dale.”

“Unlikely,” Dale’s teeth were a bloodred due to his sourleaf habit. “I was just telling him about how I saw lights in the water-”

“It’s called a reflection,” Someone quipped as others chuckled. 

Jason ignored them. “And you didn’t see him again after he left?” 

Dale considered the question before answering. “I did not.” 

Jason closed his captain’s log. What did I find? He stood from his seat, and was about to answer with nothing, but he didn’t. Scratching. He thought that might have actually been worse than nothing. What did scratching prove? If they had actually heard it, and if they did, so what, ships made odd noises, it didn’t mean anything. If I asked Dale, he’d claim that the scratching was coming from merling tridents. It was hard to put any weight into Dale's words. For gods sake, Dale thought the albatross was spying on him. The truth as inconvenient as it was, was that no one had seen anything, and a few could recall some vague scratching. Gods, he called on all of them, make sense of this madness for me. Frustrated, Jason left his cabin, and hoped the cool evening air would improve his mood. 

The crew as expected respectfully greeted him when he came on deck, and he gave them a nod, and was about to go further along by himself before spotting Rusty, the ship’s carpenter, who had been working last night, he waved him over. 

“Captain, something ya need?” 

“Last night before you went to sleep,” He couldn’t believe he was asking this. “Did you hear anything? Like scratching?”

“Scratching, Captain?” It was impressive how respectful Rusty was able to keep his tone over such an absurd question. At Jason’s resigned nod, he shook his head. “Can't say, I did.” 

Jason thanked him and sent him back to his duties. He wandered the deck, wondering what he should do next, and if he did need to send word to Renly. Thankfully, the crew had handled these accidents relatively well save for Dale and his companions. The fallen were mourned, but the crew understood how cruel the sea could be, and how close they were to death when they chose to sail. Still, he needed to be seen to take action. He couldn't coast on their experience forever. Lord Renly would accept any suggestion I were to give for the causes, he reasoned, and he suspected the Lord of Storm’s End wouldn’t throw much of a fuss over a few dead sailors. 

The gentle squawk of the albatross perched above him stirred him from his musings to realize that he had walked over to the main mast where the crow’s nest was. His own spirits buoyed at knowing he’d not be blamed for these accidents; he couldn’t help but smile when he greeted the sea bird. “Hello, there.”

The albatross returned his greeting with another squawk.

Jason chuckled and was about to turn back when he spotted it. His smile dipped in an instant. He walked closer to make sure it wasn’t a trick, but it wasn’t. There on the mast further up than any man could reach were scratch marks.  

The flapping wings of the albatross got him to turn to watch the bird take flight. He expected it to fly away, but it didn’t. It merely circled them, high above their heads. I’ll speak to Rusty, he decided, mayhaps, he or one of his apprentices were doing some work. And they had just forgotten to inform him.

Sure-footed once again, Jason took in the sky, to see there was still some light, a soft violet that heralded the night. Somewhere ahead of them was Renly’s Fury. Queen Cersei was the last of the fleet. Lionstar and Horned Honor were both ahead of them, but at this distance and with the dwindling of the light, he couldn’t see either ship. And behind them, was nothing but open seas. 

He further appreciated the sky’s beauty by taking in its reflection which was painted along the sea’s moving surface. That was when he saw the light. The sky’s reflection, he was about to dismiss until the lights flickered and the colors changed. And that’s how he saw it. Its glowing aspect that displayed its unfathomable outline which showed that it was quickly rising up. He stumbled backwards, bile burned up his throat, as did the word, and he wasn’t sure what would slip past his lips first until he opened his mouth: “KRAKEN!”  

Queen Cersei lurched to a sudden halt, causing some to stumble while others fell. In the kraken’s grip, it could shatter their hull with just a bit of force, but it didn’t. We’re completely at its mercy. A chill slithered up his spine. Jason looked down into the sea below, to see the waters around the ship were churning and frothing.  

The sea bulged, lifted, and sprayed straight up to reveal tentacles that shot up around the ship like the teeth of the sea itself. He was doused by the seawater that fell down on him like rain. Jason craned his neck, looking in equal parts horror and fascination to see they seemed to keep going, higher and higher. He saw they had retractable barbs that reminded him of dothraki arakhs. And then the thought came to him: Were these what made the scratch marks? They could’ve easily reached the crow’s nest. Had the four deaths not actually been accidents, but something worse? These questions only sprung up more questions, but the truth hardly mattered in this bleak moment. 

He stopped counting the twisting tentacles after ten, when more seemed to be rising up all around Queen Cersei, completely entangling the ship. Their blood red skin shone and rippled, thicker and wider than the ship’s mast. The tentacles undulated, writhing in a savage rhythm each their own. The seconds after the kraken revealed itself moved slowly for Jason Lannister. He looked around to see his crew was just as slow to respond. Taking in their living, moving prison with ashen faces. I need to rally them. He spied the scorpions, but the orders stopped in his throat because the kraken was faster. And it knew. 

In a blur of movement and wrath several of its angry arms attacked, smashing the scorpions into splinters. It wasn’t just the scorpions they hit, he heard the sounds of men shouting and crying out as they were caught in the ferocious beating. He was hurled backwards by the force of their blows, landing on his back. The hull buckled beneath him, groaning like a dying animal. For a second, he thought it might come apart, but it stayed afloat. 

Because of the kraken. It wouldn’t let them sink because it wasn’t done with them. We’re its playthings.  A knife seemed to pierce through him, driving a wedge to let the thick fear slip into him. The kraken lifted its many arms and tentacles, each of them moving with their own savage awareness. And then like snakes they struck in all different directions. 

Queen Cersei made for a stage before his eyes. She was a proud war galley, and by now, he was certain none of her crew was below deck. Those who had been sleeping were startled awake only to come up, to see their ship caught in a forest of squirming tentacles that clutched and crushed their crewmen. 

Jason watched one try to attack a nearby tentacle with an ax, but the blade was unable to cut into the creature’s skin. “Behind you!” he shouted, seeing a separate tentacle slithering around the deck to grab the axe men from behind. He had just enough time to scream before he was hurled overboard. His body made a sickening crunch when it hit the rail before it fell into the water below. 

All around him, lives were being brutally cut short. He pushed himself to sit up, but he couldn’t find the strength to do anything more. His body was paralyzed in terror of the prowling tentacles that spread along the ship like rapidly expanding roots. Not even the thought of his Rosamund could get his legs to work. 

The survivors of the initial attack stopped trying to fight, and fled by jumping overboard, but the tentacles were too cruel and gave chase. Some did crash into the sea since they all couldn’t be grabbed at once, but their freedom was short-lived. Their desperate splashing and swimming only alerted the tentacles to their presence, and they too were taken. The kraken’s many arms rose from the sea, clutching their bloodied and shredded prizes. Some were still alive, moaning in agony, pierced by barbs, but just as many came up dead.

Dead or alive, it didn’t matter. The kraken would consume them all.  

Jason felt his own body shutting down. Thought and reason abandoned him, his mind overwhelmed by an ancient fear, and it held him enthralled. There’s nowhere to go. They weren’t near enough to any other ship, and even if they were, what could they do? He felt the tears on his cheeks and accepted his end. I’m sorry, he thought of his daughter and then she was gone by the terror swept through him. Broken and weeping, he tried to cover his ears, but he still heard the bone-chilling shrieks as men all around him were being hunted and killed. 

He saw the surgeon-barber, Bill, snapped up by a tentacle. He tried to cut at it with a dagger, but that only made the tentacle squeeze tighter. Jason couldn’t look away. It kept squeezing and squeezing, and Bill kept screaming and screaming, and then POP! 

His head disappeared in a red, fleshy mist. His body was a pulpy mess, but the tentacle slipped away with what it could carry. 

Somewhere above him, the albatross squawked. It was flying low, weaving around the tentacles who seemed totally uninterested in the sea bird.

“Captain!” Roland was running towards him, carrying a spear. 

A slithering tentacle cut him off. The knight tried to stab at it with his spear, but the tentacle wiggled out of its way, as if it had eyes to see. My poor first, Jason thought, watching the young knight fight on. You can’t beat the sea. But Roland tried, this time he feigned left, but went right. The tentacle wasn’t fooled, acting like it could think, it caught the feint, slapping the spear away before it pounced.

Roland was lifted high up into the air. His arms and legs dangled and thrashed uselessly until the tentacle fully wrapped itself around him like a constricting snake. Its barb ended the knight’s misery, by going right through his skull, stilling him in an instant. 

We are specks in the face of a god. A dreamlike calm came over him then. No more tears, and no more fears. The kraken reigned over them in all its malignant magnificence. That was when understanding dawned, warm and bright inside his mind. And it’s our duty to serve it. He saw it so clearly. It was our purpose. That acceptance made him feel free, made him feel as if he was floating. Until he blinked and realized, he actually was. A tentacle had wrapped itself around him so gently he hadn’t even noticed. He giggled. 

High up in the air, Jason felt like he was soaring. Look at me! He wanted to shout to the albatross that was flying calmly through the carnage. He looked down to see Queen Cersei be completely crushed in a massive tangle of writhing tentacles, sinking in seconds. The waters around the ship were a crimson whirlpool choked with bodies and flotsam. 

Lightheaded, he saw movement beneath the sea of blood. This was the ascension. He welcomed it, a chance to see it in all its glory. He wondered why he ever thought to fear it.  

Rising from the rumbling sea was an impossibly large mouth that made him think of a red lake inside a blue ocean. It was filled with rows beyond counting of bristling teeth that glittered in the moonlight, except at its center where its sharp beak rose up like a great curved mountain. Around the beak were smaller tentacles. Or were they tongues? He watched, transfixed as they roiled and licked the immediate space around the beak, picking up pieces of half-chewed men to swallow.

Sacrifices, a giddiness passed through him. We’re to be sacrifices. There was a small part, a selfish part, an irritation inside him that tried to fight, that tried to return, to remember, but it was too late. To return would bring back the fear, the pain, the loss, and Jason wouldn’t let it. 

We’re on the road to awe. 

He smelt the breath of a thousand corpses. He spotted more fleshy remnants of his crew, impaled on the teeth. And then he saw one of them move. He was happy to know that they would witness him. But unlike him, they hadn’t accepted the great fate that awaited them. They were twisting and crying with their ripped faces and mangled bodies. One of the larger tentacles came down to get them, delicately peeling them off before flinging them screaming into the open maw. 

And then it was his turn. He smiled all the way down. 

Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:

Renly stumbling between couches was inspired by a part in Plutarch’s “The Life of Alexander the Great,” where it’s King Philip of Macedon who stumbled, and Alexander, his son who made the quip. 

The four victims are named after Dion's song: "Abraham, Martin and John." Ham=Abraham, Martyn=Martin, John=John, BlackBob=Robert. That's also why John and Robert are brothers since they're named after JFK and Bobby Kennedy. 

Jason's thoughts: 'about the good dying young' a reference to the song's lyrics. 

Martyn having a sore hip is a reference to the character Martin Crane from the show Frasier. 

The crewmen Dale, Bill, and Rusty are references to the show King of the Hill. Dale Gribble, Bill Dauterive, and Rusty Shackleford respectively. 

Chapter Text

It had to be.

Daenerys had never seen it before, but she heard Viserys speak about it often. Longing for it like it was a beautiful maiden just for him, but there was nothing beautiful about what was in front of her. The Iron Throne more resembled a steel monster with its twisted spikes and jagged edges. 

The hall she was in was lined with lions, golden and proud. Their mouths were red and roaring. Tall windows cut through stone and wood, shining with a greenish glow. Confused, she approached one of them, looking down to see a blazing sea of green fire rolling over everything in its path. In the distance, she heard a dragon roar, and the bells tolled. And then she opened her eyes. 

She blinked in her surroundings to see she was back in her bedchambers. A dream, she realized with relief. It had all been a dream. Daenerys reached out to her husband’s side of the bed, but her hand touched nothing but empty space. 

“Dagon?” She sat up, spotting him just after she called out to him in the suffocating silence. 

“I’m here.” He stood out on the balcony with his back to her. 

Daenerys rose from the bed, tasting a salty, burning tinge on her tongue. The drowning, it was the last thing she remembered before that dream. Nightmare, she corrected, not wanting to dwell on that monstrous chair and green flames. 

“A Targaryen princess blessed by the Drowned God,” Dagon remarked coolly, “You were perfect,” he was still looking out onto the bay. “I brought you back afterwards. The hour was late, and you were exhausted.” 

“Thank you.” She hoped she hadn’t embarrassed him, needing help. 

“I’d do anything for you,” he turned to her then. His eyes were blue and smiling. In a few strides he was in front of her and then lifting her up and holding her. “You’re mine.”

She happily accepted his embrace, smiling into his chest, and holding onto him, but his hold on her never loosened, it only tightened. “Dagon?” She looked up to see a stranger’s face with bruised, blue lips twisted into a sharp smile.

Terrified, Dany tried to slip out of his arms, but he held on too tight. 

“I’ve gone to Valyria and back for you, princess.”

She heard a ripping sound and watched in silent horror as four more arms slithered out of his body, latching themselves onto her, pinning her in a smothering embrace. In one of his hands, he held a dagger, slashing at her belly, but there was no pain. She whimpered when she felt a warmth sliding down her and when she looked down, she saw a small, misshapen skull slip out of her and clatter to the ground, shattering into pieces filled with wiggling maggots. She screamed, falling into the abyss, but even then, she wasn’t free. His voice followed her into the darkness: “When the kraken mates with the dragon, let all the world beware.” 

In a sea of black, Dany could see without light, and she could swim without air. She breathed in her surroundings without panic or pain, pushing forward through the murky waters, aiming for a sliver of light that gave her a teasing twinkle. In what felt like a few strokes, she wiggled herself through the crack to see something was waiting for her. 

It was a shapeless face, shimmering and moving in such a way that it reminded her of those great schools of fish. It was Him. And the revelation instinctively made her bow her head. 

“I am that I am.” His voice was inside her mind. As strong as the sea itself. “You will do great wonders in My name.” His face flowed in the water, shiny, but undefined. “It will be a time of great war,” his voice crashed against her mind like a wave. “The Seven Kingdoms must run red with blood, rivaling the seas themselves, but tribute must be given.” The roaring of the tide rushed in her ears. “Your triumphs will be sung for a hundred generations. Do you want to see?”

“Yes.”

“Then come to me, daughter of death.”

Daenerys swam to Him and with a few strokes she was surrounded by shimmering silvers and shiny darkness as the fish swirled all around her, sending her up, up, up. “What will I see?” Thinking of those green flames, and of that terrifying stranger. “What have I seen?” 

“Things that will come. And things that have come. Things that won’t, and things that might,” The voice was beginning to recede like the retreating tide. “Things that have happened to you, but not you.” 

She didn’t understand, but the waters around her rippled until suddenly she was in the sky, flying above a boiling sea of smoldering wreckage, the remains of some great naval battle. Masts stuck out of the water like tombstones, while other ships burned, bodies and flotsam floated in a bubbling sea that had gone red with blood. A shredded golden banner dipped limply before the sea rose to consume it all. 

All was swept away, and in a swirl, she found herself standing in the hall of some great lord. A headless man watched her from where he sat at the high table. Daenerys had stepped into the middle of some great, celebratory feast, but everywhere she looked she saw only corpses. This was a feast of death and silence. She looked back to see heavy oak doors, and considered retreating, but she didn’t. I have to see. She stepped deeper into the hall to see the host’s head was resting on the plate in front of him. 

Beside him sat a bloated, naked woman, her corpse puffy and pale. Her wet, wispy hair was tangled and the color of blood. And beneath her chin she gave Dany a red smile. The doors suddenly opened, and two men came in. She thought they were men. Their bodies were men. Their steps were men, until she looked, and saw each had a gigantic wolf’s head crudely sewn upon their shoulders. One grey and the other white. A ghastly gust of air passed through the room, the cheers of the dead. The two silently took their seats, one beside the headless man, and the other beside the drowned woman. They wore crowns of iron atop their wolf heads, and they turned to her, waiting. 

Daenerys fled from them, pushing on the solid oak doors with all her might, feeling the gazes of a hundred corpses scratching at her skin. The door finally budged open, giving way with an old groan, and the rusty hinge screamed as she pushed.  She slipped as soon as the opening was wide enough. The door closed behind her, and she leaned against it. Her insides writhed and her ears filled with the pounding of her heart. She steadied herself after a few reassuring breaths, and only then did she look around the new room she found herself in. 

In front of her was a dead dragon. Its leathery wings ripped, and shredded. Its body was broken and torn. The dragon’s serpentine neck bent and twisted; glassy eyes looked at her in a silent plea. The scales were shiny with blood which pooled out of half a dozen wounds and gashes. The blood was so hot steam rose from it. Wolves and lions tore into the corpse with a savage hunger. They looked up with bloody jaws, growling, they moved together to surround the dead dragon, defending their kill. 

She backed away expecting to feel the heavy presence of the oak doors, but instead she backed into nothing. She turned around to see she was once more in the throne room from her first dream, but this time there was no greenish glint that hung in the room. And the hall was not empty, someone was sitting on the Iron Throne.

“Viserys?” Daenerys called to the king who looked so familiar. 

The figure on the throne smiled and shook his head.

And in an instant, she knew, and she was gone. 

What will I see? She heard her earlier question play before her, echoing in the silence. 

He answered. “Everything and nothing.”

His answer was different. Was it a taunt or was it the truth? She didn’t know, but she knew she had to continue.  

Daenerys walked into a different hall. She saw neither corpses nor wild animals. The seats were empty, but on the tables, she saw plates covered with half eaten food, jugs full of wine, but there were no guests. It’s as if they all got up and left.  On one wall she saw etches, but they had long faded. These stories were put to stone, so they could be remembered, but now they were lost and forgotten. It wasn’t just stories, she saw a standard engraved in a place of pride and honor, but it had morphed into an indistinguishable mess. 

She took a step and felt something wet. She looked down to see the floors were wet with blood. She slowly walked through it, trying not to think how it was still warm. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of lightning. Dany turned and made for the gilded window. 

In the distance she saw a mountain burning, streams of blood and gold weeping down its sides. She looked down to see a great city was on fire. A Dothraki horde left the sacked, burning city, with a train of plunder and slaves drifting behind them like a great curving tail. They were led by a great, fiery stallion, who urged them forward with an insatiable hunger. 

“The paths you must take. And the paths you have taken.” His voice was pounding inside her head like waves against a crag. “You’ve taken all paths and no paths.” He assured her, “Only I’ve seen them all.” 

The window in front of her rippled and showed her new things. She now saw a vast sea with a white mouth. When the mouth opened, dragons came out with smoke and fire, and thunder filled the sky. Great winged shadows flew over a screaming city, the tops of their tall pyramids glowed like lit tapers. Voices called to the sky; in a hundred different tongues they all said the same word: Mother.

Daenerys saw a great red castle high on a hill, covered in golden flowers with blood tipped thorns. Under a falling star, a woman sobbed, and with her last breath, she clung to her dying babe, and she cursed his name.  A three eyed wolf howled until it was silenced by a pale shadow with a sword made of ice. A drowned crow flew ahead of an oncoming storm. Sparrows crossed a sea of blood-stained stars.  On a burning ship, a horn sounded, and stone cracked, filling the air with smoke and song. Sitting atop a throne made of golden lions, he sat and smiled, a bloody sword across his lap, a crowded hall of phantoms bowed and waited in resigned silence. A black, oily shadow convulsed with life, and in each of its seven smoky tendrils, it clung to a naked maiden. 

Atop a hill, she stood with Dagon, beneath towering bones that rose from the ground like tall, pale trees. They were surrounded by an army of ironborn lords, and captains, warriors, and raiders. And beyond them she saw a city of ships waiting, their black sails bore her family’s red three-headed dragon. When her husband placed the crown atop her head, the army’s cheer was so great, the ground trembled. And at Daenerys’ call, the dragons came, emerging from a boiling sea. 

Under a dazzling dome of shining crystal and glittering gold, a great crowd had gathered, each wearing the same star shaped badge. When the two words were spoken, words never before said, for a cause never before borne, the crowd ignited in religious fervor. When the Brambled Queen rose from her ivy throne, they marched. The words that spurred them into such a frenzy branded themselves onto her heart: holy war. 

 A song of steel filled her ears, and the roar of battle fell upon her like rain. And then everything was burning. Her eyes, her throat, her face. It even swelled in her mouth with its acrid taste. The light followed, pouring into her vision. She felt the bubbling water rising in her throat. Dany turned onto her side and heaved. Again and again, she gagged, coughing it all up. The salt water in her stomach, her lungs, anywhere it had filled her, she brought it up now, scorching her throat. In her shaking fit, she could hear them talking. Their voices splintered through her hazy mind, prying her awake, jolting her to remember. 

Daenerys didn’t wait for their command or their help. She dug her hands into the sand and pushed herself up.

“You have drowned and been returned to us. What is dead may never die.”

“What is dead may never die.” Blearily, she saw her husband, Daenerys stood straight and proud. The words scraped up her sore throat, but she pushed through the pain, knowing the words, and wanting to live by them: “But rises again, harder and stronger.” 

The next night Dagon was still thinking about his wife’s drowning. God, he had wanted to take her right then and there on the beach. How many lords and reavers content themselves by wetting their brows and calling it a drowning? Not my wife, he thought proudly. 

“What are you thinking of husband?” 

The night was getting late, as they stood outside the manse waiting for their carriage to arrive. She stood beside him wearing the plain clothes of a sailor, dark trousers and a tunic made from the famous Farwynd thread, but the drab cloth couldn’t diminish her beauty. Her silvery hair done in a simple plait shone in the moonlight. “My blessings,” He answered, “That I’ve been given a wife of salt and steel. That our people have been given a Lady blessed by His water.”

His lady wife’s former shyness seemed to fade with each passing day, and with each passing compliment he gave her, her smiles grew surer. “I only remember pieces,” she confessed, a tinge of disappointment that brought a slight twist to her lips, uprooting her smile.  

He had told her afterwards not to be discouraged when she could recall only so little of what happened. The drownings took them to a place of pure belief. 

“But some things have become clearer,” she revealed.

“What things?” 

“I saw war,” her purple eyes glazed in recollection, “And I saw,” she turned her gaze upwards to the shining stars above them, “dragons.” 

“Dragons?” Excitement kindled in him. The return of dragons. It was an astonishing thought. 

Their carriage rumbled into view, surrounded by armed riders and soldiers. The procession of hooves, and footsteps and wheels made the couple put aside dragons and dreams. When the company got closer, they got his wife’s attention despite how they dressed to hide their differences. They all bore the same features-broad shoulders, narrow waists, flat stomachs, and long arms. When they stopped, the soldiers fell on their knees to kneel before them while the riders attempted to dismount, but Dagon stopped them. Making them settle for bowing as low as they could on their mounts. 

“M’lord Dagon,” the lead rider’s voice came out as a wet hiss from behind her silken helm. All he could see of her face was her large and luminous eyes. “We apologize for the delay.” 

Dagon was so used to them he forgot how they sounded to others until he caught his wife’s reaction at hearing them speak. She quickly recovered, and her slip went unnoticed since they were all staring at him. “I was aware of it, Uxia,” He had watched their progress from the skies, and the mention of his ability sent them into a quiet frenzy that he tried to stop with his next words. “I’m glad you came.” 

“We always answer the call, m’lord,” The others murmured in their foreign, rasping tongue their own affirmations to the three oaths. She made a gesture with her gloved hand, and a pair of them scurried up from their knees to open the carriage doors for them. “And we are honored to finally meet your mate, m’lord.” 

Not everything translated so neatly. “Princess Daenerys of Dragonstone,” Dagon presented her to them, and they bowed before he finished.

His wife was quick enough to catch on despite not understanding what was being said. “An honor to meet you all.” 

Dagon translated for her. 

Uxia’s horse gave a nervous whinny at the wet clicking sound she made. “I will lead the way, m’lord.” Her luminous eyes with their exotic slant went from his wife to Dagon before bowing her head and with a silent command, her horse cantered off. 

Dagon gave his thanks to the soldiers who opened their door, letting Daenerys go in and then him. “M’lord,” they murmured in their raspy voices, like Uxia their heads and faces were covered, so only their eyes could be seen from behind their veils. When the door closed behind him, the carriage jerked to life. 

“What language are they speaking?” 

“An old one.” 

“And you can speak it?” She asked her questions so softly; they were lost in the loud rumbling of the carriage wheels. 

“Enough of it,” he answered. In his years since making a pact with them, the only others to have been able to learn it well enough to understand had been Ramsay and then more recently the Naathi translator, he had taken as a thrall after killing her former master. “They’re my Fish Speakers.” 

“Can they-” 

He shook his head, knowing what she was going to ask. It was the name they chose when they came to him to serve, and in some ways, he understood how well it fit them. When he had told her about his fleet, his operations, he had told her about them, but he had been vague with some of the details. “Do you remember when I told you I had a Sothoros outpost?” She nodded, “That’s where they hail from, a small island, Ynmothos. They have a harbor in the town of Red Marsh.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” she said, “or them.”

“They are very shy,” he settled on the word with only some reluctance. They kept mostly to their ships when docked in foreign ports. Though, it wasn’t fear that made them hide their faces. It was their faith. Dagon had always found them to be strangely enchanting despite their deformities which included their webbed hands and feet. Their differences didn’t stop there, like with the Ibbenese or their Brindled Men neighbors, their women couldn’t breed with outsiders. 

“Can you tell me about them?” She asked, “I wish to know since they’re our allies.” Dagon nodded. “And their language too, if I can.” 

Again, he nodded, not surprised by his wife’s determination. He suspected if another could learn it, it would be her. She had a good grasp on different languages having picked up several during her exile with her brother. 

“They seem very deferential to you,” Despite not understanding them, his wife missed very little. 

Though, they don’t try to hide it, he thought dryly, of their bowing and prostrating. “Years ago, I came across slavers who had taken some of their people as slaves.” The memory played before him clearly despite the years between then and now. “I dealt with the slavers,” he said, slowly, “and I let them go.” 

“You let them go?”

He could understand his wife’s surprise. Slavers were expected to be killed, but their slaves had uses, as thralls or sacrifices. “Yes,” he turned his gaze towards the slim carriage window, just seeing glimpses of one of their rider escorts. “They were still close to their home. A few of them spoke the common tongue and invited us to their port. We agreed.”

“And that’s why they’re deferential to you?” 

He shook his head. “One of the slave captains we killed had a brother who was expected to meet back with him, when his brother didn’t show, he brought his ships, knowing where his brother was supposed to be,” Dagon saw the three ships on the water coming towards them. He could still feel the power course through his veins when he brought her down on them. It was the first time they worked together since their binding. We were flawless and ruthless, proudly he remembered how seamless they were. When the last ship was pulled under by her mighty strength, he turned away, and they were all there, staring and then bowing to me. 

“Dagon?” 

“Yes,” he cleared his throat. “I dealt with the slavers with Scylla, and they understood what happened,” He said, “And what I am.” 

“Oh,” She had only just herself learned about him being a skinchanger. Even thinking about her reaction, her easy acceptance of him nearly made him smile. Grateful for it, over the years, hers was the rarest of reactions. It took some years to get over it, to accept it, thinking of his crew while others still struggled with it, with him. He considered Gwyn a sister and Lonnie a brother, but he knew how they sometimes looked at him. They were quick to hide it, to push it down, but the fear was there. Blinking away the thoughts, he felt her smaller hand on his, this time he did smile. 

“Since then, I have an outpost with them, and some of them crew my ships.” Most stayed on the island, they were a clumsy and reclusive people, but those that did come with him were nimble and lethal. “They’re great warriors and swimmers.” And he used their awareness of his ability to his advantage. Dagon looked to see she was considering everything he told her of them, and he knew enough of his wife to know she had more questions about them, and he couldn’t fault her for that, they were a proud and peculiar people. He didn’t wait for the question, he just started at the beginning. 

They were outside Pentos when he finished speaking of them, but they still had some distance to travel before they reached where they were going. 

“Are we close?” 

He shook his head. “We’re getting closer.” 

With a finger, she brushed back the curtain that covered the window on her side. “Do you truly not plan on telling me where it is we’re going?” She asked lightly. 

“It’s a surprise.” 

“Will I like it?”

“Did you like Rhaenys?” It was the only hint she’d get. It proved to be more than enough.

She smiled and nodded. “Will Scylla be there?” 

He shook his head. “She’s dealing with our enemies,” He answered, “and we have lots of enemies.” Dagon understood the burden that would come with his bride. Enemies test our strength. And his marriage brought him more. Enemies test our resolve. It didn’t matter how important or powerful they were. Enemies test our faith.  “What do you want to do with him?” 

“I want him dead,” she answered without hesitation. “His brother killed mine.” Her face hardened. “Blood for blood.” 

He nodded; he’d not deny her a chance for retribution. 

“Can she, do it?” 

“Man has not built a structure that my sweet Scylla can’t destroy,” he said confidently. Be it ships or castles, or walls, if she can reach it, we can destroy it. Nor have the gods created a creature to stop her. Balerion himself would fall to her if the dragon was foolish enough to fly close to our domain. “But there’s the matter of his ship.” Through Mary’s eyes he had visited it many times. “Fury is a great ship. It would be such a waste to have Scylla crush it.” 

“What are you suggesting?” 

“We kill the stag and keep the ship,” Dagon said, “Imagine the Usurper’s reaction when he learns that not only is his brother dead, but the flagship of his royal fleet now flys the Targaryen banner.” Seeing the change in her expression, he could tell she was imagining it and she liked it.  A lot. 

“How do we do it?” 

That part of the ploy was still only vague outlines, but they had time. Something, Lord Renly was running out of. 

On a very secluded part of the Bay of Pentos, two of his fish speakers quietly rowed her and Dagon to the spot on a small boat. 

“Why out here?” she asked, looking around for any sign of them. “Isn’t your dock private?” 

“It is, but many ships still pass through there,” He answered, “I don’t take chances with him.” Dagon was very protective of him, especially when they docked in cities. They had met when Grond was being hunted and attacked by Ibbenese whalers, the leviathan called for help, reaching out, Dagon heard, and answered. They killed every whaler before sinking the ship, because the truth had to die with them. 

And then Grond rose from the bay. A white island unto himself, the leviathan’s greeting filled the air with its sweet music. Shooting up a spout of water and mist that rose high into the night sky. 

Just off the portside of their ship, their small rowboat endured the best they could, the swells the leviathan made with its enormous presence. He stood up, able to maintain his balance. Part of him was already gone, going through the crystal door inside his mind where he and Grond were one. Through the leviathan’s eyes, he saw himself standing on the ship, chuckling. It was a dizzying experience, saddling himself between two beings, maintaining the bridge between their minds. “Come on,” he offered his hand to his wife. 

Daenerys took it, rising from her seat, but she still looked confused onto the where. Until her eyes went back to Grond, and he saw it click for her. 

“On him?” She asked softly, as if afraid she’d give offense. 

“Yes,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt him.” Dagon never would’ve done it if it did. He only regretted that her first experience riding a leviathan was tucked away in a small spot of the bay instead of on the open seas. Reassured, she now looked thrilled at the idea, holding onto his hand, they jumped in. Grond had lowered himself in such a way that the top of his great size stuck out of the water like a sandbar making it easy for him and Dany to reach. 

Daenerys proved a natural leviathan rider. “This is incredible,” her eyes were constantly moving, taking in the seas, the skies, the leviathan they were atop of. She hadn’t stopped smiling. 

Dagon smiled, enjoying watching his wife enjoy herself. She truly was of the sea. They were soon joined by the others, a pair of fins coming off their right side. A great grey one and a curved black one, “Do you remember Mera?” 

“I do,” Dany looked pleased to see the great white shark and spotted whale, “but you never told me why the name Mera.” 

“Mera’s a sea goddess,” he had thought it a fitting name for his friend. “She’s the mother of all mermaids.” And somewhere above their heads, he knew Sam was flying and watching them. 

 All in all, Dagon thought it was a night well spent. 

Chapter Text

Doreah had walked this manse all hours, morning and evening, and it always thrummed with activity. And on this particular morning it was no different. She spotted a pair of patrolling armed thralls. She didn’t even blink at seeing that one of them was a woman. She was used to such sights by now. They were used to her too, nodding as she passed them. She saw the double doors that led to the master’s chambers ahead of her, but before she reached them, one of the doors opened between her and her destination. And it was he who was walking out.

She immediately recognized him despite his back being to her, by his tall form and how richly he dressed. “M’lord,” she curtseyed. When he said her name, she hesitantly raised her head, stifling the immediate urge to dip away again when those eyes were on her. 

They were eerie and dark as they appraised her.  “Ramsay informed me of the work you did for him.”

“Yes, m’lord,” but before she could say anything else, the spymaster himself emerged, following his master out of the room. 

“She was of great help, captain.” 

“I was merely following your orders, m’lord,” There was truth in her deflection. She had done as she was instructed. Serving the suspect, tending to him, being the bashful barmaid, plying him with wine and charm, and getting what the spymaster had wanted. And she was rewarded for it. 

She flicked her eyes to her new bracelets. They had been part of her reward, a pair of them, one silver, and the other gold. The ironborn displayed their wealth, and after wearing hers the last couple days, she understood why. The pride she felt in wearing them. They’re my shiny reminder of my triumph.  

Lord Farwynd chuckled. “There are many men and women, who couldn’t abide by such a simple thing as following another’s orders.” He gestured further down the corridor to his chambers. “My wife is tending to her dragon eggs.” The warm glint in his unnatural eyes nearly made them charming. “She has a busy day, see to it that she doesn’t get distracted.” 

“Yes, m’lord,” she dipped her head again, and waited until they passed her before continuing. She knew she would be the first of the princess’s pair of handmaidens to arrive. Mya was recently married and had been permitted a longer lie in. In her few interactions with the girl, Doreah knew she wasn’t using that extra time to sleep.  

She quietly slipped into the spacious master chambers. As Lord Dagon had said, his wife was tending to her dragon eggs which meant she didn’t notice Doreah’s arrival. “Good morning, princess,” she curtsied to the princess’s back.

Daenerys greeted her cheerfully, but she didn’t turn to face her. She was giving the eggs her full attention, calmly repositioning them in their glowing nest of embers. 

It was unnerving to watch the princess’s hands so close to the flames. Doreah feared it would only take one incident, one accident of the princess being scalded and hurt for Doreah to be scolded and punished for it. “How will the eggs fare for the journey?” Doreah didn’t know much about ships, but she suspected they didn’t have stone hearths with roaring flames. Or any sort of fireplace, would they? She wasn’t a shipwright, but a bed slave turned thrall. Then again, she thought, mayhaps the ships were different for the wealthy. Everything else seemed to be. So why not their ships too?

“They’ll be taken care of,” she answered, “The Drowned God will provide for us.” Daenerys stood up, seemingly satisfied with the dragon eggs before turning to Doreah for the first time. The princess’s smile was warm and friendly. She was still wearing her lavender silky shift from the night previously. “We’ll be going to the docks this morning. I wish to inspect Queen Rhaella and have a final meeting with the captain and crew.” 

“Of course, princess,” In her mind, she was running through what would be best for the princess to wear for such an occasion. When one came to mind, Doreah went to retrieve it. The princess would have final say, but in her days serving her, Doreah learned and remembered more and more of her tastes and moods. 

“I received a messenger from Lady Lynesse,” Daenerys went on, “She’ll be joining us for luncheon along with two of her handmaidens, Alla and Falia.” 

“Yes, princess,” Doreah found it and when she presented it to her, she felt a warm swell at the resulting smile and nod, confirming her selection. She found she liked this routine of helping the princess with her dress and her jewelry and her hair. It made her actually begin to think that they were friends, before the illusion was broken. The reminder that smashed it like a hammer to glass that she couldn’t be a friend to someone as important and as powerful as the princess, because she was a thrall. 

But not forever, she reminded herself, thinking of her future freedom that awaited her. That was all that mattered. 

“You’re risking our ships.” 

All around the large table that had been carved to resemble Essos, were the captains who had been selected to stay behind while the rest of the fleet had sailed off. The captain had just finished outlining his plan, his trap to destroy Renly Baratheon and what remained of his fleet when the comely Captain Pyke had spoken up. 

“Your ships?” Dagon Farwynd asked. What went unsaid was deafening in the ensuing silence. 

Lonnie noticed the captains stirred uncomfortably, all knowing the simple truth: he owned those ships. And they captained them because he picked them. There was no short supply of men or women who would gladly take their coveted positions and the perks that came with it. And they knew it too. 

“What Pyke meant-” One captain began but quieted the instant Dagon turned his gaze to him. 

“We don’t need to engage them,” Anson Pyke’s mother was a distant Greyjoy, who had him between her first and second husband. He captained The Stargazer, which was Inevitable’s twin. He looked around for support, but Lonnie saw none was forthcoming, and Pyke sensed it too. He sighed. “You’ve proven more than capable of avoiding trouble before, my lord.” He didn’t dare say her name, but it was clear as water who he was trying not to refer to when questioning the purpose of this plan. “So why now do you wish to fight them?”

Wind witch. A few amongst the ironborn wondered if that’s what she’d be to their beloved captain. They were the dreaded daughters of the Storm God who used their ensnaring voice and their commands of the wind to lead ironborn men astray. The skalds dedicated many songs to how they caused shipwrecks and led men to ruin all at the behest of their father. They were always depicted with cloud colored hair, stormy grey eyes, bewitching and beautiful. 

Lonnie doubted anyone thought that now, not after the princess’s drowning. 

The priests and others started to call her: The Drowned Dragon, and The Sea Dragon among other things while making it clear that Daenerys was truly blessed by Him. That she was no thrall to the Storm God, but a servant of the Drowned God. The princess sat beside her husband, but she didn’t react to the implication made by Pyke. That it was she who was directing her husband to fight them when they didn’t need to.

The captain elegantly rose from his throne-like seat. “It’s said it was the Storm God who sent the first Andals to the Iron Islands to subdue the ironborn, and to turn them from their faith.” He surveyed the room with his color changing eyes that resembled the stormy sea. “And now The Storm God sends the king’s own brother and a small fleet to try to bring us to heel.” He turned to Captain Pyke. “You asked me why we’re doing this?” There wasn’t a hint of irritation in his voice, and at Pyke’s stiff nod, Dagon Farwynd smiled. “Because we’re going to win.” 

The captains murmured amongst themselves, Lonnie saw many pleased smiles and nods. “It’s fitting that our first battle will be against the Lord of Storm’s End, a man descended from the line of Storm Kings. Our history is filled with glories and victories against the Stormlanders. Their names and gods may have changed,” he reached over to pluck a model ship that was placed near the Pentos markings on the map, “But follow me and I assure you we will join our ancestors in carving our names and forging legends through sword and song.” Some of the captains began thumping the table with their closed fists, others used their tankards. 

“Have I ever failed you, my ironborn?”

They answered his question with a resounding: “NO!” The word thundered in Lonnie’s ears. His voice had been one of many that had been swept up in the fervor, and Captain Pyke’s had been the loudest of all. 

He dreamed of her again. 

His precious desert flower. When he last saw Susa, she was still pregnant, but in his dreams, she was holding their daughter. 

“Rabba,” she called to him, “Why have you not returned to us?” 

The light came then, from the edges, like a lurking predator. He tried to reach them, but they melted away into the light, disappearing shadows. They always did. 

It was when he tried to move his hand to block the sunlight did he realize something was wrong. He blinked in the morning light to see he was outside, and that his hands and legs were bound by chains to a wooden post. Just to the side, he noticed gnawed bones and pools and splatters of dried blood. There was so much that the dirt itself had a reddish tinge to it. He was almost thankful for the footsteps that made him turn his attention away from the pile of bones to see two figures approaching him. The pieces of the previous night were congealing in his mind. They caught me. He was resigned to his realization. 

“This is the thief?” It was the demon. 

Dagon Farwynd had taken everything from him. For nearly ten years, he had a good life serving the good master Kraznys mo Nakloz. His master listened to his counsel, entrusted him with teaching his children. He had bought my wife when he didn’t have to. For that alone, Rabba would always love him.  And after years of marriage, they were permitted the blessing of having a child. Their master showed his benevolence by granting Rabba and Susa what they wanted most. He was proud to serve a master whose family boasted such a storied history. We were parts of a great legacy. 

I was important to him. He had been honored to travel with his master to New Ghis, and to serve him. His master had been pleased with Rabba’s help and promised him and his wife a great reward when they returned home. They had been on their way back to Astapor. I was on my way to meet my child when he came upon them. The demon attacked their three ships like some ancient sea horror from the old tales. 

Rabba had been there. He remembered how the unsullied guards tried their best, but they were overwhelmed by the berserking onslaught of these ironborn and only when the last of them died did the demon show himself. His wise master tried to reason with these pirates. Master Kraznys assumed too much of these sunset savages, especially their leader. He treated them with far more honor than they deserved, offering them his own wines and ales onboard as well as the gifts and gold he received from the grateful masters of New Ghis. 

The demon listened and when his wise master was finished, Farwynd killed him, without ever saying a word. It was a savage blow from some great weapon that Rabba had never seen before. There had been so much blood. He’d never forget his beautiful, gracious Master Kraznys crumble to the deck nor the torrent of blood gushing from the wound. 

Thief? He wanted to scoff at the demon’s audacity.  It was true, he stole from the other thralls, but they deserved it. All of them did, he thought because of how blindly they followed this monster. Disgusted, at how they reveled in their service like pigs in filth. No, Farwynd was the thief. 

And when he said as much, the spymaster had his knife halfway out of its sheath before he was ordered to stop. 

Farwynd was doom wrapped in silk finery. Powerfully built, and menacing, his color changing eyes showed just how unnatural he was. His voice was deep and different. “You are one of the slaves, who served that fat master.” 

Rabba stiffened at the disrespect spoken to his late master. “He was the glorious Kraznys mo Nakloz,” he bowed his head, and began reciting his many titles. 

“The slaver whose breasts were bigger than my wife’s.” The demon rudely cut him off with his baleful tone. “I gave you a choice.” 

“A choice?” Rabba scoffed, “to be a thrall or a sacrifice?” He’d not forget many of his master’s household who fled to the demon’s banner, believing his lies, or bewitched by his wicked eyes. 

They had been men and women that Rabba had known for years. Those who should’ve been grateful for everything their beloved master did for them, but they scurried like rats off a sinking ship, happily swearing new vows to this savage, slopping up his promises and his silver. They were the thieves! Rabba had seen them steal his master’s well-earned coin and begin handing them out to the greedy slaves turned thralls. I wasn’t one of them. He said the words, but only because he thought of Susa, and of their child. They’re lost to me now. That despairing truth hurt him more than any pain this demon could inflict on him.  

“Did your master give you a choice when he made you his slave?” The demon’s voice was resonant and wrong sounding. 

Rabba bristled. “It was a privilege to serve the good master Kraznys mo Nakloz.” It was an insult to compare his noble, wise master to this demon. “Better to die as his slave then live as your thrall.”

The demon’s evil eyes glinted, but it was the spymaster who spoke. “And I’m here to grant that wish.” He had snuck up on him. Rabba turned his head the best he could, but the spymaster’s fingers gripped his chin, forcing him to meet his pale eyed stare. 

“Why resist?” he asked with a sly smile. “When such pleasures await you.” With the knife he brought it across Rabba’s brow. The blade bit into his flesh, before being dragged across his forehead. The blood dribbled down onto his eyes and cheeks. “This is an honor.” The spymaster leaned forward and kissed Rabba’s bleeding brow. When he pulled away, his lips were wet and shining with blood.

My blood. His stomach twisted. 

“You’re here, because she’s full,” He dragged two of his fingers across the wound and then slipped them through his hair, slicking it back with the blood. 

A thrall came forward, who Rabba recognized, Shisha. She had been a spoiled bed slave of their former master, who gave her whatever she wanted, but she showed her true self by being one of the first to swear to the demon. In her hands she was carrying a clam shell the size of a dinner plate. Hollowed out, it looked to be full of water.

The spymaster’s lips were still glossy with Rabba’s blood. “This is so your sacrifice isn’t in vain.” The spymaster gently washed away Rabba’s blood with the sea water, but the wound still tinged in pain, irritated by the salt. “This is so He can still bless us.” his pale eyes then flicked to the pile of chewed bones near Rabba, and he smiled. “It’s done, captain.” 

It was movement in front of him that made him look forward, that made him see it, and when he did, he whimpered. It was large and terrifying. The creature walked past Farwynd acting like it was a towering housecat, even allowing itself to be petted, by the demon. The scales that covered its body were strangely colored in dark, natural tattoos. Its long, wing-like arms were covered partly in feathers, at its ends were grasping three fingered hands ending with sharp, curving claws. 

And it's staring directly at me. He gaped soundlessly, paralyzed by its gaze. It let out a soft hiss, showing its serrated teeth with ropey strands of thick drool dripping from its tooth filled maw. And then it charged, darting towards him with astonishing speed. Rabba didn’t even have enough time to scream before it was on him. He only felt numbness when its claws raked across his belly. He then saw its slavering mouth filled with bits of flesh and blood seeping between sharp teeth.

Its eating me, he whimpered, and then his whole world exploded into pain.

Lonnie had heard about the thief being sacrificed. 

It was to be expected. The days before they set sail were always filled with sacrifices. The sea was vast and dangerous. The Drowned God’s protection was needed. When the captain sent off most of his fleet, under his younger brother’s command, the waves on his beach ran red with tribute. Pigs and horses, lambs, and bulls, and men too were offered up to insure safe travels and His blessings. 

And more was to be expected. With Inevitable preparing to set sail, there was to be a great sacrifice this very evening. The captain was taking advantage of the moon’s position in the sky, and such a sacrifice had to be carefully prepared. In a room filled with rich trappings, Lonnie expected his captain to be waiting, but instead it was his wife. “Princess,” he immediately bowed his head when he saw her, and her alone in the room. 

“Lonnie, he isn’t here,” she was wearing a sunset color dress of reds and oranges. The colors of her husband’s house, bespeckled with shining rubies and garnets. “But he’s on his way.” 

“Should I return later?” 

She dismissed the suggestion with the shake of her head. “No, please, stay.” 

“Thank you, princess,” he had never been one to think ill of his captain’s choice of bride. Lonnie had been plucked from obscurity by Captain Farwynd. He owed him everything. Besides that, he had witnessed the power and the blessings. To go against the captain was to go against the Drowned God.

The princess was standing behind an expertly carved table made by the finest Qohorik craftsmen. The dark wood inlaid with pearls made it look as if it was the night sky itself with a sprinkling of stars. Atop the table were a series of maps, some were sprawled out, while others remained bound and had been piled up to the side. 

The map that currently held her attention was of a portion of the Jade Sea. It looked to be an old map. It was worn and torn in places. Its colors had dulled, and the ink that labeled its contents had faded, meaning some of the names were gone. One of the drawings that remained vivid was at the bottom corner. It was of a sea serpent. Its long, lean body rose in and out of the sea like a series of scaled hills. 

“I’ve never been east of Volantis before,” she sensed his eyes on the map, while he sensed her excitement of the upcoming expedition ahead of them. “Have you gone to any of these?” She asked, gesturing to some of the smaller islands that were pale dots in a blue sea. 

“No, princess,” he had stepped closer to see which she was referring to, some of the names were inky blotches, but he had surveyed many maps, and their last trip through parts of the Jade Sea were still fresh in his mind. He looked up at her, hoping not to have disappointed her, but saw she was still looking at the map. He followed her gaze to where it was to a spot on the map. 

It was a small island that resembled an open mouth. There were two strips of land, parallel to one another, and between them there was a pool of blue. There was a name written right below it: Odo Island. 

“Here?” 

“No, princess.” 

Their attention was still on it when the princess was called away by the arrival of a messenger.  

He looked over the map, skimming over the various islands that were scattered around the Jade Sea. His eyes eventually returned to the oddly shaped island that the princess had asked him about before they were interrupted. But when it was revealed, the captain wanted to meet them elsewhere, he lost all interest in the Jade Sea and Odo Island. Leaving behind the maps, because there were more pressing matters than faraway lands that he’d not remember. 

Chapter Text

There were several fins trailing behind Inevitable.

Daenerys watched them from the balcony. 

She recognized Mera’s curved, black fin. There were a handful of other fins of various sizes of the other spotted whales, just a few of the many that belonged to Mera’s pack. The great grey one she knew to be Rhaenys. A lone shark in the company of spotted whales, but she saw no hostility between them. Because Rhaenys was considered one of them. Dagon had seen to that: Rhaenys and Mera are my oldest friends. Rhaenys had been his first companion, and Mera, his second. He had told her throughout the centuries that many of his ancestors had bonded with spotted whales. They are well known and well regarded in my family. 

She knew a few more of the pack were ahead of Inevitable, slicing through the waves. They talked to one another in clicks and whistles. Daenerys liked to listen and to watch them, enjoying their playfulness with one another and how graceful they swam. On the surface, they all looked similar, but Dagon had taught her each of these whales had its own unique name, voice, and nature. 

She had been out on this private balcony the day they left Pentos. Daenerys had watched the city shrink from view and when Pentos became so small she could blot it out with her thumb, she did. Farewell, brother, she had thought, sailing into the loving embrace of the sea. For so long, Viserys had been what she thought of, when she heard the word: family. Now, she saw Dagon, and of the children they’d have. She wondered if his seed had already taken root inside her, she hoped and prayed it had.

If not, the thought still made her smile, knowing it just meant that they just needed to keep trying. Just this evening before taking their meal, she had mounted him on their bed, enjoying the sight of him below her. At how his eyes looked at her, at how his hands touched her, at how he felt inside her. He worships me, she thought with dizzying exaltation, while the passions burned hot and bright as dragonflame within her, chasing her pleasure, and savoring the ensuing ecstasy that hit her like a tidal wave, washing over her every pore and nerve. Collapsing atop him, his muscular arms curling around her, she wanted to hold onto that blissful moment when everything was just perfect.  

The days at sea had been as wonderful as she had imagined they’d be. She spent her time learning more of the crew, and of the ship, listening to their songs, and watching their work, wanting to know it all. All she saw was the open ocean and open sky, and it was all so beautiful. There was no land to be seen. Daenerys knew that many captains preferred to stay close to the coast, hugging the land, wanting to see it as they sailed, but there were still times during a voyage when that was impossible. Those portions of the trip always seemed the tensest. The unnerved sailors, and the stressed captain, as if all of them were holding their breath, waiting for it to end, and when they spotted land again, they sighed, relieved, and thankful it was all over. 

But not Dagon, she remembered he gave the orders when they left Pentos to sail straight out into the open waters. His crew took it without complaint. And none of them showed a shred of concern. It was all old practice to them, she realized, watching most of the other ships follow him out. 

From the balcony, she looked out at the stars and listened to the peaceful lapping of the sea against the ship. The embers of the brazier hissed like an impatient animal. She turned to where she had placed her dragon eggs. They had been his last gift to her during his weeklong courtship of her. Time had turned them to stone, was what he had told her, but she didn’t think so. She moved one of the eggs over, an orange flame licked the air in protest at its disturbance. Daenerys had seen them in her dreams, and in her drowning. And so much more. When she heard the approaching footsteps, she smiled and opened her eyes only to watch them rise. A pair of tentacles erupted from the sea, spiraling upwards. Scylla, she realized in awe.

“She doesn't have too long,” Dagon had come up alongside her. “She has to feed soon.” Something flickered over his face, and she understood they were having their own conversation. 

She looked down into the churning waters of the sea below them to see a glimpse of the kraken. Its outline was displayed by dazzling colors that rippled along its skin with impossibly long tentacles, several of which were lazily floating along the sea’s surface, but they looked like they could stretch up to the skies to pluck a star if it cared to. Daenerys took the creature in with dizzying wonder. Even partially obscured by the sea, what she saw of its immense size and splendor was humbling. 

Her eyes shifted to the towering tentacle in front of her. “You’re as fierce as the stories say.” The tentacle stiffened and then bent low, its movement resembling a bow. She laughed, stealing a glance towards her husband to see his pale blue eyes on her, with a hint of a smile. Daenerys touched it next; the kraken’s tentacle was wet and slippery. She ran her fingers down it, avoiding its suction cups and retractable barbs. This was a creature that could break ships in half like they were pieces of crisp bacon. And she already has. Thinking about the ships the Usurper had sent after them, some had already been sunk and shattered, but not all. There were still others out there, to be hunted, and to be destroyed. This fleet was punishment from the Usurper because he feared her family’s blood, our legacy. They wanted to seize her, to separate them, to kill him. 

“Show them no mercy,” Daenerys murmured softly, and turning to her husband, she knew Scylla had heard and understood. And that made her smile. 

“Is this?” 

“It is,” Davos confirmed grimly. 

Renly looked over the side as Fury silently sailed past the flotsam, the watery ruins of Horned Honor. She had been sighted by their lookout, a wooden and broken husk. It had been a solemn ride that seemed to last forever before Fury was close enough to confirm it was one of theirs. 

Of course it was one of ours. Renly watched a chest float by, idly wondering its contents. Mayhaps, the cook’s potatoes or the captain’s spare trousers? The black humor was all he could cling to in the face of another loss. They had lost five ships since they left King’s Landing: Lord Steffon, Lionstar, Queen Cersei, The Laughing Storm, and now Horned Honor. All of them claimed by the greedy, grasping hands of the sea. 

The crew murmured their respects for their fallen comrades. He looked up and down, watching them, some made gestures that Renly thought odd and not ones he was taught by the Faith, others offered words and prayers, but to what gods, he couldn’t say. Uncle Deadly’s voice rose over the mourning murmuring, his deep voice was hard stone grating against Renly’s nerves. Of course, the crew seemed to take comfort and shelter from his ramblings, so Renly let them be, but it didn’t mean he had to listen to it. 

He was ready to go back to his cabin for some more Arbor gold. Loras’s handsome face flashed before him, with his lively, golden eyes, and beautiful brown curls, he loved to run his fingers through when they were alone. It had been Arbor gold they had drunken after their first time together. It had never tasted sweeter in the past or since that night. Cozy by the glowing hearth, though they hardly needed the warmth with how cool the nights were at Highgarden. 

More cargo passed, obstructing his memories of Loras, rippling the better days away to remind Renly how far away he was.  We shall drink many bottles from the Arbor on my return in the privacy of my chambers. He would regale Loras of his ventures on the Narrow Sea of enduring storms and defeating ironborn. Horned Honor may have been lost, but Davos had told him they were likely to lose ships on the way, either scattered or sunk by the sea. They still had more than the ironborn, and Fury was worth at least three ships all by herself. This will just make the songs grander and my triumph sweeter. 

His better mood had barely settled over him when the stray thought came to him. 

“The bodies,” he said softly, so only Davos could hear beside him. “Shouldn’t there be bodies?” Thinking about it, he was certain they hadn’t seen a single corpse since they spotted the sunken ship remains.  Mayhaps, they were on the other side? The port, or was it starboard? He pushed aside the meaningless name, because the crew would have called it out. So where are the bodies? A cold unease passed through him. 

“There should be,” Davos’s confirmation gave him no comfort. 

Windproud, the name came to him unbidden, and his stomach roiled. It was said for several days every tide would bring swollen corpses on the strand below Storm’s End, the mocking mimicry of a supplicant giving their offerings. Only one survived the shipwreck that drowned more than a hundred men, including his parents. It had been a naked fool. Now that was a herald worthy of the Drowned God.  Recalling how some called Farwynd such a foolish thing. 

It was said his father thought the fool could make Stannis laugh. Patchface, a shiver of revulsion went up Renly’s spine at just the name. The fool was a hideous creature and he was glad to be rid of it. Thinking the fool found good company with his niece, Shireen. Renly wasn’t surprised the girl would like him. The fool was likely the only thing uglier than her in all the Seven Kingdoms. 

“I’ll be in my cabin,” Renly was tired and thirsty. He wanted to get below deck, to get away from everything and everyone else. 

The Arbor gold didn’t soothe his troubled stomach, but that didn’t stop him from emptying the glass and pouring another. Holding it in his hands, as if it was more precious than gold, he sat in the dark, and drank. Despite being so far away, Storm’s End still loomed over him, a stormy cloud with its stormy memories that had followed him to his cabin. 

"Robert and Stannis saw it all,” he said to no one, remembering the tales he heard as a boy. “At how they stood on the parapets of Storm’s End, watching our parent’s ship be spotted.” He drank a long, greedy sip, but he was thirsty. “And then sunk.” Only stripes of light could reach him in the gloom of his cabin, having pulled the curtains closed some time ago.  Renly had never asked them if the story was true. Stannis was as cold as the Wall while the only past Robert wished to speak on was never about his home or family, but of the Vale and Ned Stark. If his precious Lyanna had been closer to him, Renly had no doubt, his brother would’ve sent men first to rescue her before sending help to his starving brothers. “What are his bloody brothers worth?” He asked his shaky shadow, “when there’s wolves to be had.” 

When he was little, but before the war had started, he used to hide and explore throughout the castle and had become quite good at it. It was how he found the best spots, hidden places where he could hear the idle gossip and passing stories of the servants, who were unaware of him, hiding and listening. That’s how he learned what his father’s favorite song was: The Bear and the Maiden Fair and how he’d demand it be played whenever a bard was visiting, and insist everyone sing along, noble guests and servants alike. It was how Renly knew his mother had a scar on her right knee from slipping on wet rocks in a stream looking for salamanders. She had been no older than Renly had been then. He’d not forget his grandfather’s reaction when he finally mustered the courage to ask him if it was true. 

“Aye,” he had said, his voice wobbly, “Cass used to love finding and collecting them.” His green eyes unfocused and glistening, “small turtles too.” 

Not liking the coiling in his gut, nor the coldness of it, he tipped his head to drink, to not dwell on ghosts, but found his goblet had gone dry. He quickly remedied that, but he needed to open a new bottle. He tried to remember which cup he was on, but his thoughts were all fuzzy and bumping into each other. And he lost all interest when he poured the wine, and took a sensible sip, going back to his boyhood days at Storm’s End before the war.

It hadn’t just been his parents he learned about from his household help. “I also learned the words shit and arse,” He chuckled, musing on the other colorful words and actions he learned from them. “To all the cooks and servants for my well-rounded education.” He drank to the old hags and hoary, hairy men he left behind in that castle, not wanting or needing them in the capital. Though the credit for learning fuck went to his older brother Robert, remembering Robert saying it, and Stannis disapproving of it. “To the crude and the prude.” The swell of the waves nearly made him empty his cup on his silk shirt. “This was a name day gift from Loras!” He drunkenly declared, offended at the sea’s audacity. 

The Narrow Sea rocked and rolled below them, never letting him rest. “Well, I say,” Renly said aloud, “Gods damn the sea and all its smelly, slimy fish.” He condemned the creatures and then drank to their deaths. 

“Are you certain?”

Renly couldn’t stop smiling, not after hearing the good news, and because it was such good news, he wanted to hear it again. 

The captain of the Seaswift obliged him. “I am.” He had droopy eyes, a hawkish nose, and thinning brown hair. “North of Pentos,” he went on, “Hiding in an inlet. It was with one other ship.” 

He clapped his hands and chuckled at his good fortune. Farwynd had sent his fleet south, and then went north hoping Renly would follow the fleet’s trail. He thought to fool me. Renly had poured the captain a good dornish vintage. The Seaswift captain had sniffed it, scrunching his nose and made no attempt to drink it. Renly wouldn’t let the captain’s poor taste in drink ruin his good mood. “And you weren’t seen?” 

“Of course not,” The captain had boasted there was no ship faster in all the royal fleet than his. I see them, but they never see me. He had declared, and it seemed he was right to be so proud of his ship and his skills. 

“You’re sure it was Inevitable?” Davos hadn’t accepted a cup. He was neither smiling at their good news nor looking pleased at how well this was all shaping up for them. 

“Yes,” the captain answered, “The ship matched your friend’s description. It bore Farwynd’s personal standard, and with our far-eye, we saw the name painted plainly enough.”

During their journey across the Narrow Sea, Davos told and retold stories about this Dagon Farwynd, including recent ones from his friend, Rowlf, who had accompanied the ironborn on his last expedition. The story Renly remembered was of how Farwynd waited in an inlet to strike a pirate’s ship. And he means to do it to us. Renly nearly snorted into his cup, savoring a sweetness that wasn’t of his wine, but of his victory which felt just as near as the glass in hand. 

When the captain told them his predictions of how long it would take for them to reach Inevitable. Renly was ecstatic at how close they were. But not Davos. The onion knight looked contemplative instead of celebratory. It was enough to make Renly want to roll his eyes. Davos has been duped by these tall tales. He saw it plain enough. Farwynd was just a man. Renly was to see to that himself. A cornered man whose time had run out. Davos may be a knight, but he still showed himself to be of smallfolk stock, superstitious and small minded. 

Renly dismissed the two, but not before giving the orders for their ships to set off to where Inevitable was holed up. He didn’t refill his glass until the door closed behind them. In the quiet of his cabin, he turned over the idea he had been considering these last few days. One he kept to himself, but the more time passed, the more certain he became of the merit behind it. It was the only way. He was going to kill Daenerys Targaryen and her traitorous ironborn husband. 

It had first come to him in one of his stupors after learning about the loss of one of their ships either Lionstar or Queen Cersei, he couldn’t remember. The idea lingered and with a clear head, he saw the growing sense behind it. He measured it carefully, knowing the backlash it might cause, and the expectations of what he was supposed to do, but those he could handle. For that he had no doubt, his brother could be prickly, but he was pliable and Renly knew what to say and what to do. And I’ll be doing something that Stannis failed to do all those years ago. If not the death blow to the Targaryen dynasty than Renly’s was the one that followed it, making sure the family couldn’t ever rise again. The dragons were done. 

Robert would likely bluster about it, but once they were alone, he would remind him of the truth: You wanted them dead, brother. Those had been your wishes. Until he had been persuaded by old men: Jon Arryn and Barristan Selmy. Men who were old enough to remember respectable Targaryens, holding onto legacies that have since crumbled into ash and dust. Robert would come to his senses, and if not publicly than privately he’d thank Renly, realizing his younger brother made the tough, but right choice. With that gratitude came an opportunity that he’d use for the games to come. He hoped Loras would bring his sister to court when it was time to celebrate Renly’s triumph. He would make her one of his personal guests, so she could sit closer to Robert, and show him the charms and beauties that the Reach could offer him. Robert’s Lannister queen will look like a wilting flower to the Rose of Highgarden. 

The only thing that bothered Renly about his new plan was the sacrifice he was making with the gold he was sure to lose. He tried to console himself by hoping Farwynd didn’t have that much with him. He likely sent it with the rest of the fleet. Besides, mayhaps Robert will reimburse him for that missing gold as part of his reward. 

It was all so perfect. He thought. And it was all so close to happening. 

It was nearing nightfall when the bombardment started. 

Fury bristled with ready scorpions and catapults that would fling barrels of burning pitch.

When they had neared the inlet, Renly had come on deck to inform his crew they wouldn’t be boarding the vessels but destroying them. He was pleased to see how well his crew received his new orders. But of course, Davos wasn’t one of them. 

“My lord,” he said with a touch of hesitation, knowing he should be mindful of what he said, but that still didn’t stop him from continuing. “Our orders were to capture them.” 

“Our orders have changed,” Renly said firmly. “My brother will understand.” He looked out where Inevitable and the other ship whose name he didn’t bother to learn had been hiding in the inlet. But now there’s no escape. He smiled at how well his plan was coming together. They were trapped, pinned by Renly’s fleet: Fury, Seaswift, Stag of the Sea, and Lady Lyanna. It was true they were missing a few ships, but they had this clearly in hand. He was sure Robert would like that one of the ships that had made it was the Lady Lyanna. Afterwards, they could send men on the smaller boats, to check the corpses and kill whatever men survived their surprised assault. It was all simple enough, why couldn’t Davos see it?  From the corner of his vision, he saw Davos remained uncertain. “Do I need to give this task to another?” 

Davos shook his head. “No, my lord.” His hand went back to the small bag of fingerbones. “I’ll see to it.” 

Renly nodded. “Good,” he let Davos’s earlier objection slide since his son’s ship, Black Betha, was one of the ships that hadn’t yet arrived. 

The albatross cawed above them, but even its presence couldn’t affect his soaring spirits. After these ships were sunk, Renly decided, he'd order casks of ale to be opened to allow his men to revel in their great victory. Let them celebrate, he thought, and he was still thinking on their impending success when the sky filled with streaking fireballs and scorpion bolts. Farwynd, Renly looked out where the enemy’s ship was. You never had a chance.

Chapter Text

There was a sullen silence hanging over their small rowboat. 

They were the unlucky few who were rowing away from the celebrations. Some men were already well into their cups aboard Fury before Harry’s boat had even set off towards the wreckage of the ironborn’s two ships. They were joined by two similar rowboats, both of them filled with dissatisfied crewmen who’d rather be on the ship drinking than pursuing this grim task ahead of them. When Lord Renly had told him of it, he thought it a jape. It hadn’t been. They were to try to find the princess and her husband’s body. It was a fool’s errand, and they all knew it except the one who sent them. 

Before Inevitable had been wholly swallowed by the sea, Lord Renly had already ordered the casks to be brought up. The men had cheered loudly, toasting the Lord of Storm’s End and drank to their victory. He was begrudgingly impressed by how many he swayed to him even after the albatross incident. Harry had found the act despicable, even when done in ignorance, but he knew his opinion was now a rare one on Fury. Ser Davos made the apologies and excuses, and Lord Renly charmed them with promises of rewards. 

“Quit your griping,” Stanton grumbled. Grey haired and sour faced, the old sailor was annoyed by some conversation that Harry hadn’t been listening to. 

The chastisement proved ineffective. “I like griping,” Veron was a young man, who had joined up half a year ago. He was the son of a cartwright who had no interest in following his father’s trade. I want to be as far away as I can from wheels and carts, he had japed with his easy smile. He was quick to jape and quick to gripe, but Harry thought he’d make a fine sailor. 

Dean was ahead of them, a man of a few words, and beside him was Beni, a man of too many. Harry knew he’d rather be back on the ship drinking with the rest, and if he was being honest, Harry would’ve preferred Beni back on Fury too. Beni was a sailor who seemed to flicker in and out depending on the dangers and the rewards. It surprised Harry that Beni hadn’t found a way to wiggle out of this. He was a spineless reed and as slippery as an eel. His thoughts were interrupted by the very one he was just thinking about. 

“A snake!” Beni shouted. “In the water, it was red and large and awful,” he shied away from the edge, scooting closer to Dean on their bench who didn’t look particularly pleased by the close company. 

“A snake?” Harry repeated, thinking it an obvious lie. He had suspected Beni would have thought of something far cleverer to get them to return. This was too flimsy. Perhaps, I overestimated his cleverness. 

“Could it be like one of those sea serpents?” Veron suggested, “like the ones you see on the maps.” 

Harry didn’t have a chance to answer Veron or question Beni, as another voice cried out: “Something in the water!” 

He looked behind him to the boat on his right to see it had been Bug face Bryen. A fitting name for an ugly man. “What did you see?” 

“Some sort of reddish snake,” Bryen was ugly and dumb, but he wasn’t a craven like Beni. He’d not make something up in hopes it would get them relieved of their duty. “It was moving beneath our boat.” 

In the dwindling light from the encroaching darkness, Harry looked, but he saw no sign of any sea snakes. He was about to turn away when he thought he saw movement, but it wasn’t a snake. It seemed a large and black shadow below Bryen’s boat that flickered away as quickly as it arrived. Now I’m seeing things. Harry grumbled as he rubbed his eyes. 

“Let’s go back,” Veron said lightly, playing it off as a jape, but there was a touch of sincerity to his suggestion. 

“We’re not going back,” Harry instantly squashed the suggestion with a firm tone. “Sea snakes won’t bother us.” Unsure if what they saw was a snake or an eel or something else like loose stalks of seaweed. “Besides, we can’t, we're too close.” 

“Right,” Dean agreed with him.

Just ahead of them were the floating corpses from the two destroyed ironborn ships. This was not his first brush with the dead. Living a life on the sea meant not being a stranger to death. He had been at Fair Isle the day Lord Stannis smashed the ironborn fleet. He remembered the bodies and the ruined ships that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. He was proud to have been there, fighting and killing ironborn traitors. He was just as proud of being here to take care of another traitor. And of course it was an ironborn, Harry held them all in contempt. The Iron Islands was a wretched hive of sea scum and villainy. He only wished they were under Lord Stannis’s command for this instead of his brother’s. 

The rowing was slow going through waters choked with corpses. He saw Veron flinch when the first body hit their boat with a wet thud. Poor lad, but even he wasn’t immune to this constant and dreary drumbeat of the dead. Again, and again and again. They collided with their boat.  

“Shark!” Veron nearly dropped his paddle when he spotted the surfacing shark off their starboard side. 

Stanton laughed. “Ya never seen a shark before?” The old sailor’s laugh became a wet wheeze, but his mocking tone remained. “That one’s a small thing,” he dismissed the boy’s fear. “Not even seven feet long.” 

The shark ignored them, feasting on a nearby corpse. It made a sickening crunching sound as it shredded the flesh with its sharp teeth. Harry saw Stanton was right. The brown shark was small and more a curiosity to them than a threat. “The shark won’t bother us,” he assured the cartwright’s son, Veron was still ignorant of much of the sea and its many mysteries. 

“You could make good coin selling their teeth,” Beni put in, always eying and sniffing for a profit to be had.

“No one’s stopping you,” Harry said dryly and with a gesture to the shark. 

Beni let out a nervous laugh. “I’ve only heard the practice, never partook myself.”

“I heard that Farwynd makes his enemies walk the plank,” Veron had recovered from his initial fear, and now he wouldn’t stop looking at the shark even as they rowed past it. 

“Right,” Dean nodded, likely humoring him. 

More and more sharks were surfacing. Eight, ten, twelve footers, and larger all had come to partake in this sumptuous feast of ironborn scum. Their fins rose out of the sea like daggers slicing through the water with their splashing tails speeding them along. The wet scrunching and obscene tearing sound they made was an eerie echo that rolled over the water. Harry had never seen this many sharks and more and more kept appearing. He clamped down on his own growing unease but felt it flailing within him with each blood curdling noise the sharks eating made. 

Believing Dean’s support was sincere, Veron added. “I overheard Uncle Deadly talking with one of the survivors from Lord Steffon. He had claimed that it was a kraken that pulled down their ship.” 

“A kraken?” Stanton scoffed, “And was Farwynd riding it?" He laughed at his own jape. 

“I’ve heard others speak of krakens in the seas.” Veron didn’t budge. “South of Dorne, they said, and-” 

“I’ve been sailing since before you were born, boy,” Stanton dismissed him, “And the only kraken I ever saw were those damned golden ones, and we made sure to put them down.” 

 “Farwynd is dead,” Harry had initially been grateful for the conversation as a means of distraction from the sharks, but he knew he should step in before their bickering got any worse.  “And here he lies.” He gestured to all the corpses that were around them. It was madness to think we’d find anything in this. He was tempted to give the order to head back. They had tried, and it was a waste to continue on such a pointless thing. Too many bodies, the observation nettled at him. All of this from two ships? He frowned. It didn’t seem right. Even if Inevitable was Farwynd’s flagship. He suspected there were more than two hundred bodies out there, and likely more than that. There were far too many. Something else wiggled in the back of his mind, but it was Stanton who voiced it. 

“It’s quiet.” 

“You call this quiet?” Veron asked over the splashing of two sharks coming from their port side, fighting over a corpse like a pair of dogs over a bone. 

Stanton shook his head. “This is a different quiet," he said. "It shouldn’t be quiet.”

“And why is that?” Veron asked, trying and failing to sound unconcerned by the old sailor’s caution.

“Ain’t no way our weapons killed everyone on board those ships,” Stanton answered. “We should be hearing the splashing and shouting of drowning and dying men,” he paused, as if hoping to conjure the sounds he spoke of, but none came. 

He was right. Harry had thought that when they moved closer, they’d hear the sound of the last men of Farwynd’s ships, but there was only a silent stillness that hung over these waters. Something was wrong. It prickled at the back of his neck. He was about to give the order to turn around when an eagle’s screech filled the air. It proved a welcoming respite. Harry looked up to see the sea eagle flap its wings above them. He wondered if the bird had come to feed. He was unsure if eagles ate corpses, but he doubted any animal would pass on such an easy meal. Beni’s sudden gasp turned his attention away from the large bird, making him want to roll his eyes at the man’s constant antics. 

“What is it?” Veron asked, “Seen another snake? 

“No,” Beni was looking out over the side of the boat, at one of the bodies. “I know him!” He pointed to a face up floating corpse. 

“You know him?” Harry didn’t know why he asked. We’re leaving, Beni, that’s what he should’ve told him. So, there’s no need to tell tall tales. 

“That’s impossible,” Stanton said what they were all thinking. “He’s a crewman on one of the ironborn ships.” 

Dean nodded. “Right.” 

“No, he ain’t,” Beni surprised them by not backing down, and surprised them further when he reached over to the corpse, fumbling for a hold. “This is Kevan. He’s an oarsman on Black Betha. And he owes me a silver stag.” He was trying to roll up the corpse’s soppy tunic. “He has a scar on his side, he claimed it was from a jealous husband who caught him in bed with the man’s wife,” he was rolling up the wet, sticking cloth revealing pale flesh as he went. “It looks like a crescent moon,” His fingers kept pushing back the cloth until, “Hah!” He jabbed at the body. “See!” 

And they did. It was there just as he had said, meaning this was Kevan from Black Betha.

Black Betha, that was one of their ships that hadn't yet arrived. Another of our missing ships. Harry felt very cold as understanding dawned on him looking out at all these bodies. “Turn back,” the dull fear choked the words from escaping his throat. “Turn back!”

 This time they heard and hurried to obey. They murmured amongst themselves all coming to the same bone-chilling realization. 

“What’s wrong?” Bryen bellowed out to them. The three small boats had drifted apart while trying to paddle through the throng of bobbing corpses and swimming sharks. 

Beni didn’t wait for Harry to answer them. “They’re our men!” His voice was gripped with terror, but it still rang loud and true.  “The men in the water. They’re our men!” 

“What?” Bug face Bryen looked at them as if they had gone mad. He wasn’t the only one. Bryen’s crew were grumbling in confusion and shaking their heads dismissing Beni’s words for what he was: a craven looking for a way to go back. 

“Harry,” Stanton jerked his head to where the other boat was. They were shouting something, but he couldn’t understand them. He then saw they were pointing. Harry followed to see it was at Fury. 

Harry fumbled for his far-eye. Using it, he could see onboard Fury that there was some sort of commotion. Worse, his stomach dropped. There was fighting. “Row!” He ordered, “We’re under attack!” As quick as they could manage, they turned their boat around and began to row back towards Fury. The other boats followed their lead. 

“How?” Stanton’s brow was wet with drops of sweat. “It’s not possible.” 

Harry didn’t have an answer. All he could do was helplessly watch the violence unfold with his far-eye. He felt a nauseous chill take hold of him, as he could do nothing for his friends aboard Fury who were fighting and dying from this surprised attack. How could this be? There hadn’t been any other ships spotted near them. It was impossible for another ship to sneak up on Fury. 

Impossible. 

All thoughts on the fleet’s flagship fled him when the sea began to violently churn some ways from them. Great tremors rippled across the water, bringing with it white capped swells that hit their boat with enough force that he nearly dropped his far-eye overboard. Instead, he turned towards the source to see the sea was erupting in a volcano of spray and saltwater. And then in the twinkling mist, it rose. 

A red mountain emerged from the sea beside Lady Lyanna. 

Harry gaped stupidly up at it. He heard one of the others say the word, the name of what it was. It had come out in a strangled gasp, and he recognized it. They had just been discussing it. And dismissing it. They weren’t supposed to be here, not in front of them in all its terrible, towering splendor. 

Still the word didn’t stick. His mind refused to believe that’s what it was even as he watched in equal parts fear and amazement. The tall waves this red, pulsing mountain made with its astonishing size sent turbulent and enormous swells smashing into Lady Lyanna in blaring thuds that sounded like thunder rolling across the sea.  

Lady Lyanna rocked violently side to side making him think of a cradle, but the screams coming from it were not of an upset babe, but of hardened men who now sounded like wailing children. And then a forest of red trees sprouted out of the sea, engulfing Lady Lyanna. And for a brief moment even blocking it from view, but they could still hear the crew’s desperate and terrified screams. The red writhing trees seized the ship and then began squeezing it. 

No, not trees. Acceptance finally rooted itself through his mind’s panicking haze. They were tentacles. And that was. The word rose inside him like bile. Kraken. Harry ignored the warm flood that went down his leg. Lady Lyanna’s groaning sounded like an animal’s dying throes, ending with a tremendous CRACK! It had been so loud and sharp, Harry flinched, his own stomach tightening in a hard knot.

Pieces of once thick oak and sturdy pine fell into the sea like broken twigs as the once proud warship crumpled into ruin right before their eyes. Falling with the wreckage was of its frantic crew hitting the water in a series of splashes, sobbing and screaming for help. The kraken sank its enormous body back below the surface forming churning whirlpools that pulled drowning men under. They spun as they sank, still screaming as they were swallowed whole, disappearing into the dark hungry depths. 

“Look!” Someone had found their voice, and the word sent all heads turning to see Seaswift was reacting. The ship’s deck was bustling with frightened crewmen, pointing and shouting at the destruction of Lady Lyanna. It was a smaller and weaker warship compared to the others, but she was still fast. Surely, she would help, he thought, before he saw the truth: She didn’t. It appeared the captain had seen enough. Instead of giving the order for a rescue, Seaswift moved to abandon its position and flee. 

That was when they saw what was coming to stop it. Leviathan, the creature’s name flashed in his mind, but the whales he knew and had seen before, paled to the great white outline that surged towards Seaswift with flawless precision like a massive scorpion bolt. He didn’t see where it hit the ship, but he heard the tremendous impact it made, a BOOMING crash. The warship gave a violent shudder, rocking hard, and with a loud cracking, he feebly watched as a second of their warships were sunk. 

Stag of the Sea fared no better. The kraken’s massive body now hidden beneath the water, save for its tentacles which undulated out of the sea to latch themselves along the ship’s bow and stern. Holding it in place, Harry dimly realized when he saw the surging leviathan charging the warship. Numbly, he turned before impact, but the ear-splitting sound made him tremble. 

In a matter of minutes, they had lost three ships and hundreds of men had been tossed into the water making the sea roil like a boiling cauldron. They were crying out for their mothers, for their gods, for mercy, bobbing in the whitewash, but the waters around them began to darken as the sharks came to feed. Dread moved like an infection through his blood. In the roaring confusion of his thoughts, it sounded as if a hundred voices were all calling out to him. 

“HARRY!”

“HARRY!”

“HARRY!” 

The boat beneath him jerked to life, nearly causing him to stumble over, slicing through his stupor. His crew had given up on him and had made their own decision. They were rowing and it was away from the wrecked ships and their own men. He wanted to stop them. To tell them to go back, but he couldn't find a scrap of courage or loyalty within him only the cold fear that had nested inside him. The abandoned sailors’ haunting shrieks chased after them like harrowing spirits, but none on their small boat dared to look back, dared to protest, nor dared to turn around. 

Bug Face Bryen chose differently than them, but their loyalty was met by a grasping slithering red tentacle. It raised the boat out of the water to the crying protest of Bryen and his terrified crew. The tentacle violently rattled the rowboat like a child playing with their toy, a pair of men tumbled out making loud splashes. And then with what appeared an effortless twitch, it snapped the boat in two. The remaining men fell into the water, shouting and splashing.

They had barely paddled their own ship a few feet when it gave a sudden and sharp lurch. Gods it has us, he despaired, but when he looked behind him, he saw no snakelike tentacle holding onto them.  

“We’re stuck!” Beni was panicking. “We need to-” the ship violently shuddered, sending a standing Beni over the edge and into the sea. 

“Let me up!” He loudly sputtered, “I can’t swim!” 

Dean and Veron were trying to wrangle him from in, but Beni was thrashing in the water, and would likely drag both Dean and Veron over the edge to join him and then the boat lurched again. They lost their grip on him, and the water was quick to rush over his head.

“Beni!” Veron called out, looking desperately to try to find him, and then by some miracle he appeared a couple feet away from them. He whooped in delight.  “Over here!”  

Beni was pale as snow. He was bobbing in the water, terrified. He shook his head at their pleas. He then turned and swam away from them trying to make the long swim to shore. 

Veron frowned. “I thought he couldn’t swim.”

“A craven and a liar,” Stanton said in disgust. 

The wood beneath their feet buckled. The ship quivered below them from an unseen, but brutal onslaught.  Thud. Thud. Thud. 

Harry felt his heart sink like a cold stone into his belly. I have a bad feeling- the wood finally cracked with water rushing in. And then something else. Smashing through the hole was the largest shark snout he had ever seen. Raising its massive head, the shark greeted them with a savage grin. Stanton was cursing, Veron was crying, and Dean was bleeding. Harry blinked, noticing that most of Dean’s arm was now gone. It was in the shark’s jaws before it disappeared behind rows of sharp teeth, as the animal slipped back into the hole it had made. Their crumbling, sinking ship swayed, sending Harry over the edge. 

The cold shock of falling into the water was swept away when he saw the shark was waiting for him. He had nowhere to go. It was too close. Too big. Too fast. Instincts still made his arms flail, and his legs kick even as he watched the shark’s large jaws extend, its painful reach inevitable. Helplessly, he felt the shark’s serrated teeth grip him before biting down. In a blooming red cloud, Harry watched his body be ripped apart. 

Any Easter eggs/references in this chapter:

The characters Harry, Dean, and Stanton are named after the famous character actor: Harry Dean Stanton. 

Dean is often quoted as only saying the word: "Right," in this chapter in honor of Stanton's character 'Brett' from the movie Alien. 

Veron 'Cartwright' is named after actress Veronica Cartwright who plays Lambert in the movie Alien. I even gave him two of her character's lines from that movie: "I like griping," & "let's go back." 

Harry's: The Iron Islands was a wretched hive of sea scum and villainy. Is of course a reference to the famous quote Obi Wan Kenobi uses in "Star Wars: A New Hope." 

Harry's 'I have a bad feeling-' is a reference to another famous Star Wars quote that is used in the movies: "I have a bad feeling about this."

Beni is named after the character 'Beni Gabor' from the amazing 1999 The Mummy. His friend 'Kevan' is named after the actor who played Beni, Kevin J. O'Connor. 

Bug Face Bryen is named after 'Big-Fat-Ugly-Bug-Face-Baby-Eating O'Brien' a character who briefly appears in 'Muppet Treasure Island.' 

Chapter Text

Renly didn’t know if it had been a few minutes or hours since his world had gone black. 

I had been coming down to my cabin. He slowly tried to piece it back together. The crew had been showering him with cheers, still chanting his name as he went below deck. There were wet footprints across my cabin floor, he remembered, and there was someone in my seat. 

“I was told you were looking for me.”  

The rest of the memory came as an unbidden mess. The closing door, the masked intruders, the pain, it was a jarring wave that crashed over him. The shouting and screaming that erupted on Fury, drowning out his own. He blinked it away not wanting to be reminded of the pain and darkness. His first few glances were a blurry haze, but he could tell he was still in his cabin. 

He was bound to a seat. He raised his head to see he wasn’t alone. In the dimly lit room, the shadow was slow to come into focus, tall and man shaped. The first bit of color Renly saw were the eyes, an eerie blue. “You’ve reached the edge of the map, Lord Renly,” the shadow’s voice was as unnatural as he remembered, “And here be monsters.” 

Renly ignored the striking chill that went down his spine. “Farwynd.” 

The ironborn smiled. “And so much more.” 

“How?” He asked. “How did you get here?”

“I ferried my men over.”

“No,” he shook his head, “the crew would’ve seen the ships.” 

“Who said anything about using ships?” 

A sudden blood-curdling shout above their heads made him forget about the ironborn’s confusing words and his likely lies. “The crew?” 

Farwynd’s expression hadn’t changed by the intrusion. He nodded.

“All of them?” Renly’s stomach twisted when his question was only met with silence. “What about the other ships?” 

“Sunk.” There was a strange shine in Farwynd’s eyes. 

“I presume you will be ransoming me back to my brother.” He said, projecting a confidence he couldn’t muster.  He wanted to plant and then secure the idea between them. The expected accord between noblemen who fought on opposing sides. No different than me ransoming back what I lost in a tourney joust. 

A glimmer of amusement flickered over his features. “And why would I do that?”

“I’m the king’s brother,” he answered, but Farwynd’s eyes were unblinking, unimpressed. “There will be lots of gold.” 

“I already have more gold than your brother could offer,” the intruder leaned back in his seat. It irked Renly at how comfortably he looked in Renly’s chair. “Besides last I heard the Iron Throne was millions in debt,” he had also helped himself to Renly’s wines. “The Spider keeps me well informed.” 

“Varys?” Renly gaped, “that snake!” A flare of anger spat up inside him, a hot burst that kept the creeping cold fear momentarily at bay. Stannis had been right. The court should’ve been purged after Robert took the throne. But instead, he thought miserably, the rot remained and the old allegiances to the dragon appeared remembered. And I’m the one paying for it. 

Farwynd chuckled. “He must not be too fond of you, Master of laws.” There was no mirth in those everchanging eyes. “Since he sent you to me instead of your brother.” He rose from his seat, and that was when Renly noticed the blood splashed across his shirt. It looked black in the near darkness. “If it brings you comfort, Stannis will fare no better against me.” There was no comfort to be found, only the icy, gnarled fingers of fear that wrapped themselves around his heart. 

“My brother already smashed the ironborn once,” Renly found a strange sort of amusement in his newfound admiration in his older brother. To make it better it had gotten an unexpected rise out of the ironborn. Good.

“I’m no Greyjoy,” Farwynd’s eyes flashed dangerously, “Your brothers should be grateful that it was a Greyjoy leading the rebellion, because if I led one,” his voice was deep and brimming with old hatreds. “They never would survive the crossing. Your brothers, Lords Stark and Lannister, Arryn and Tully, all would sink and be claimed as worthy sacrifices for Him, but tonight, Fury is my altar.”

“If you kill me,” Renly could barely hear his own words over the hard pounding of his frantic heart, “there will be no chance for peace.” 

“Good,” Farwynd said bluntly, “because I want war.” 

“You don’t think to topple my brother with this beggar king?” He laughed at the absurdity, but the sound was raw and weak. The noise smothered by the growing dread.

The ironborn didn’t take offense to Renly’s outburst. “I wondered the same thing when they approached me.” He moved around the desk as he spoke. “For nearly twenty years the Targaryens have been gone, but they still have families loyal to them throughout the kingdoms. Some simply longing for their return, others actively plotting for it, but in the end, the greatest boon to their cause turned out to be the Queen herself.” 

Renly frowned. “Cersei?” 

Farwynd didn’t respond, instead he looked behind Renly, and that was when he heard movement. Guards coming for him. The gloved hands that gripped his shoulder felt like claws, digging into his flesh. Bound, he still struggled, but they handled him with the ease of a sulking child. They hurled him out of his seat, and all but dragged him across the cabin. Despite his size and strength, he proved useless against them.

“Do not worry, Lord Renly,” Farwynd’s haunting voice chased after him. “I shall return you to your brother.” 

Renly heaved over the side of Fury.

The sweet wine he had drunk to celebrate his victory over the ironborn now burned up his throat as bitter bile.

“Someone has a delicate tummy,” one of the ironborn said to jeering laughter. 

They were unaffected by the horrors they had committed. The sickening sights that had led to Renly stumbling to the side and purging his stomach. He sagged against the railing as best he could. His stomach was reeling, strained from the exertion. His eyes were watery, and he felt drips of vomit dribbling down his chin, but he couldn’t move to wipe himself. He knew he must look like such a wretched thing. 

Seven Hells, he shuddered, what he had seen seemed seared into the back of his eyelids. He couldn’t escape it. The very sea air reminded him of it, blowing over him with its coppery and brine scents mixed together. 

The lucky were already dead. Died in the fighting, Renly figured, but many still lay where they fell. He had looked away when he saw one of those corpses. How could they have so much blood in them? 

He saw ironborn dicing over the contents of seized chests that lay opened or smashed. The crew’s contents of home and family were openly violated and roughly sorted by greedy strangers who appraised every piece with a cold calculation of its worth as plunder. There were bodies that had been stripped of their clothes and dignity. Their belongings were put into messy piles that were selfishly eyed by impatient ironborn who were eager for their cut.  

Those who had been defiant against the ironborn attackers faced the brunt of their ire. Some were forced to line up, stand, and then watch as they were killed one after another. The ironborn sang while they slit their prisoner’s throats, rough voices bellowing jaunty songs. Others joined in, some played drums while another fingered a lute, all of them singing as they watched the hideous killings unfold. The bodies were then tossed over the side. A sacrifice for their blood-thirsty god? 

The cool night air was also rent with the sound of dying screams and pleas for mercy, such words were met with mocking derision by the ironborn.  A squealing pig was likely to find more succor from a butcher. They were dragged forward, forced to their knees while men in soaked green, gray, and blue robes of sea and blood, presided over them with zealous voices over a crowd of devoted onlookers. Some sort of savage rites before they too were killed. Heads rolled while necks gushed red like grotesque fountains, bathing the priests and killers in a crimson mist. And they all cheered. 

No more, he begged, before opening his eyes and hoping a new sight could shake loose the hold these horrors had over him. Renly looked down into the sea, and instantly regretted it. Down below he saw only more horrors in the red surf. Severed limbs, and bloodied torsos rolled along the sea’s crimson surface, all of it floating in the chop. There were shark fins and tails cutting through the blooms of red foam, ravaging and attacking everything they could reach. 

Their mouths filled with rows of sharp teeth easily tore through human flesh. They pulled and picked apart both the dead, and those still living. Biting into one such survivor, who screamed and thrashed, trying to scare the creature away, but the actions seemed to only draw more sharks to him. Like moths to a flame, and then he was shrieking and struggling in the frenzied whitewash that blossomed red from the hungry flurry of so many sharks. 

“Mercy!” 

A man’s haggard shout made Renly turn to see that someone was dangling above the water. The man was bound to a pair of planks that made a crude x. He was suspended by a rope, only a few feet above the shark infested water. 

And then he was plummeting and screaming. He dropped into the sea with a loud splash, coughing and spitting up water as the initial waves rolled over him. He was then raised just slightly so he wouldn’t drown, but he was far from safe. Helplessly, he watched approaching shark fins which served as terrifying heralds of gruesome creatures and grisly deaths.

The man was lifted up, but a few sharks surfaced, snapping their jaws, but they met only air before falling back into the sea. Renly heard laughter and looked further up the deck to see a handful of ironborn were the ones responsible. They were being led by a man with pale eyes and dark curly hair. They were treating this torture as nothing more than an amusing game. Pulling him up before letting him drop, again and again. They played it for so long the bound sailor’s throat was a raspy ruin that had turned his hoarse screams into a harsh barking sound. 

“My spymaster loves his games,” Farwynd was standing near him. He was looking below as the man was being reeled up, a shark surged out of the water with tremendous speed, snapping its jaws, just missing the dangled man by inches before it fell back into the sea with a loud smacking crash. “It’s the anticipation that heightens the pleasure, he’d say.” 

It was only now that Renly got his first clear look at his ironborn captor. He noticed that he was a few inches taller than Farwynd, who had a warrior’s build with broad shoulders and strong arms. He hadn’t changed out of his tunic so the bloodstains darkened his orange silk shirt and now he could see there had been even more bloodstains on his dark pants and cloak. His midnight black hair and strong jaw would’ve made for a handsome visage, but it was marred by his eyes. Compelling, but uncanny, they made for an unsettling gaze. 

“What do you think, Lord Renly?” He asked, “which is sweeter: the anticipation or the act?” 

Renly turned away and was cuffed for it with a sharp clout by one of his guards. He grimaced, as the burst of pain passed through him. Farwynd must have given the order because the rope was cut. The man plunged into the water where the sharks were waiting. But this time there was no rope to pull him back. 

She was waiting for him. 

There was no softness in her pretty features. She regarded him with cold purple eyes. She wasn’t dressed like a princess. She wore an exotic orange silk tunic peppered with opals and rubies, and black trousers. Does she know I argued for her death? It had been the topic of many small council sessions, and Varys had been there for all of them. Farwynd said he’d return me to my brother. 

He looked ahead for a further distraction to see there was a small crowd ahead, all huddled around something that he couldn’t see, but it was where the guards were leading him. When the group parted to let them pass, he saw what it was, and fear seized his muscles. 

There sprawled out on the ground was a large Targaryen banner. And it was waiting for him. 

It came to him with sickening clarity. The guards shoved him towards it. He fought both the guards and the rising panic within him, but he was losing both battles. “You-” He shouted, frantically searching for the ironborn liar, but when he couldn’t find him, he turned his attention back towards the princess. 

“I was a boy!” Desperation sawing through his voice. “In the war, I was besieged at Storm’s End,” He raised his bound hands in a clumsy gesture towards her, “And you weren’t even born.” 

“Your brother returned,” her voice was soft and angry, “And mine didn’t.” 

Renly was forced to his knees in the middle of the Targaryen banner. That’s when he saw him. “You said-”

“And that’s what I’m doing.” Farwynd was carrying a weapon Renly had never seen before. It looked to be some sort of mace or cudgel with a driftwood hilt, but instead of metal spikes, it was crowned by serrated shark teeth. Very large shark teeth. “I’m returning you to your brother.” 

Renly felt his throat knot and he tried to swallow down the choking fear. And then--

Daenerys didn’t look away when the deathblow was struck. 

Before she had wondered, would he beg? Her good sister had once begged for mercy, but that didn’t stop them from killing her daughter. That didn’t stop them from bashing her baby son’s skull into a bloody ruin. And it didn’t stop them from raping her, while their clothes and hands were still wet with her son’s blood. Begging hadn’t saved her family, so why should it save him? 

A spiteful part of her had wanted him to. Let him beg, she thought when he was being escorted. Let him beg like the dog he is. She bristled angrily when he had gotten closer. He was just another one of the Usurper’s dogs. She saw that plainly. 

Before, he would have startled her with his towering frame and his supposed striking resemblance to his older brother, the Usurper. Even though that was a face she had never looked on, it still lingered over her like a great shadow. A shadow that has been hounding me since the hour of my birth, but she was no longer afraid of it. Dagon has seen to that, she thought warmly of her husband, he who vowed to protect her, to keep her safe from the Usurper and his dogs. And he has. 

She watched him crumple before her. A brother for a brother. She stayed when they wrapped him in her family’s banner. The first blow in the war to come. Daenerys saw the black cloth was dripping. When the body was carried away, blood drops splattered the floor with each step like red rain. 

Our first victory. And that made her smile. 

Dagon Farwynd waited for the prisoner to be brought to him. 

‘Behind a curtain of steam, I saw them, Dagon,’ she had told him. ‘There were two of them,’ her eyes were glimmering. ‘And they were waiting for us.’

‘Sea dragons,’ they had whispered together in the darkness. She had then kissed him warmly and firmly, and then sea dragons parted from his mind and all he could think of was his lovely wife.  

It had been the Drowned God who gave her that dream. Dagon knew it. She didn’t know where they were, but she was certain of what she saw, and he believed her. His gift. His generosity. His reward for our bloody offerings.

The waters were still muddled dark red in places with bloated bodies both whole and in pieces floating all around. It was a kingly feast for the fishes and the gulls. He watched a small shark rise from a bloody cloud to sink its teeth into a half-eaten torso, with a wet rip, the animal was able to pry off a leg. It didn’t linger. It hurriedly dipped back under, still chewing on the leg like a dog does a bone as it disappeared into deeper waters. 

The reason for the shark’s hasty exit revealed itself when massive jaws broke through the sea’s surface. She propelled her massive body out of the water, with her large mouth grasping what was left of the sailor’s corpse. She seemed to levitate in the air for several long seconds. Her grey and white skin dappled with sunlight before she fell back into the sea with a mighty splash. 

Dagon smiled. It was a rare moment of peace. His companions were all content which left the glass doors in his mind, calm and quiet. He’d not soon forget Renly’s terror-stricken face when we spoke to him. Neither could he forget that the original plan called for it to be Stannis who made this trip, not his younger brother. Despite being allies, it seemed Varys still kept some things from him. He frowned, more annoyed by not being told than the actual plan itself changing. Stannis still being alive didn’t concern him. He can bring all the Royal Fleet, Dagon didn’t care. His ship will still sink. It didn’t matter if he was surrounded by a handful of ships or a hundred. There is no shield for what I am. 

“Captain.”

He turned to see his men had brought the prisoner to him. Dagon promptly dismissed them, leaving him alone with Ser Davos Seaworth. He had never met the famous former smuggler, but his reputation preceded him. One that he admired, Davos was a canny smuggler, an experienced seaman, and a capable captain, but none of that mattered because he was loyal to the wrong man.

“Is Lord Renly dead?”

“He is.”

Davos didn’t look surprised. “Did you sacrifice him to your god?” 

“No.” Dagon would send the Lord of Storm’s End back to his brother wrapped in the Targaryen banner. When the Lannisters used their house cloaks to present their loyalty, it was to hide the blood of the slain princess and her children, but he wasn’t trying to hide. Let him see, Dagon thought, not just what had happened, but to see what was coming. 

“Am I to be sacrificed to your god?”

“No,” Dagon saw the man’s shoulders slump in relief. 

Mary circled above them, and her movement caught Davos’s attention. Dagon quietly watched his prisoner and the varying expressions that crossed his weathered face in the ensuing silence. Recognition which turned contemplative before briefly lighting up into understanding when it finally clicked in his mind. He shook his head and chuckled at a jape that went unspoken.  “No better spy to have among sailors,” he said, pointing to her, “Than that bird.”

Dagon smiled but said nothing. He had been right to be wary of Davos Seaworth. 

There were bound to be survivors and other stragglers from the battle, but those didn’t concern him. Even if they found the means to return to the Seven Kingdoms, once they spoke of attacking krakens and giant leviathans, men would laugh and dismiss them. Like all the other stories, he thought, but not Davos. 

He’d tell of what he saw, and suspected, or worse what he learned. And perhaps most would dismiss him too, but Stannis may listen to his trusted man, may consider his warnings, his advice, and Dagon wouldn’t risk that. However, there was no love between Stannis and Renly. The Master of Ships was far more likely to fault his younger brother’s glory chasing and impatience over Dagon’s mastery of the sea. 

“If I hadn’t said anything,” He asked with a wan smile, “Would you have--” 

“Still killed you?” Davos nodded. “Yes,” he answered, “I knew you’d figure it out.” 

The former smuggler gave a wry chuckle while his hand went to that pouch around his neck, but there was no lightness in his expression. There was only acceptance colored by a touch of fear. "That's the first time I've been accused of being clever." 

Dagon asked the question even though he knew the answer. “If I offer--”

“No,” Davos cut in brusquely. “You killed my son.” 

He didn’t deny it. Black Betha had been attacked days ago by Scylla. What was left of the surviving crew had been put to the sword and their bodies loaded onto the decoy ships. His son could very well still be out there, he observed, floating fodder, one of many that were still waiting to be eaten.  “But if I didn’t, would you have considered it?” 

“No, I swore my loyalty to Stannis Baratheon,” he said proudly. “And once such loyalty begins, it shouldn’t have an end. Otherwise, can you really be called loyal?”

If the Royal Court had been filled with more men as loyal and as true as Ser Davos than we'd have no chance in the war to come, he observed quietly.

“For your death, Ser Davos,” he noticed the smuggler’s flinch. “Poison or steel?” He could offer him that much. 

“Steel,” Davos didn’t consider it for long, “and make it quick.” 

Dagon obliged him.

Dagon was right, Daenerys was standing beside her husband. The Iron Price makes it better. He had paid the iron price for the handful of ships that he was now giving out, rewarding loyal men and women within his fleet, but it went beyond that. 

The wine was sweeter, the food more succulent, even their fucking felt different. This innate thrill that burned through her with volcanic intensity in how they slaked their lusts and carnal pleasures within the enemy’s own room, his own bed, and countless other places that were once his, but now theirs. While those thoughts drifted through her mind, she had been watching the new captains who had been raised, and assigned their new ships, which needed new names now that they were no longer with the Royal Fleet. 

The first captain renamed his ship, Black Swan. He was once a castle blacksmith until he ran away with Lord Swann’s niece. The second to be named captain was a dusky woman with the silvery gold hair of Old Valyria. She named her ship, the Last Princess. A stocky and scarred man known as Quint gruffly grumbled the new name he’d give his ship, The Spotted Whale. Fuzzy Frank was a bear of a man, an ironborn reaver, who decided to honor his late wife by changing his ship’s name from Lady of Silk to Lady Pig. 

And then there was Fury. 

The moment it was taken, the warship became the most impressive and most powerful ship in her husband’s fleet. She was a triple deck war galley equipped with scorpions and catapults. The ship’s golden sails with the Baratheon crowned stag had already been removed and replaced with sails that now bore her husband’s personal standard. Taking in the size of her, Dany wasn’t sure they’d have enough men to manage her, but her husband said they did. He also added more men can always be brought in when they make port. 

“Will we now be staying on Fury?” she had asked her husband after he had given her a tour of the new ship. They were back in the captain’s cabins. She eyed a carved stag in mute distaste. She had tried to sound indifferent with her question, and at the idea of now living on Fury, but truthfully, she hoped they didn’t change ships. She knew Fury was now their most fearsome ship, but she had grown attached to Inevitable and her crew. It’s become my home. 

He was still and his back was to her. For a few seconds, she thought he was elsewhere, slipping inside one of his many seaskins. “What do you want?” 

An instinctive and pensive frown nearly formed before she stopped it. She knew it was a simple question, but not to her. Old memories churned, of her brother never asking her, always telling, always demanding. A face pinched in rage hovered before her, his threat whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t wake the dragon.’ Her head would then have filled with the smoke from her smothered heart. For so long, that smoke would cloud her mind, blinding her, leaving her to stumble in the darkness, but not anymore, because of him. And because of me. She had been drowned and been made anew; her old life washed away from the cleansing waves. From His Blessings, she returned harder and stronger, better, and braver. Despite her earlier hesitation, when she answered, her voice was clear and true. "I wish to stay on Inevitable."

That made him turn. His eyes were grey then blue, as changeable as the seas. He nodded. “Then we will stay on Inevitable.” 

“I consider Fury a generous wedding gift from the Usurper and his brothers,” Dagon japed to the crowd, earning a raucous round of laughter and cheers. “But for the time being, I will not be her captain, but I trust her new captain to serve me well,” He gestured to said captain, who stepped forward as his name was called. “Anson Pyke.” 

He had been the captain of Star Gazer, Inevitable ’s twin and decoy. It had served its purpose well having been sunk by the enemy’s bombardment, making him a captain without a ship. However, it was her husband who had owned Star Gazer not Pyke. He was also the man who had talked against her husband’s plans, advising they avoid instead of attack. Now, he’s in command of the most powerful ship because they followed my husband’s plans instead of his. 

This change of fortune wasn’t lost on him. His eyes shone with gratitude at the honor. “Lord Dagon, with your permission, I have a new name for Fury.” 

“And what do you wish to call her?” 

Pyke turned to her; she met his gaze with a stoic look. She hadn’t forgotten the insinuations he had made about her, that she was a distraction or worse a danger to her husband. He dipped his head to her while she remembered her husband's words from before the ceremony. He'll now be the most scrutinized captain in the fleet with his new appointment and he knows not even Fury can stand against me. 

He dipped his head. “To honor your wife and your great victory,” the ironborn weren’t ones for empty flattery or bandy false words. They meant what they said. So, she took them as such. “The Dragon’s Fury.”

It wasn’t just an apology, but a show of respect which she accepted with a nod. “A toast,” she suggested, knowing her ironborn’s fondness for toasts and drinking, they received her suggestion with a boisterous cheer. She smiled, before raising her own glass, “to The Dragon’s Fury.” 

“THE DRAGON’S FURY!” they toasted, drinking on the deck of the warship that had once been the flagship of the Usurper’s fleet. Wine had never tasted better.

Chapter Text

Jon Arryn skimmed over the next few missives that were waiting for him and nearly groaned.

Gods, he rubbed his eyes, weariness threatening to settle over him like a heavy blanket. He loved Robert, but he wasn't sure how much longer he could faithfully serve as his Hand. My last years hunched over a desk, he lamented such a fate, fearing the slow creep of time that stalked him like a hungry shadowcat. The days were long, but the years were short. His dreary thoughts were momentarily halted by the arrival of Colemon, and then completely forgotten at the maester's message.

"A raven's arrived from Winterfell, my lord." 

He immediately brightened. He didn't allow himself many distractions since his duties as Hand of the King kept him so busy, but a letter from Ned was more than enough to grant himself a small reprieve. However, he waited until Colemon left before breaking the direwolf seal. He felt himself smiling upon seeing Ned's familiar scrawl. A memory of Ned as a boy patiently working on his letters at the Eyrie filled his vision in a flash before disappearing.

My namesake is married. Jon read on; his eldest nephew had married Lord Manderly's youngest granddaughter. My nieces and nephews, still partly tickled at how his life and his family had become so entwined with Ned's. Jon had wanted to attend the wedding. It had been some time since he had seen Ned, but duty kept him in the capital. And if I go, Robert will surely follow. Turning what could've been a quiet, refreshing trip for him into a raucous royal affair that he was too tired to manage let alone experience.

I will see Ned soon enough, he reminded himself, not wanting to sour his good mood. Ned's eldest daughter would be coming to the capital next year upon turning ten and seven to marry Prince Joffrey. Despite some reservations about the young man, Jon had encouraged the match when Robert broached it before his trip to Winterfell two years past. A lady's touch should soften his sharp edges. Jon told himself, believing the crown prince still had time to grow and that a lady wife would be good for him. Besides, even if he spoke out against it, Jon knew how desperately Robert wanted to unite his family with Ned's.

When Ned comes to the capital to see his daughter married, the seed of an idea was coming to him. I'll see if he'll stay in the capital. Jon thought it through, to replace me as Hand of the King. He knew Ned would be against it, but Robert would want it. Ned's eldest sons were men grown and more than capable of ruling the north in his stead. Allowing him the opportunity to stay with his daughter for a time helping her settle in at the capital as she begins her new life.

Renewed, he returned to the letter, pleased to read matters were going well enough with the settled wildlings. Two years ago, they had raised their own king and had marched on the Wall, seeking better prospects. Robert had gone north to sort it out, but to his disappointment the wildlings chose peace. Ned was left responsible to soothe the festering tensions between his bannermen and the wildlings where centuries of bad blood had hardened old hatreds. And those duties extended to his own family, his second son, Robert's namesake was married to a wildling princess and was given his own lordship and lands within the New Gift to oversee the newly settled wildlings. 

Speaking of Jon learned that the wildling turned Ned's good daughter was once more with child, having already given Ned his first grandchild. Ned next spoke about his eldest daughter, Sansa, at how smitten she was with her betrothed, and was eagerly counting the days until she could wed him. Ned continued at how the two were exchanging letters, which helped to quell the small gathering of unease that lingered in Jon's chest at his growing disappointment at the man the royal heir was becoming. Sansa will be good for him. She had to be.

Then Ned was writing about his other daughter, Arya who had returned in time for her brother's wedding, coming from the Rills where she had stayed for a time with her betrothed, Lord Ryswell's grandson. The two are quite fond of riding, Ned wrote, their chaperones do not share their fondness. He was just about to read on about Ned's other sons when a sharp knock pulled him away. Did I not tell them no interruptions? He allowed only a tiny bit of heat from his ire burn in his tone when he responded. "Yes?"

"My Lord Hand," The guard's hesitant tone conveying that he knew of Jon's instructions. "Apologies, My Lord Hand," he started again, "It's Lord Varys, he said that you'd want to see him."

Jon sighed, not wanting but needing to put down Ned's letter. The guard spoke true, he had given the master of whisperers a delicate task. "Send him in," He slipped the letter inside his desk before Varys had a chance to step inside. 

"My Lord Hand, forgive my intrusion, " Varys bowed his head, "I imagine there are gladder tidings that you'd rather hear than mine." His hands were hidden within the sleeves of his robes, "those delivered by a different sort of bird."

"What of your birds?" Jon didn't want to discuss Ned's letter with Varys. It was for him, and him alone. "Did they find an answer to my question?"

"I did, my Lord Hand," Varys replied, "I found her."

"Where is she?"

"It would seem the gods like to play their little jokes, Lord Arryn," He giggled, "Because she's in the company of Lord Dagon Farwynd."

Jon blinked, the first thought to come to him was that he had heard wrong. He was not proud to admit it, but there were times where he had needed to hear a servant's question or a lord's remarks a second time, because their voices sounded so strange and muffled. But Varys's voice had come to him clearly, but instead of clarifying the matter, it only served to further confound him. How could she have reached him? Why would she have gone to him? It made no sense for Robert's bastard to find herself across the Narrow Sea and of all places to be, for it to be with him. "Tell me everything you learned, Lord Varys."

The first news to reach them from the east came from a recently arrived ship, who claimed to have spotted a shipwreck on their way to King's Landing.

The ship had turned out to be one of theirs. The part of the ship's hull that had the painted name Lionstar was found bobbing in the water as if it was a sign for a nearby tavern. And according to the merchant there had been no survivors by the time he neared the wreckage. 'Only the dead and the hungry scavengers,' he had said, 'And I dared not linger,' the captain had shuttered at the memory.

When Jon pressed Varys for more details, he had little to confirm or offer.

"My Lord Hand," Varys said meekly, "I don't have little fishes," he smiled, deflecting blame, "Only my little birds. And it takes time for them to travel across the sea."

Afterwards, Jon had invited the master of ships to his solar. "What do you think?"

"That my brother is a fool," Stannis said brusquely. "And he has as much business leading a fleet as Patchface."

"And the Lionstar captain?"

"He's competent. He's been a captain in the royal fleet for a few years."

Then it must have been a storm, Jon reasoned, before a creep of the memory came to him. The one with Davos and the stories he told of this Farwynd. Tall tales, Jon dismissed them as soon as they came. This would be the worst news they'd hear from the mission. He told himself.

He would be wrong. A week later Renly Baratheon's body arrived.

"How did you come across the body of my brother?"

Jon stood in the shadow of the Iron Throne. He had wanted to do this quietly, bring the captain and his crew aside to interview them. Preferably in the presence of the small council before handing them over to the black cell gaolors for sharper questioning. Robert had refused. So blinded by his anger at the news of not just his brother's death, but at the delivery of his body, he demanded the captain be brought to him and questioned in front of all the court. What should have been a discrete questioning had turned into a needless spectacle.

"Your brother?" The Pentoshi captain paled. The guards hold on him was the only thing keeping him from falling over. "Your Royal Majesty," Westerosi decorum and titles unknown to him. "I didn't know he was your brother."

"We are not accusing you of this terrible crime," Jon intervened, ignoring Robert's grumbling from atop the throne that came down to them like thunder on a mountaintop. "We are merely curious as to how one of our great lords, Renly Baratheon, the king's own brother came onto your ship." 

"My ship was two days out of Pentos, my great lord. We were traveling north to Braavos to sell our wares when we were set upon by his ships."

The his sent a tizzy through the court, hushed whispers and murmurs. Jon ignored them, annoyed that Robert not only allowed this, but was the reason for this audience. "Dagon Farwynd?"

"It was," the captain hurried to answer, before hastily adding, "my great lord." His continued bungling of their titles brought amused titters from the noble onlookers. "My ship was escorted to where he was waiting. We traveled through a sea of blood and the dead." His face displayed complete and total dread while recalling the memory. "A watery graveyard the likes I've never seen. The dead were in the hundreds," he shuttered. "Everywhere you looked you saw them. These mangled bodies, floating in the red waters, with just as many sharks feeding on them." Somewhere in the crowd, a woman fainted so overcome at the captain's harsh descriptions. 

"And in the middle of this watery hell, was his ship," the captain appeared ignorant of the reaction his words were stirring from the captivated court, as he described the ship that Farwynd was waiting on to receive him.

It came to Jon with sinking horror that it was Fury the Pentoshi captain was describing. The revelation was not just his as more and more came to the same conclusion, setting off an even louder wave of reactions from the court. Jon stepped forward to try to quell this before it could worsen any further. "The captain will be escorted out-"

"No," Robert refused, rising from his throne. "I will hear all of it, and I will hear it now," He demanded. "I will not be chased off my throne by gossip."

Reluctantly, Jon continued. "Why did you accept this task if you were not in league with him?" He needed to raise his voice so it could be heard over the noisy buzzing of the engrossed court. "You could've lied and gone on your way to Braavos." He watched the captain's eyes widen at the suggestion.

"I couldn't." He shook his head. "He said he'd know if I didn't go and that-" he licked his lips, "his god would find me if I failed and punish me."

The captain's fear was met with laughter from the court. The queen was the first, which encouraged many others to join her. A few contemptuous shouts followed which were directed at the captain, mocking jeers of him being a craven or a fool. Jon was pleased by the reaction, but when he looked around, he noticed there were still several who weren't laughing.

"The Drowned God is a lie," The High Septon proclaimed from where he sat on his cushioned seat. Too fat to stand for long stretches of time, he now pushed himself up. Dressed in colorful and bejeweled finery. "The Drowned God can not hurt you," he lectured the captain. "The Seven watches over us and protects us." He then turned to the Iron Throne, "And the Seven has blessed your reign, Your Grace." He announced, "and no other."

The pentoshi captain looked around the court, as if seeing them for the first time. His face flushed, embarrassed by their reaction towards him being so obviously tricked by an empty threat. "You don't know the truth," he said to the sneering High Septon. "But I do," he insisted, "The Demon of the Tides," the captain then muttered something in valyrian. "The Hand of God." He made a gesture with his hands as if to ward something off. "And his reach is inevitable."

Ser Loras Tyrell was still standing vigil over the body of Renly Baratheon when Jon Arryn arrived. The body which had been prepared by the silent sisters was currently at rest in the Red Keep's Sept. Tomorrow, it would begin the journey back to Storm's End where Renly's remains were to be buried in the tomb of his ancestors.

Jon wouldn't forget seeing the body for the first time wrapped snugly within the Targayen banner. The three headed red dragon had specks of dry blood around its maws as if they had feasted on the corpse. Nor would he forget Robert's reaction, the dismay that turned to rage, and the angry howl that followed, further stroking his bloodlust against the Targaryens. The wounds on the body were ugly and savage. Deathblows of a sort Jon had never seen before. He had asked Pycelle and Colemon what could've made them. The former believed they came from an animal while the latter believed it came from a crude sort of club.

"Ser Loras," Jon greeted the knight, "I thought you'd be packing for the journey."

Lord Tyrell's youngest son had volunteered to be one of the escorts that would be taking Lord Renly's body back to Storm's End. "I'm already packed, my lord." In the dim candlelight the knight's eyes looked red.

"And your grandmother?" Jon would be remiss not to ask after her. "How is she?" 

Loras had received a raven urging him to return to Highgarden because his grandmother, Olenna Tyrell had fallen deathly ill. A message that ended up saving his life. Loras had been planning on traveling with Renly to apprehend the princess before he was called away. Instead, he arrived at the capital to learn not of Renly's victory, but of his death.

"She recovered," Loras answered, sounding relieved that he didn't have to mourn his grandmother on top of his friend.

"I'm glad to hear it," Jon meant it. "She's a strong woman."

There was a beat of silence between them before Loras broached it. "My lord?" He said tentatively, and at Jon's encouraging nod, he continued. "What will happen now? Will you be sending the royal fleet to hunt this ironborn dog down?"

"The king is considering his options," Jon answered carefully, since the small council had yet to reach a consensus on the best course of action. "I didn't mean to intrude, Ser Loras, but the king is on his way," Jon said, revealing the reason for his visit. "And will wish to mourn privately before his brother's body leaves in the morning."

Loras stiffened. He opened his mouth as if to argue before deciding against it. "I understand." He looked back to where Renly lay. "If you will excuse me," He was still looking at the body. "I will take my leave to give the king his privacy."

"Ser Loras," Jon called after him. "Renly was fortunate to have a good friend like you."

A flickering scrutinizing expression passed over the young man's face before it smoothed away, and he gave a tight nod. "Thank you, my lord."

"We've lost more than a dozen ships," Stannis informed the small council, seemingly more bothered by the mess his dead brother left behind than of Renly's death itself.

"We can rebuild them," Jon didn't know how they'd pay for that hefty investment, but he trusted Petyr to find the funds. He always did.

Stannis wasn't mollified. "And who is to crew these new ships?" He asked. "We've lost hundreds of sailors. These were good, experienced men who followed my brother to their deaths." As master of ships Stannis likely knew many of those men who were lost at sea, but Jon knew it was the loss of Davos Seaworth that hurt Stannis the most.

"I have something to add, that will affect our master of ships," Petyr said, slipping himself into the conversation. "It seems that many men already a part of the royal fleet will not be eager to sail if it means going against Farwynd." 

"This is whore's gossip," Stannis dismissed. "The men will follow their orders."

"It's true that my information comes from my whores, but they do serve so many of your men, Lord Stannis," Petyr said with a sly smile. "And this latest news has rattled them. Farwynd having sunk or captured so many of their ships including Fury. Their suspicions run deep, I'm afraid."

"It's all just stories and lies," Pycelle muttered from where he sat hunched over in his seat. "The ignorance of the smallfolk who follow portents instead of facts."

Baelish shrugged, before smiling in agreement with the grand maester. "Alas, they crew the ships," he pointed out, "Unless the king decrees we fill the ships with learned men such as maesters and nobles." Baelish stroked his beard. "Does the citadel forge a link for seamanship, grand maester?"

"Thank you, Petyr," Jon intervened before Pycelle could respond.

The master of coin gave a small bow of his head. "I'm happy to serve, Lord Arryn."

"Varys, any news from the procession?" Jon turned to the eunuch. When Renly's body went back to Storm's End, it was accompanied by the new lord and lady of Storm's End, the prince Tommen Baratheon and his betrothed and cousin, lady Shireen Baratheon. With them both being only ten and one, a regent had been named to help them rule until Tommen reached his majority.

"Yes, my lord. They've arrived at Storm's End."

Renly's body hadn't been in the city for an hour before the queen had made her push that Tommen should be given the now vacant lordship of Storm's End. Concerned, over the growing rift between the king and his surviving brother, Jon had suggested a betrothal between Prince Tommen and Lord Stannis's daughter, Shireen. The queen immediately refused, considering it a great insult while wrongfully insinuating Shireen was likely barren, and the girl should see it as a blessing. Fortunately for Jon, Robert sided with him, but he suspected it was a close thing. 

The Storm's End issue may have been resolved, but there was still the matter of who would replace Renly as the next master of laws. Jon expected it to be a struggle to fill the empty seat since the queen would have her own candidates, all of whom would be kin or kith to her. The Royal Court was already filled with so many Lannisters, draped in their house colors and decorated with their golden lions, visiting foreign dignitaries could mistakenly think that the Lannisters, not the Baratheons, were the royal house of the Seven Kingdoms.

She'll likely work even harder after the Shireen betrothal. Only the queen would take her second son being named heir to such a coveted lordship as an insult merely because she also wasn't allowed to pick his bride. Jon had a few lords he thought would serve admirably in the role, but each time he tried to bring them to Robert's attention, the king refused to discuss them. He had taken Renly's death hard, and to Jon's chagrin seemed to drink even more now to cope with the loss of his youngest brother. His worries over Robert were dispelled when the doors to their council chambers suddenly opened. "The crown prince," announced Ser Preston Greenfield who had been assigned to stand guard outside.

Jon and all the other councilors immediately stood at the unplanned arrival of the prince. At ten and eight, Joffrey Baratheon looked every bit a prince, with his golden hair and handsome features. He was wearing a red tunic with gold stitching, proudly displaying the roaring lions of his mother's house. Robert would have waved them to sit back down as soon as he entered, almost annoyed by their deference, but not his son. The prince enjoyed it, seemingly basking in their obeisance. Even after he took the empty seat that had once been his uncle's, he waited a few long seconds before finally allowing them to sit back down.

"Prince Joffrey," Jon greeted him politely to mask his surprise at his unexpected appearance.  "What brings you to us?" 

"I've come to take my place on this small council," he then brandished a piece of parchment, taking in their surprised reactions with a pleased smile. "I'll be serving as the new master of laws."

This was the queen's doing. Jon realized in an instant. Despite, all she's been given, and all the positions, Robert allowed her to fill, it still rankled her, she was denied a spot on the small council. Always wanting more, Jon thought distastefully, but now she's sent the perfect substitute to serve as her mouthpiece. His eyes went to the bottom of the page to see there it was the king's seal, approving of Joffrey's position on the small council. 

"This is wonderful news, my prince," Pycelle welcomed him with a broad smile, "We are sure to be honored by your noble wisdom and whatever royal insights you will give us."

"Pycene humbles me," Joffrey smiled at the praise. "I've already enacted some changes," He gestured to his sworn shield, the scarred Sandor Clegane who had slipped inside behind the prince, coming closer, Jon noticed he was wearing a gold cloak. "I've named my loyal Hound as the new Commander of the City Watch," he announced, surprising Jon and seemingly all the others. "We need to clean up this city. The old Commander Slynt was a corrupt craven, whose loyalty was in the wrong places."

"Well done, my prince," Pycelle once again was the first to voice his support towards the prince despite him getting his name wrong. "Slynt was too low born to be trusted."

"Exactly, Pysock," Joffrey said, "and my next task as master of laws is to bring justice to the ironborn who killed my uncle."

"How would you do that, my prince?" Jon asked, wanting to believe that Joffrey was finally taking an interest in governance, but he was skeptical. The disinterest in ruling was one of the few traits he shared with his father.

"We go after him," Joffrey answered as if it was obvious.

"Farwynd is sailing east," Stannis said, "Instead of chasing him across the Summer Sea and beyond, we should wait until he returns from his eastern journeys." The master of ships pointed out. "It would give us time to build new ships and to get crews for them. As well as prepare the perfect trap to take Farwynd and his Targaryen bride."

"We wait?" Joffrey frowned. "He could be gone for years!" He shook his head. "We can't look weak, Uncle."

"Waiting isn't a weakness," Stannis replied firmly. "The royal fleet needs time and-"

"That's why we don't send the royal fleet," Joffrey interrupted, annoyed that his words were being argued with instead of obeyed.

"What are you proposing?" Jon asked. 

"We send the Iron Fleet after him," the prince was clearly pleased with himself for coming up with the idea. "We make the ironborn pay for it, by blood and by gold. We have Greyjoy's heir as a hostage, do we not?"

"We do, my prince," Varys answered. "He's at Winterfell."

"Then what else do we need?" Joffrey asked, "We demand Greyjoy bring in his unruly bannermen and prove his loyalty or his heir will face our displeasure."

"That is a bold plan, my prince," Jon said neutrally, but Joffrey took it as praise. "And one we will consider."

Stannis didn't have Jon's tact. "The Iron Fleet?" He scoffed, "Greyjoy is more likely to join him than apprehend him."

"He won't."

"What makes you so sure?" Jon was surprised by the measure of confidence in the prince's tone.

Joffrey didn't answer but instead turned to Varys.

The master of whispers understood. "The Targaryen bride was not Farwynd's only asking price when it came to joining the Targaryens in this alliance."

That took Jon aback. "What are you talking about?"

Varys flashed him an apologetic smile. "The message is new."

"Why wasn't this brought to me?" Wondering why this was the first time he was hearing of this, and that it was coming after the prince had been informed.

"The King has ordered that all news of Farwynd was to be brought to him first."

Jon hadn't been told of any such order. It's starting to become a list, he thought disquietly, of the things that Robert wasn't telling him.

Varys passed the message across the table which Jon accepted. Unfurling it as Varys revealed the contents of it.

"Farwynd was promised Pyke and the Seastone Chair. He plans on replacing the Greyjoys as Lord Reaper of the Iron Islands."

Chapter Text

The hot water didn’t soothe Daenerys’s stomach as much as she hoped it would when she slipped into the large bathing pool. 

The Valyrians of old knew of ways to heat floors, walls, and their baths without need of dragonfire or magic. This particular bath was the size of a large pond, benches were carved along its inner sides allowing guests to sit and converse while they soaked with soft cushioned pillows around the pool's ledge so they could further recline and relax.

They had been in Lys for more than a week, and they planned to stay for at least another, perhaps, even longer. It had been the same in Myr and Tyrosh. She and Dagon would be welcomed by the city’s richest and most powerful, inviting them to feasts and balls, performances, and other extravagant displays of wealth and power, each one trying to outdo and outspend the other. 

There were familiar faces at these parties for Daenerys. Nobles who had welcomed her and her brother during their years on the run. And they remembered me too. She saw how they hoped to use their shared past to further ingratiate themselves with her husband. She also remembered how each and every one of them eventually tossed her and brother aside when they grew bored of them. They were parts of a past she didn’t want to remember. That was a different life. A different me, she left them, a meek exile, and a beggar. And now they trip over themselves for my favor, she would not grant it so easily. 

At each port, there was a sea of wealth waiting for them. Trade from her husband’s ships, both from those he owned, and those who swore themselves to him. More gold came from the merchants who paid for the privilege and protection to travel in his fleet, as well as a cut from their cargoes. She couldn’t recall a single argument or any reluctance from these men. The sea was dangerous and their cargo, while valuable, would be all but worthless if it sank. So, they paid and paid happily for the promise of wealth that awaited them when they safely reached port.   

One Myrish merchant’s ship thought to slip out of paying. They didn’t sail with the fleet, but stayed at a close enough distance, to follow the route while using the fleet’s presence to evade sellsails. 

She imagined they must’ve thought themselves terribly clever aboard their own ship. And then she saw how scared they all were when the crew was brought to them after her husband had captured their ship. She enjoyed seeing their pale faces and shivering bodies as they were forced to confess their disrespect. 

They paid then. 

But not before Dagon threw their captain overboard to be made an example of to his surviving crew and a meal to the sharks below. 

An unbidden coil of nausea slithering in her belly made her swim quickly to the edge of the bath. Afraid she may empty her stomach right there into the water. Thankfully, she made it, and was even more grateful that she didn’t then promptly heave onto the tile floor. She took a few deep breaths, riding through this nauseous wave like a battered ship through a storm. And to her relief, it soon subsided. She leaned back to rest her head on the pillow and sighed. 

She was not the only one feeling ill. The evening before Dagon’s younger brother, Ygon had vomited on some Lyseni nobleman at a feast that was being held in her and her husband’s honor.  It had been a dreadful sight, and with Dany fighting her own queasiness, she worried she may follow her good brother’s example then and there. Thankfully, she hadn't. She’d not forget how calmly her husband reacted to the potential embarrassment, at how he quietly ordered some trusted men of his, to take his brother and bring him back to the manse they were staying at. 

He was worried, remembering her husband’s reaction. He was neither embarrassed nor angry at his brother at what had happened. You will see the dragon wake for this, sweet sister! That was her life with her brother. The dragon that hurt her when she displeased him. She had never done anything like Ygon had, but there were still so many other transgressions in her brother’s eyes that caused him to punish her. 

She shivered, for a heartbeat, cold and trembling in the hot bath. Icy, little fingers grabbing at her body, squeezing her, each one a past hurt from her brother, and then a billow of steam passed over her. The exhale of some invisible dragon, chasing the cold away. 

Opening her eyes, she knew she was alone in the bathhouse. She knew the welcomed steam had come from below, beneath the floors where the fires were built and tended by slaves to keep the room and the water so warm. And not by dragons. She thought of her dragon eggs and of the sea dragons who still visited her in her dreams, now and then. 

Dreams are messages from the Deep. She so desperately wanted to unravel its secrets. They will return, she thought with absolute certainty, and it will be because of me. 

The door of the bathhouse opened. “If I had known that this was what would be waiting for me then I would’ve simply killed Salvaro Saan and been done with the farce.” 

“At least you’d be able to wash the blood away afterwards.”

Her husband chuckled. 

She turned to face him to see his eyes met hers briefly before dipping to admire her naked body beneath the clear waters of the bath. It sparked a sense of triumph within her, pleased at how he looked at her. It was its own form of power, and she savored it. “Why do the Saans hate you?” 

The Saans were a very old and powerful Lyseni family who boast of very famous and influential pirate lords in their family’s distinguished past. It had been a Saan that her good brother had vomited on the night before, and it seemed he had come to the manse for some sort of apology or recompense.

“Because I make them look weak,” her husband said, “Salladhor Saan calls himself the Prince of the Narrow Sea, a name that now earns him only snickering, because of me,” Dagon reached the edge of the bathing pool. “Styling himself its prince is like your brother calling himself the King of the Seven Kingdoms while the Usurper sits on the Iron Throne.” 

“Will he come after you?” 

“Yes, but not yet. Salladhor is a patient man. He is content to wait.” He began to take off his shirt. “And wait.” He said, “Some of his friends are my friends, and they will wish to make more gold off me before they reveal their true intentions.” 

“They’d turn on you?” She asked, watching his shirt be tossed aside. 

“Yes,” his trousers were next to come off. And then all talk of the Saans was discarded along with the rest of his clothes. “I pray you don’t think of me as a poor husband for neglecting you.”

It was her turn to admire her husband’s naked form, lined with hard muscles. She felt the spark of blazing lust inside her, but she feigned to be in deep thought, considering his question. “I suppose you’ll have to make it up to me.” 

“Very well,” He smiled, and slipped into the bath to join her. 

The next morning, they broke their fast in their chambers, thick Norvoshi tapestries decorated the walls. They were hills and rivers of what she thought were different places around the city. Norvos was one of the Free Cities she and her brother had never gone to during their years on the run.  She knew their host Lady Rina was not from that city, but that was one of the only few things Dany knew about her. She was a handsome woman whose silvery gold hair had gone white with age. She dressed extravagantly, but talked little, and preferred to take most of her meals alone in the privacy of her chambers. 

“Have I upset her?” Dany had asked Dagon after their second evening without their host, worried she'd done something to insult her. 

“That’s just her way,” Dagon assured her, unconcerned of their host’s behavior. “She speaks when she wishes to, and she’ll eat with us if she desires.” He said, “She’s no longer beholden to her husband and his strict routine. She lives how she wishes to live.” 

Daenerys understood that feeling all too well. She had been beholden to the whims of her brother for so many years. It was almost all she could remember besides a few flashes of the home in Braavos with the red door. Where they lived with Ser Willem Darry, who was kind to her, and made her feel safe. Something she’d not feel again until she met her husband. Now, like the widow, it was her turn to be free, and she enjoyed every moment of her new life. 

She looked down at her plate of eggs and bacon. The wafting smell made her stomach roil. “The Saans were not at the feast last night.”

“They were not.”  

“Do you know how they’ll come after us?” 

“Likely poison,” Dagon said mildly, before biting into his bacon. 

Looking down at her food, Dany was almost relieved she had little appetite this morning. 

“Our food is tested by the slaves,” Dagon said, misjudging her hesitance to eat. “And Ramsay watches them closely.” 

A small touch of pity welled up inside her at the house slave assigned to that unenviable task. Until she thought of Dagon being taken from her by such trickery, then their potential suffering seemed so inconsequential to her numbing grief of losing him. “They don't concern you.” She admired her husband’s confidence, but she knew it was well placed after everything he's accomplished. 

“The Lyseni surround themselves with slaves and they think this makes them strong,” he cut into his eggs. “But they didn’t take them, fight for them, bleed for them. They merely bought them like one would a rug or a desk,” He took a bite, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “There is no strength in that. And there is nothing to respect in such an enemy,” he sighed. “I pray they attack us on the open seas. There’s glory in that. Great songs could be crafted for such a victory,” he said, “There’s none to be made in killing some kitchen slave.”

It also didn’t make her food any more appealing at the thought of it being poisoned and then approved for her plate. She moved her food a bit with her fork to make it look like she had eaten more than she had. Looking down at the mushed eggs, she felt a queasy pang pass over her, putting her napkin to her mouth, pretending to dab at her lips while trying to suppress her unruly stomach. 

“Captain,” The knock at the door proved a most welcome distraction. At her husband’s word, Lonnie slipped into the room. He bowed his head to her before turning back to face her husband. “Ygon is asking for you, Captain.”

Dagon’s dark eyes were unreadable upon hearing his brother’s request. “I will see him.” 

“Send him my regards,” Daenerys said, smiling when she felt the brief touch of her husband’s hand squeeze her shoulder before passing her, a subtle gesture, but precious to her all the same. She hoped her good brother was feeling better, but she was thankful for the distraction it had on her husband. She pushed herself out of her chair no longer needing to pretend to be eating her food. 

Daenerys was certain she caught this sickness sometime after they arrived in Lys. Ports were often havens for illnesses with so many different ships carrying various crews and cargoes from all around the world. It’s nothing, she told herself, not wishing to tell her husband. The rest of the crew weren’t sick like her, and she didn’t want them to think she was some frail greenlander. She doubted ironborn saw a maester over a belly ache.

It’ll pass, she’d see it through without complaint or struggle. She had to. 

Make my brother whole again, Dagon prayed to the Drowned God in the closing gloom of twilight. 

“We’re ready, Captain.” 

He turned away from the sea to where Ramsay and his thralls were waiting with their cages positioned along the shore. He had bound himself to seven, but that was not the limit to his gift. Not even close. He could skinchange into other creatures, but when he did, he preferred to keep the interactions brief, not wanting to indirectly imprint with them. Just long enough to serve my purpose. 

He stretched out his awareness, searching what he was looking for which appeared to him as gaps which he then filled with his thoughts, wresting control of their bodies. It was an overwhelming push they couldn’t defend, all but stunning them while he settled inside them. When it was over, each one came to him like a dot of light, tiny windows in a sea of darkness. They were too weak to resist, so when he commanded them, they followed as if they were their own thoughts. 

The crabs marched out of the tide like a procession of armored knights. Their red shells glimmering in the fading sunlight. Directed by invisible strings they went into the waiting cages without fear or hesitation.  

“Thank you, Captain,” Ramsay watched the scuttling crabs with undisguised excitement. “We’ll not disappoint you.” He gave the orders to his thralls, who closed the cages when the last crabs went in. They then hauled them up and carried them back towards the manse.  

Dagon dispelled a breath, extinguishing the lights in his mind and releasing his hold on them. Brine and meat and other strange tastes lingered in his mouth. He wordlessly grabbed the glass from the waiting thrall. He spat the first two mouthfuls into the sea, trying to wash his palate clean. The next couple he swallowed. The senses of the animals could sometimes stick with him after he left, with taste being the worst. Ghostly meals that would fill his mouth and could even fool his stomach. 

Crabs were rarely used by his ancestors as companions. There was one Lady Farwynd who had kept a very large crab, supposedly the size of a cat, and used its pincers to punish rapers. And if he remembered his family history correctly, she even used it on a usurping cousin, who saw himself as the rightful ruler even though he was a salt son descended from an uncle, and not directly tied to the last ruling Lord of Lonely Light. The legend says after the cousin’s cock was cut, he was forced to watch the crab eat it, with Lady Farwynd remarking afterwards: “All this posturing over such a small matter.” 

“Will that be our supper?” 

He looked over his shoulder to see his approaching wife. He prayed he’d never lose those admiring looks she’d give him. “No,” he answered, “they’re for another purpose.” 

She took his hand in hers when she was near enough. “So, you’ll not become a fisherman then?” She teased him lightly.

Fishing was a respectable trade amongst the Islands. One of the Drowned God’s own sons was a fisherman, who used his nets to capture lost souls, bringing them onto his boat where sea sprites served them before taking them to his Father’s watery halls. It was not just ironborn raiders who’d be lost at sea, but fishermen too had to endure the Storm God’s wrath. They bravely sailed to serve their people to insure they never starved, and the Drowned God rewarded such service and devotion. Fishermen often wore the son’s symbol as a charm to ward off the Storm God. 

On some islands, it’s taught that this son was the one who made the first nets to not just feed the ironborn, but to prove his own worth to his father, who saw him as the weakest of His sons. ‘Not all born can be warriors, but all must eat. A fisherman’s net is as important as a reaver’s sword.’ The Drowned God agreed and raised the son up and tasked him to watch over fishermen and to ensure that all ironborn lost at sea found passage to His halls. 

In the heartbeats of reflection, he considered his answer. “There is honor in fishing,” thinking of the small boat he and Ygon used to sail on around Lonely Light when they were boys after the war. By then they both had companions. He had Rhaenys and Ygon had his silver dolphin who he named Norren. A silver streak, who surfed through the waves. 

“Dagon?” She lifted her hand to touch his face. “Are you-” he answered the question before she could finish with a shake of his head. 

“I was just lost in a memory,” He explained, her face was open, wanting to hear more. 

She enjoyed hearing the stories of when he was younger. She didn’t have such happy memories. She and her brother were not idly fishing, but running and hiding, starving and scared, while the Drowned God gave Dagon and his family succor and safety at Lonely Light. She endured it all because she has a strength that wouldn’t crumble. It was why the Drowned God chose her and blessed her. 

“I’ve never seen Norren,” she said after he finished telling her a few stories. 

“Norren’s dead,” Dagon said flatly, “That’s why my brother drinks.”

“Oh,” she said softly, but she didn’t understand, and given his own connection with his companions, she would need to. 

Death was nothing but a wound for a Farwynd, he thought, and once inflicted all that could be determined was would it fester or would it fade. To Dagon’s growing concern for his brother, it was appearing to be the former. 

“Captain?” 

Their moment was interrupted by the arrival of his sprinting squire. Lonnie was smart enough to know when to interrupt him and when not to. “Word from Westeros.” He said in between hurried breaths. 

Dagon understood. “Let us see what news the Spider has for us.”

Chapter Text

In Lys, she was sick, but not in her dreams. In them, she was flying above a jade sea on dragonback. 

The sea had a mouth of its own that was as white as sandbars. Within its gaping mouth, it showed her many things. She saw her husband aboard Inevitable sailing atop a sea of skulls. Golden krakens fighting one another, roses sprouting atop a blood-soaked hill, a drowned crow and its dusky shadow. Then the visions abruptly went black as if swallowed by the great, growing mouth. “Come to me,” it called to her.

And suddenly instead of flying, she was standing on a beach she didn't recognize. 

The sand slipped between her toes as the tide rushed to greet her. In the water, she saw Dagon, but it was what he was holding that made her heart swell. A babe, our child, idly, she touched her belly, and understanding dawned on her, warm and sweet. Wanting to see more, Dany started running into the sea, but as the water splashed all around her, the scene washed away. 

She saw a proud harpy standing tall and strong, beneath her were legions upon legions of slaves marching like lines of ants. “Look on my works, ye mighty and despair!” She cawed as the crack of her whip fell upon the shivering slaves. Large and impressive cities could be seen behind her. They looked like small and colorful mountains in a sea of slaves. The harpy turned its hateful gaze towards Dany and sneered. Its scorpion tail bobbed, poised above her head ready to strike.

The tail lashed out, but when it struck her, it wasn’t its tail, but a chain, and with a sharp tug it slammed her face first into the ground. She coughed, blearily looking through the dust cloud to see it wasn’t the harpy looking down at her, but Viserys, who was sitting atop the Iron Throne. 

“They will come for you, sweet sister.” 

“Who?” she refused to cower to him. I am Drowned. I am the blood of the dragon. The collar around her neck withered and fell. “Answer me,” she demanded, but that only made him smile. 

“Those who fear the Light, but not dragonflame,” he said from his seat of iron thorns, each tip was red and glistening. “They’ll not show the same mercy, I showed you.” He was looking past her now. She turned to see the great oak doors of the throne room opened to show her a city on fire. 

The orange and red blaze shone like polished rubies. It was the screams of thousands that made her raise her head. That made her see it. 

In the rising black smoke, Daenerys saw the shape of some behemoth. The scales that climbed up its back like jagged mountains were pulsating incandescently, brighter and brighter until they abruptly stopped. For an instant, it was concealed in the dark and growing steam until it opened its mouth, shooting out a pillar of silvery bluish flames that moved like water, splashing and burning everything, it touched, brick and flesh alike melted away in heartbeats. Upon seeing the destruction, it wasn’t horror she felt in her heart, but wonder. And then something else. Triumph. 

The burning ruins of the city were swept away by a great wave that came for her too. The sea was gentle in its guidance, swirling around her in a protective embrace. 

“Herald of dragons, wife of woe.” A pair of eyes watched her from the murky depths of the sea, large and luminous. 

“The Harbinger of Change is coming,” Another set of eyes dotted into existence on her other side. Just as big and bright as the first. “You are coming.”

The questions cluttered in her mind, tumbling over one another, but before she could speak to them, a new voice joined theirs. It was her husband’s. 

Daenerys woke to the sound of Dagon calling her name. There was not a shred of drowsiness when she opened her eyes to see her husband’s hovering face. Giddiness thrummed through her, one of her hands moved to his cheek, the other, she placed on her belly. “I’m pregnant.” 

Despite being summoned, there was no one waiting for Doreah when she arrived. There were torches on the walls lit by servants who have long since disappeared. Their flickering light showed her a small room that was bare of trappings and furniture save for a large glass wardrobe that had been put on its back. But there were no clothes within, she could see that much through the clear glass. It was just, she moved closer. Sand, and it looked more than a foot deep.

It didn’t surprise Doreah. This heavy and large piece of furniture or its strangeness with its general lack of purpose. She had seen much and more peculiar quirks from the wealthy and powerful in her years in Lys and then Pentos. As a whore and a slave, Doreah saw the true faces of many. It was that experience, that training that had made Ramsay so interested in inquiring her for his little tasks. 

At least now I’m being paid for my services. In nearly every Free City they visited, Ramsay had these assignments for her, and she had accepted them. But Lys her former home, she was given her most pressing task yet. It was suspected that the Saans had placed a slave or purchased the loyalty of one within the widow’s household, months and months ago. 

She was given a role of a freshly turned thrall when she arrived at Lys, and one who hated her new masters. The best lies are seeded with truths. When Ramsay had said those words to her before the assignment, his pale eyes held her gaze as if to challenge him, to tell him he spoke falsely. To proclaim then and there she loved being a thrall, being the tool of another. Her training urged her to lie, to sing sweet praises for her new master and the princess, but instincts had kept her quiet. The spymaster had his ways of seeing the true thoughts of those he was with. Her eyes drifted to the glass case, like our thoughts are hidden behind panes of glass that he can easily see. 

“I enjoy serving the princess,” she had settled for her own little truth. It was an act she did like because she enjoyed the princess despite her heart warning her not to. Telling her that she was not the princess’s friend, but simply her thrall. 

Ramsay had smiled and nodded, approving not of her sentiment, but that she hadn’t tried to ply him with falsehoods. “You, my lady, are dangerous.” It sounded like a compliment coming from him, a term of endearment, and it was something Doreah had never been called before. 

When she had been fucked, she was called many things, names that weren’t hers, pretty words and heaps of praise while her cunt or mouth were serving their pleasures, but they rang hollow. Empty words and promises spoken during the climaxing throes of their lust and her duty. The sort murmured in the dark but forgotten come the new day.  

“Dangerous?” She repeated, an almost sincere smile came to her lips, before she stopped it. Instead, she tilted her head, sampling the word like it was one of the finest wines the Magister would buy for himself and for his guests.

“Indeed,” he agreed, his pale eyes nearly shining.

'He sees me no differently than the magister,' she had told herself. 'A tool to serve a new master.' Just because a sword was put in a gilded sheath instead of a leather one, doesn’t change what the weapon was nor why it was used. And she couldn’t deny that they had been better to her than any of her previous masters, but they were still her master. So, when her master gave her this new job, she did it. 

Doreah had a few suspects, but it was up to her to find him. She watched and she waited, not going to any of them. And after a few days of playing her part, the suspect did come to her. Rocco was a slave with a wispy silvery mustache and dark eyes, who claimed to be a Saan himself. He bore the look of them, the look of Old Valyria, but so did she, and that shared look of their master's didn't spare either of them the sting of the slaver's lash. Regardless of if he was one or not, he believed he was which made him even more determined to kill Farwynd and the princess. But what had made him even more dangerous was that Doreah discovered Rocco had convinced another one of Rina's house slaves to help him with his plot. 

It was a delicate performance for her to play. This forcibly turned thrall who hated her master. She needed to show it to her target in order for him to recruit her into his schemes, but she also needed to hide it in a way that would make it believable for her to avoid the suspicion of her master. Doreah had made a life of getting men to believe her because she understood the basic truth was that they wanted to believe it. To believe her, to believe in the illusion. In her days of observing, she was able to figure out the sort of man Rocco was. The one who loved to boast about their strengths or their smarts especially to a pretty face with a sympathetic ear. I was also close to the princess, and he needed that. She used his needs and plied her charms, and soon enough he was hers.  

Footsteps made her raise her head to see Ramsay’s approach and then she bowed her head when he drew closer. She hadn’t seen the spymaster since she gave him the information that would condemn those house slaves. That had been days ago. “How is the Princess?” 

“She’s happy,” Doreah recalled Daenerys’s near feverish excitement that morning when Doreah had come to start her day of duties. She thought Daenerys would make a good mother, but that was a thought that the spymaster had no interest in hearing.  

Ramsay had walked into the room carrying a box and a few pieces of loose parchment. He didn’t look at her when he passed. “Good,” he said, “the princess’s condition bears watching,” he put down the items on the glass case. “She was already a target, but once word leaves this city of her condition...”

“They’d kill her,” she said, already knowing the answer, already having seen the ugliness of power, but it still made her stomach turn. 

“Her and the babe,” Ramsay agreed, “and without hesitation.” He looked up then to show his determined expression. “And that is why our work is so important.” 

"Of course." 

“These are for you,” he slid the box across the glass surface to her. 

She stopped it with her hand. Doreah looked down to see it was an ornately carved jewelry box embedded with pearls that formed a clamshell. The box was exquisite and likely worth more than all the silver she had been paid throughout the journey. She opened it to reveal a pair of pearl earrings and in between them rested a silver ring with a small emerald. 

“All of this?” 

“Yes, that's your reward,” Ramsay answered. “You serve my captain. And my captain rewards good work,” he walked over to take down one of the torches and brought it over to a brazier that she hadn’t noticed that was placed by the glass case. “You just helped me catch a pair of plotters who wished to kill my captain and his wife.” He lit the brazier. His features were almost ghoulish in the fire's glow. “That’s your reward. The more you serve, the better you serve, the better the rewards.” He moved around the glass furniture that separated them. “I’d wager the captain will likely give you a ship when this is over for just how well you’ve taught his wife the art of fucking.” 

She couldn’t tell if he was being truthful or teasing her. He had a better way than most of masking what he was thinking and feeling. Doreah took her eyes off the spymaster and to the glass case where the lit brazier better illuminated what lay within the glass wardrobe. Doreah saw specks of red within the white sand that made her think of half buried rubies, until she saw them moving. She felt his presence beside him before she saw him. 

“That’s your reward for serving my captain,” he covered her hand that had been resting on the jewelry box. “And this,” he placed the other hand on the back of her neck, leading her to bend down to look inside the glass case.

It hadn’t been rubies that she had seen, but crabs scuttling on shifting sands, and when one small mound of it gave away, she saw what had been put inside. Rocco, dread coiled inside her like a snake, but she couldn’t look away. The lit brazier showed Rocco’s buried outline in the sand. His corpse had been given over to the crabs as a meal. They scurried along the sands, climbing over the body of a giant without fear, only hunger. His wispy mustache was gone as was his upper lip, peeled and pinched away, leaving behind a red ruin of flesh and bone. One of his eyes was gone, scooped out by some crab like it was a glob of jelly, but the other was still there, with its dead eye stare until a crab got too close and then it blinked, and Rocco’s face twitched. He was still alive! She realized in her mounting horror. 

"And this," Ramsay’s voice was a soft caress in her ear, “is what happens to those who work against us.” 

He watched his resting wife from the corner of their chambers. My pregnant wife, exultant in his correction. His attention rested on her flat belly which showed no hint of their baby, but in the coming months it would swell with their child. Throughout the years of his travels and triumphs, he’d be dogged by criticisms, and questions and while he silenced many, one that lingered had been his lack of wives. If Farwynd is so strong then why has he taken no salt wife? Afterall, a salt wife was a show of virility and strength, and yet he never acquired the many he rightfully deserved given everything he's gained and accomplished. The traditions were different on Lonely Light. 

Because they had to be. 

 Like with the rest of the Iron Islands, they observed the laws that salt children fell behind the children of a rock wife. But laws could be muddled when an elder salt son controlled a spotted whale and the rock son, a seagull. The sea change which had been his family’s blessing now proved to be a double-edged sword that threatened to undo everything his ancestors had built. The sea change gave the salt sons and daughters an opportunity that other saltspawn didn't have. Farwynd of Sealskin point had been founded by a Farwynd salt son who thought to take his own lands and make his own name with the sea change. And others had followed this example with varying degrees of success. While many throughout Lonely Light’s history had served their siblings faithfully as captains and counselors, their names recorded and remembered such as The Lonely Lady of the Light. There had been some who wanted it all and believed they had the means and the blessing to do it. Violent takeovers and skirmishes were taught to him growing up, their names came to him even now: The Battle on Three Islands, The Lone Light Massacre, and The Fortnight of Darkness, the latter ending with the ascension of Ursula Farwynd. 

She was not the first Lady of Lonely Light to bear that proud family name and would not be the last, but she put down the laws that remained long after her body had been returned to the sea. She decreed that no Farwynd could take a salt wife before already having a rock wife who had given him several strong and hale children, hoping this would help solidify their hold when such a great discrepancy would exist in age between rock and salt children. Her son followed this rule and his son and so forth. Dagon’s grandfather had as well, taking a salt wife after his two sons were nearly men grown, but when she and their daughter died on the birthing bed, he had no interest in taking another. 

Dagon's focus drifted back to his wife and their babe. Our child of fire and the sea with dragon blood and salt in their veins. And all the blessings of a God. He smiled, remembering his wife’s dreams of dragons and war, of fire and conquest. Such songs the skalds will sing! 

Not all of it could be discerned, nor could she remember everything, but Dagon was certain of the message, of what the Drowned God intended of them. Dreams are messages from the Deep. It didn’t concern him that the dragons differed in his wife’s dreams, or that the cities could not be decided. It doesn't change the truth. Dany will lead us down a path of glory. He thought of his remarkable wife, and her amazing gifts, and now she's given him the greatest gift of all, the news of her pregnancy. He left their chambers with one last look. 

It had not just been his family’s history that had stayed Dagon’s hand at collecting the numerous salt wives that he deserved, but his own ambitions. He’d not squander them on baser impulses. For so long, he thought his future was on the green lands and wanted to marry into one of the great noble houses. He knew he was already fighting his people’s poor reputation on the mainland when he came to visit these proud lords asking after their noble daughters. They'd be insulted and dismiss me as soon as the negotiations came onto his salt wives. It was good of them to take paramours or mistresses, or even father children, but a salt wife was too different in their eyes.

So, if it could only hurt his chances, Dagon decided not to bother. That didn’t mean he lived his life like some chaste septon. Hardly. he nearly snorted at the thought. Because, I didn't need to marry these women in order to fuck them.  Some had been his own thralls, beautiful women he had taken throughout his journeys. They were salt wives in all but name. He didn't hurt any of them, because it was an honor to be chosen. They were amply spoiled, and he made sure no bastard would come from their coupling. There had been Chel, Esmerelda, and countless others. And when the gold and glories of his expeditions raised him to dizzying new heights of power and pleasure, he sought out the best of the professional sort which had included the Jasmine Princess out of Tyrosh and Helaena, the very flexible and incredible Braavosi courtesan, who had shown and taught him much and more.  

“Captain.” The thrall's greeting having interrupted his thoughts. He was waiting for him by the open door, but it was what he was holding that Dagon paid attention to. It was a larger model of his ship, Inevitable. The thrall with a bowed head handed it over. He wordlessly took it and walked into the room where it was all waiting for him spread out on the table. It was time to begin. 

The stars spilled out onto the night sky like scattered diamonds on a black tapestry that late evening when it was time to observe the rites. It was an ironborn tradition for a husband and wife to make an offering to the Drowned God when a pregnancy was revealed. 

“Bless me,” Dagon said to the priest when the ceremony was at its end. They had already sought the blessings of Him and the others. The skalds had already sung of old legends and new beginnings, so all that was left was the offering. He knelt into the water without hesitation. 

“What is dead may never die,” The priest said while pouring a stream of saltwater down upon his brow. 

Dagon was unflinching as the water fell over him. “But rises again, harder and stronger.” His wife was next. Daenerys said the words with a strong heart and fire in the blood. Ironborn, he thought, watching her with pride. 

“A woman’s womb is a sea into itself,” Sharkey said to her when it was over, “A cradle of life and growth.” 

It was time to make their offering. He carried it, Inevitable, its mast had been replaced by a candle, which had been lit during the ceremony by them. The model ship was laden with tokens. Dagon filled its small stores with gold and every type of gem he had found and taken. The blood of his enemies, those Saan slaves wet the decks, and a torn piece of a blood-stained sheet, the one that proved his wife’s purity was tucked away within. Blood was power. 

“Why a candle?” Daenerys had asked before the ceremony. “Isn’t that part of the Seven?”

They were alone on the shore waiting for the others. She was looking at the newly placed candle on Inevitable. 

Dagon had considered her question for a few heartbeats before answering. “The Andals likely lit many candles before they set off to the Iron Islands. They sought to conquer us, to convert us, to change us, but it was them who changed,” Dagon watched the waves crash, beating onto the tide like drums of war. “We took what was once theirs and made it ours. Their old rite, but for their new god.”  It hadn’t just been land or people they took, but their faith. Their very gods. Was there any better victory? He didn't think so. 

It was a short walk to where they’d cast off their offering. Their show of gratitude, a symbol of their fidelity, as they sought the Drowned God’s favor to protect wife and baby in the coming months. If an ironborn couldn’t afford such lavish gifts, they offered whatever they could, coppers and silver, meat and seeds, taken trinkets, driftwood or ivory carvings. His father made offerings of whalebone armrings and walrus tusks. 

I’d burn the real Inevitable if I had to, he felt his wife’s hand in his, if it promised me Dany and our baby’s life. But for them, tonight their altar was the model ship. Others used and built whatever they could so long as it floated. These floating offerings would eventually sink, were expected to, after all the Drowned God’s kingdom resided under the waves, but it was believed the farther it went out before it sank was not only a good sign for the chances of a successful pregnancy, but it was also considered a good omen for the baby's future. 

“How far did mine go out?” Dagon remembered asking his mother as a small boy when he attended the ceremony for the pregnancy that would lead to his youngest brother, Yohn. 

“It sank right away,” Gyles teased from where he was walking on the other side of father. 

Dagon could still remember quivering at that, at believing his brother, and fearing his future. 

“Don’t listen to Gyles,” his mother had said after giving her eldest son a sharp look that would make a hungry shark turn away. “Yours, Dagon went farther than any Farwynd before.” She had whispered it as if it was a secret only meant for her and him. 

“Really?” 

She smiled and nodded. “The farthest Farwynd.” 

He had believed her that night as she tousled his hair, but later when he was a bit older, he suspected she had said it only to comfort him from his brother’s teasing. But now, as he readied to send off his first offering with his pregnant Targaryen wife beside him. Mayhaps, she was telling it true. 

Chapter Text

Daenerys had grown weary of Lys. 

She missed the lapping water that rocked Inevitable. The steady beating against the ship’s hull, a reliable heartbeat she longed to hear again. Walking on the deck, feeling the ship move beneath her, the waves lifting and carrying her. Standing in the sunshine while the wind whistled, the sails fluttered, and the wood creaked. The noises of the sea were a rhythm she had fallen in love with long ago. 

They had stayed in Lys longer than anywhere else, and once they set sail for Volantis, she expected an equally long stay there too. And then, she thought of their expedition, to the east, she smiled, to lands I’ve never seen and waters I’ve never sailed. A touch of soreness in her back caused her thoughts to withdraw on their future voyage, looking down to see her hand had been resting on her belly without even realizing it. This is our future, she thought while she looked down on the map on the table in front of her, remembering what Dagon had taught her earlier about some of the lesser islands after going over the seven major isles. 

He had pointed to the grouping of a particular island chain. “This is where the descendants of thralls live. They tend to these lands, farm it, raise livestock, sheep, and whatever else they wish to. They even have their own small port, Freetown,” Dagon tapped the dot of said town, “The Codds and Humbles have their keeps here, but they are not the islands’ liege lords. These lands are overseen directly by the Seastone Chair.” 

She understood what that meant: 'they'll be overseen by us.'  

Dany heard her husband's footsteps, looking up as he entered to see the touch of concern in his expression when he took her in. I must look quite the sight, she mused, bleary eyed, half-sitting and half standing, bending over this table. And that’s just what he can see, she added wryly, not wanting to think on the nausea and the other ailments.

“Our future will keep, Dany,” he was in front of her, before he finished.

She welcomed his embrace, the warmth of his arms around hers, while quietly amused at how he looked after her now that she was with child. This babe inside me hasn't turned me to glass.  Still, she let him guide her to the couch by the fire, but only because she made sure to have him join her.  

“You should be resting,” his arm was around her as she burrowed herself against his side, resting her head against him, feeling a wave of sleep wash over her, she closed her eyes, half listening to what he was saying until, "Being pregnant is-" 

That roused her. He spoke about it as if, but the thought trailed off, too ridiculous to be true, to consider, until she remembered his gift. "You sound as if you've been pregnant, husband." 

"I imagine there are some differences between your pregnancy and a shark's." He said dryly. 

"Is that so?" She asked after she laughed, she couldn't help it, too amused by both the absurdity of this conversation and of her husband's mild manner in discussing it. 

He nodded, but there was no further trace of mirth as he spoke. “My experiences are limited with Rhaenys because it isn’t safe. You can accidentally slip inside the baby’s mind, like missing a step on the stairs. Their minds are too frail. They’re not fully formed so such a slip can be disastrous. It can lead to madness for the Farwynd and miscarriages for the animal. It’s the difference between diving into the sea and that of a puddle.” 

“What else?” She asked quietly. 

“The expectant mothers can often undergo a change that makes the bond more tenuous and dangerous. They can become more aggressive and ferocious in their singular need to protect their children.”

Daenerys understood that feeling all too well. “So,” she said slowly, “is there anything else do you know?”  

“Well,” he said, “because of Mary, I know what it feels like to lay an egg." 

And over her giggling he started from the beginning. 

Sleepily, she stirred beneath the covers, aware enough to know her husband was beside her and still sleeping. She smiled.

These were the best mornings. Her favorite mornings. 

It was a rare thing to greet the new day before him. To feel the hold of sleep slip away and be replaced with the feel of him holding me. To be able to open her eyes and take him in the soft morning light. For the presence of dreams to fade away while his form solidified before her. 

He often woke before her. And she didn’t mind those days feeling the curtain of sleep being slowly pulled up by his movements on their bed, but not this one. The only sound coming from her husband was that of his steady breathing. 

Happiness raised within her like the morning sun, a soothing warmth that thrummed through her. Daenerys never imagined how wonderful it could be to awaken in the morning and find herself wrapped in the arms of someone she loved. Before the new day always frightened her when she was with her brother, aware of their dwindling prospects and ever lurking danger while wondering if this would be one of the days when she’d wake the dragon. Will he hurt me today? Will we eat today? Now, she didn’t feel those cold stings of fears and hurts, instead she woke each day knowing she was safe. It was such a peaceful and comfortable feeling, and one she’d never tire of. These months since her wedding were the happiest in her life not thinking such joy could ever be surpassed until she learned the joyous news of her pregnancy.

Daenerys shifted to her side to face her husband who was sleeping on his. She had one hand on her belly, there was no noticeable swell to show she was pregnant, but right now inside her, it existed. Their babe. This precious gift. She found her thoughts and heart often drifting towards this stranger, whom she already loved with all her being. Every time she pictured their babe, the coloring would change, the gender would change, but not the joyful radiance that bloomed within her. Our babe, her hand nearly touching her husband’s face whose features she had fallen in love with. What will they look like? She quietly wondered, would they have her Dagon’s dark hair? My eyes? Hers were on her husband’s closed ones. Or will our child have your wondrous eyes, husband? 

The only answer she got was from her stomach, a lurching sensation that punctured her idyllic thoughts. Biting back a groan, she slipped out of her thoughts, out of his arms, out of their bed and right towards the privy. 

After they had broken their fast together, they had retired back to their solar, sitting on chairs that faced one another. The back of her husband’s chair had been carved to resemble a bear. Its grinning mouth was missing most of its teeth. She figured it would’ve looked like a fierce roar in its former glory and not the comical shout it was now. Her own seat resembled a pig, who looked fiercer and prouder than the bear.  

“Dagon?” She asked while she tucked her feet beneath her. “Does everyone in your family look like-” she gestured to him. She had only met his brother, Ygon, and he had looked like Dagon, but he had two other brothers, and she wanted to know what their babe could someday look like. 

He nodded, “The look of Lonely Light is what my family calls it. And aye, all my brothers have it, and my father too,” Dagon’s color changing eyes were blue and contemplative, “but my grandfather didn’t. His mother was the ruling Farwynd, and he would follow after her, but my grandfather had inherited his father’s sea green eyes.” Dagon’s gaze drifted from her face down to her stomach, no doubt sharing her thoughts and questions about their future child. 

And she knew it didn't matter. He’ll love our child whether they look like him or me.

“And this family,” Dagon had already forgotten their name. They were all stupid and strange sounding, “is from Astapor?” 

“No, the Pahl family is from Mereen.”

  “What do we know of them?” 

“One of them is the richest man in Mereen,” Ramsay answered, but he made no attempt to say his name or any of the others. “The ship Salvaro is on is a cog that is captained and owned by another Pahl.”  

Dagon didn’t ask after the new names. They’re all the same. 

“You know the Saans have been conspiring against you for some time,” Ramsay went on, “and they found a partner in the Pahl family. You’ve taken several of their ships in the past and they’ve had enough.” 

He took from any and everyone. It was his right. 

The ships sailing out of Slaver’s Bay were easier to take. They were filled with valuable cargo from far eastern markets, crewed by slaves, and the unsullied they did have were too few and inefficient on the sea. And it was the Ironborn reaver who ruled the waves not eunuchs. 

On one such incursion, he had killed a master out of Astapor and that had riled up Slaver's Bay enough for them to hire Euron Greyjoy, but now it seemed his impudent marauding needed another response, and it was apparently coming from the Pahl and Saan families. According to his spymaster, the Mereenese family would hire the sellswords while the Lyseni family would use their small fleet to ferry them across the Summer Sea where they’d be used against him. 

This growing alliance was a futile effort fueled by their wounded pride and consuming greed. They were used to being powerful, and were now being humbled by being shown what true power was. I am blessed by the seas themselves. The Drowned God had answered his prayers with the Lyseni deciding to strike him at sea. After their plots of poison had failed them, his anger was a roiling sea at how those slaves thought to kill him and his wife. 

Still angry, he thought of how Salvaro Saan had already left Lys on that Mereenese cog and how that played out perfectly for Dagon. With him and his fleet still in Lys, how could he be blamed when Saan’s ship never arrived at his destination. I never knew they left, he lied smoothly, and besides my ship and my entire fleet was in harbor for days after. How could I cut such a distance to reach them when I didn’t even know where they were going.

Scylla, with a whispery thought, she stirred, restless and agitated. She could be a temperamental beast, and despite years together, there was still the rare clash, because of how different she was from the others. There was no challenge in this outburst, just primal frustration that he was able to smooth away. Innately, she understood him, and she was eager. 

Vertigo washed over him in a passing heartbeat when he returned. He kept his eyes closed; the warmth of the sunlight made his skin tingle. A tremble went through his limbs from the change of who and where he now was. He heard the footsteps of his spymaster who knew to be quiet during such transitions, and he accepted what was offered to him. He drank it in three smooth sips before returning to their conversation as if nothing had happened.  

“As impressive as always, Ramsay,” Dagon praised his spymaster who had been able to uncover this new and supposedly secret alliance.  

“I have a trusting face, Captain,” the spymaster replied in feigned demureness. “They just can’t stop themselves from spilling their secrets to me.” 

Dagon chuckled, always amused by the games and roles his spymaster liked to play. “And she helped you with all this?”

“She did.” 

“Your instincts about the girl were right.” Not that he had doubted him. He had seen a bed slave turned thrall who could serve his wife, and saw little else, but Ramsay saw more, and Dagon listened. 

“Thank you, Captain,” Ramsay’s pleased look was marred by his next words. “She still has no interest in staying after our expedition is over.” 

Dagon shrugged. “That is her choice.” He knew his wife saw her as a friend, and that she’d be disappointed in her departure, and it seemed she would not be the only one. “Even with her freedom, she can still be of use to us,” he reminded his spymaster. He had several thralls now free scattered throughout including some in the Seven Kingdoms who still proved useful and helpful. Their influence and importance varied, but they still served in different ways. 

Ramsay’s expression didn’t change, but Dagon knew his spymaster liked that suggestion. He let it pass without comment. “What sellsword companies do you see them trying to hire?” That’s why Salvaro had gone on that Pahl ship to write and sign the contracts and once it was done, the Saan fleet would come. 

“The Second Sons are already there.”

That didn’t surprise him. Dagon knew of the company and its captain, Mero, the so-called Titan’s Bastard. The man’s reputation was so poor that none of the Free Cities were willing to hire them. Them and the Bloody Mummers. 

“Perhaps, it's the Stormcrows?” Ramsay suggested, “One of their captains is a Ghiscari and Slaver’s Bay have hired them before.” 

They were a few hundred strong, but that didn’t concern him, just as the Saan’s fleet didn’t. Nor did this alliance, it was all meaningless. This wasn’t a plan he was trying to put together to stop them. No, it was him compiling a list of future victims. And in a few days, he’d be adding its first name: Salvaro Saan. 

Ser Bonifer Hasty took comfort in The Seven-Pointed-Star as they led him into the hall of this ironborn. Be strong in the Father and in the strength of his might. 

He hadn’t even left the Lyseni docks before they came up to him. He assumed they were ironborn reavers by their manner and look. There were a handful of them, but only one spoke, the one in the front, with pale eyes. 

“Ser Bonifer, welcome to Lys,” he had greeted him. “We’ve been expecting you.” 

Bonifer nodded stiffly. If they knew he was coming, then they must have known why he did. And he believed he assumed correctly because they didn’t ask. 

“We’ll take you to where the lord captain is staying with his wife.”

‘Daenerys.’ She was why he had left his life and home behind him. “Very well.” He had said with the same authority he used when commanding his men. The Holy Hundred but they were in Westeros because this was a quest that only he could do. He couldn’t ask it of his men. They didn’t understand his departure, afraid that he had forsaken his faith, but it was his faith that drove him here. A different sort of faith, but one just as strong, and one he could no longer ignore. 

The hall was loud and garish. Its set up similar to those of the lords of Westeros, except here the high table was empty. He frowned. They told me they were expecting me. 

“Ramsay,” a low voice came from Bonifer’s left. “What do you have for us?”

Bonifer felt a flutter of apprehension in that heartbeat it took him to turn around, to see her. Rhaella, the name nearly slipped out unimpeded at seeing her daughter. His heart hammered so hard it was as if the Smith himself had turned Bonifer’s chest into his forge. 

“Princess,” he greeted her with a bowed head. “It is an honor.” 

She was older than her mother had been when Bonifer last saw her. Rhaella had wedded her brother before she had been ten and five, and he, not even ten and seven, swore a life to the Seven for only the Maiden could compare to the beauty he lost. It was the murmuring that broke his reverie that made him remember his mistake, “Captain Farwynd.” 

Instead of sitting at the high table where a hosting lord would sit, they were seated on one of the long benches for a lower table. They were surrounded by both sides of ironborn, he presumed, but the seats in front of them were empty which allowed them to see him, and him to see her and then him. He got his first look at the princess’s husband and saw right into the man’s heart: powerful, and ruthless. Farwynd’s dark eyes appraised him under a weighty stare, but Bonifer was unburdened by any fear. 

Take up the whole armor forged by the Smith so that you may be able to withstand the face of evil and stand firm in its dark days. 

“Ser Bonifer Hasty,” Farwynd’s eyes seemed bluish now, as they stayed on him. “He’s come for you, Dany.” 

Bonifer didn’t deny it. He had been inactive for too long. His faith which had been a needed shield for him to endure the worse and final days of the Rebellion had morphed into a fear that had put a wall up around him. When he had heard about Rhaella’s daughter, the cracks formed, and he knew he couldn’t hide anymore. He hadn’t been there for her, and he still failed her by not helping her children. In a different life they could’ve been mine. A better one, he thought, the sort sung by minstrels that filled you with hope that made you believe that with love even a tourney knight could marry a princess. I’m Florian the Fool, he thought wanly. 

“I have, Princess,” he admitted, “I knew your mother,” the tug on his heart only worsened at seeing how much she brightened at that. 

“You knew my mother?”  She asked, her tone was so hopeful it sounded childlike.  

“I did,” he said, “long ago,” he added, not wanting to mislead her. “I’ve come to serve you.”

“You left behind a lot to come all this way,” Farwynd’s voice drifted like ice down Bonifer’s spine. “You’re a knight from the Stormlands, are you not?” He asked, he didn’t wait for an answer, “I killed your liege lord, Renly Baratheon.”

Bonifer already knew that just as he knew what Farwynd wanted from him, a rise which he wouldn’t give. And with this shield of faith, you may extinguish all the demons of the Seven Hells and end their evil deeds. 

 “What did you call your men, Ser?” 

This time he knew he was expected to answer. “The Holy Hundred.” 

“And you left them behind to come serve my wife?” At Bonifer’s nod, Farwynd smiled, “fear not, good knight,” he raised his arms to gesture to the men around him, “For you are once more surrounded by holy men.” The jape elicited a loud response of guffaws and cheers as the ironborn shouted their agreement.  

He makes a mockery of not just my men, but their vows, our god. The princess’s laugh fell upon him like a heavy blow, nearly making him falter as she joined them. 

“You forgot to count, husband. We have more than a hundred holy men,” she observed with an amused sparkle in her eyes. “We have hundreds.” 

“Thousands!” They chanted back to more laughter. 

The stories were true. Bonifer’s stomach turned. She has become like them. He remained upright under this deluge of their mockery and his growing misery that she had lost her way from the Faith. 

“Ser Bonifer?” She called to him softly, "Do you need something to drink? To eat?” parting his gloom with her caring voice and that offered kindness that made him think of her dear mother. 

“Yes, Princess,” He smiled. “I would be grateful.” 

She returned it before calling over who he assumed was a thrall, to bring him food and drink.

“My thanks, Princess,” he bowed his head, “You have your mother’s heart.” 

She glowed. “When did you know her? What was she like?” The questions came out in a rush, tumbling over each other, but he understood them, and he ached when he saw that desperate shine in her eyes, it pained him to think she knew so little of her own mother. 

He wanted to answer all her questions, to tell her all about her beautiful and wonderful mother, but he couldn’t do that, not yet. He turned to Captain Farwynd who to Bonifer’s surprise was looking at the princess with something one could mistake for fondness, but not Bonifer. “There is still the manner of my service, Princess,” he reminded her gently.

“Oh!” She flashed him a sheepish smile for forgetting her manners.  “I’d be honored to have you, Ser,” she then turned to the quiet and impassive Farwynd, “but all men must make their oaths to my husband. He is the Lord Admiral of this fleet.” 

“I would make that vow,” he said while telling himself that it was for the princess. I will serve her, he reminded himself. Not him, and especially not his god. He knew he made the right choice when he saw how happy she looked. That alone was worth it. 

Farwynd agreed, and Bonifer made his vow. And while the words spoken aloud were to the captain, in his heart, his pledge, his devotion was to Princess Daenerys and her alone. 

Chapter Text

“Princess, are you alright?” 

Ser Bonifer’s latest story about her mother had been about a tournament and his attention seemed elsewhere. It was only when he finished did he finally turn his attention back to her, caught off guard by what he saw: a crying princess. 

“I’m fine,” She answered tearfully, knowing he was more focused on her shining eyes and wet cheeks than her answer. 

A veteran of battles and tourneys but now he seemed completely hopeless in the face of a tearful princess. She let out a wet chuckle. “You’ve given me a great gift, Ser Bonifer,” she reassured him with no tremor in her voice. “A tremendous gift,” she smiled, when he hesitantly turned back to face her, and she saw his shoulders sag in relief. He clearly feared he had upset her with his stories about her mother, unable to understand that Dany’s tears weren’t of sadness, but happiness. She wasn’t mourning her mother but celebrating her. Ser Bonifer had done something miraculous, he had brought her to life to Dany. Rhaella Targaryen lived. She smiled. She laughed. She was real. 

Since she had him summoned to her quarters, he had told Dany many stories about her mother. The Princess Rhaella Targaryen in his tales was a fully formed woman. She wasn’t a fragment, a memory, a hazy wish. But a person who lived and loved, who had friends, and Dany learned them all, savoring every detail no matter how small. My mother’s favorite color, song, dress, story, and so much more. It was both so much and not enough. Dany wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, half turning as she did, so she was facing the open window instead of her new knight. In her mind’s eye she played back these stories, and she was certain she could hear her voice, see her in front of her, young, and happy. A light that hadn’t been extinguished. That was what Bonifer had given her. He had made her a bright light and a beacon instead of a looming and unreachable shadow. 

Viserys rarely spoke about their mother, and when he did, it was only so he could blame Dany for her death. I needed her, but she died giving birth to you, his voice brimming with hatred. It was a poor exchange. 

There was no accusation in Ser Bonifer’s tone when he spoke about Dany’s mother. He didn’t look at Dany as her mother’s murderer. His face never darkened in his stories. He spoke of her with respect, glowing admiration, as a friend who knew her before she became a queen and mother. Not even her brother could give her that in the few scraps of stories she was able to parse out over the years, clinging to those crumbs like each one was a feast. To him, he saw her only as their mother, someone that had been taken from him. By me, but even that light frost in her chest quickly melted to the overflowing warmth that brimmed inside her. 

I know more about her than Viserys does. She was certain. And it was because of the man before her, this knight who sought her out. The Drowned God sent him to me. He was another reward for her faith. She prayed for answers, and this knight came to her. Thank you , she prayed in tearful reverence. Let this babe inside me be a girl, she thought happily at the possibility of bearing a daughter with her mother’s name, Rhaella Farwynd. And to Dany, it was perfect. 

Alyn was growing. 

The walking lizard had grown larger and longer since they left Pentos, stronger and faster too. I’m going to need a bigger ship for him.

The thought had touched his companion’s mind like a gentle knock. The walking lizard looked up from his meal, the corpse of an enemy Dagon had killed. The creature’s snout was stained red with blood dripping out from between its sharp teeth. Their eyes met, inside Dagon felt the animal’s savage hunger had yet to be sated. The sensation swirled inside him, the raptor salivating for more flesh, for the stringy meat that Dagon knew were called muscles. The soft and succulent tissues that it craved, what the raptor thought was a sumptuous treat, to Dagon he knew them to be the body’s innards.  

He pressed his lips together, ignoring his stomach’s grumble. It was a dizzying wave that his ancestors had called: the red thirst. It was not strictly forbidden for a Farwynd to sate it, some believed slaking it to eat one’s enemy only made them and their bond stronger. No Farwynd before him had as powerful companions as Dagon did, but that hadn’t stopped them from while others settled on devouring the enemy’s heart or eyes.

“Why do you allow him?” 

He took a steadied breath, smoothing over their bond so as not to slip back through the cracks that could come when they fed. The raptor went back to his meal, having cracked open the thrall’s ribs with its curved claws, slurping up meat and blood out of its chest like soup from a bowl. Dagon knew that it wasn’t Alyn whom Ramsay was referring to. 

“He’s here for my wife.” It amused him that Bonifer thought of Daenerys as some wayward girl who had been deceived into her belief of the Drowned God. That she was some reluctant prisoner, and not the active participant that she truly was. To think my wife’s faith could be shaken by the whines of an old man. He chuckled. 

“He disrespects you, Captain,” Ramsay argued, taking such grievances as personal affronts. “Him and his precious Seven.” Ramsay spat on the ground. 

“He's hardly the first man in our fleet not to share our faith.” 

“He may be the first with Anointed aspirations.” 

“Is that so?” 

His spymaster nodded. 

Anointed. The highest honor that could be bestowed upon any follower of the Faith. They were men and women throughout the ages and across the kingdoms who had been raised up as exemplars of the Seven. He knew that much because several had earned the honor over the centuries through their futile attempts at trying to turn the Iron Islands to the Faith. All of them were rightly killed for such pollution, but to the Faith of the Seven their defeat and deaths were cause for celebration and all of those men and women over the ages would be Anointed. 

“The knight still stays,” Dagon decided even after Ramsay’s warning of the knight’s aspirations for a possible Anointment. That bore watching, and he knew he didn’t need to give the order for Ramsay to do it. The old knight would still stay not just because he meant something to Dany. He stayed because Dagon knew what Bonifer’s answer would be to a question only Dagon would ask. 

“And Salvaro?” There was a beat of silence before his spymaster continued. “Has he been handled?” 

Dagon suspected much of his spymaster’s anger towards the old knight had merely boiled over from its original target- Salvaro San, and the ploy which had duped Ramsay and his spies into making them believe the Lyseni and his Meerenese captain were heading to Tyrosh. It would’ve worked except Dagon’s eyes extended beyond ports, and he had kept them on Saan where he discovered that his true destination wasn’t Tyrosh, but Volantis. 

“Not yet.” He slipped into Scylla’s mind as easily as dipping his hands into a basin of water. And can see just as clearly. He’ll let her have her fun and her food, before the others would come to prepare for his arrival. For now, he had other matters that needed his attention. “Send me the thrall you had tasked to find Saan.” 

Doreah knew before her feet touched the warm sands of the isolated beach that it wasn’t the spymaster who was waiting for her. Even at a distance his figure was too distinct to be misjudged, too tall, and broad shouldered to be Ramsay. Lord Farwynd stood with his back to her, the water up past his waist. She stood at the water’s edge with her posture and expression in pure obeisance even when he wasn’t looking at her. You never stopped being a slave. She was still his regardless of if he was in her company or not to think differently was to think dangerously. 

Doreah’s fingers found one of her silver bracelets and traced along the warm metal as she waited to be addressed. They were her trophies to display, and she wore them proudly as well as her new ring which she had earned when she had stopped the poisoned plot against the captain and princess. Is that why he’s summoned me? She didn’t think that could be it because that had been days ago and her last mission had been in learning where Salvaro Saan’s ship was heading when it left the city. 

But I already told Ramsay. Even when her thoughts took her elsewhere her attention remained there on the beach and on the captain’s back. She knew how costly it could be if a slave was caught distracted and inattentive to the whims of their master. When she noticed him finally moving, finally turning, she too moved, lowering her head before even seeing him.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” His voice carried over the sound of the crashing waves. 

Easy words to say, and to believe when you had all the power and strength. Doreah obediently raised her head, and all the control. In his hands she saw he was holding a strange and brutal weapon the likes of which she had never seen. She had seen many exotic weapons over the years. Men were always so proud to show them, to display their vigor and strength to her with their long swords and spears,  like a child with a new toy. She acted the expected part being impressed with everything she saw, hiding her true thoughts behind soft exclamations and loud compliments. How they smiled, she remembered, pleased by their own prowess. Her eyes went over the jagged edges of the club, a cold blossomed in her stomach when she saw the bits of flesh that still clung to it, before he dipped it beneath the waves where it disappeared in water that was turning red. 

He is not like them. A grim reminder to those others and their weapons she had seen including her old master, the magister. They were collectors. They were the sort who bought their prizes. They were gifts purchased with gold and never with blood. And she knew enough about her Lord Farwynd to know that he didn’t use gold to acquire a weapon like that. He didn’t have this weapon just for her to marvel at it. It’s not my praise he wants. Her stomach turned when her eyes went back to the reddish water. 

“A few days ago, you told Ramsay about where Salvaro Saan’s ship was heading.” 

“I did,” She had to get close with the dockmaster to learn it. A saggy and sweaty man who liked to touch and then linger. She had washed herself plenty to rid herself of his scent, but now she felt their impressions on her those sweaty handprints frosting her skin. My arms, my back, my breasts, she suppressed a shiver, ensuring her body didn’t betray her and break her posture. 

“That information was wrong.” He raised the weapon out of the bloodied water. 

A cold touch spread through her like icy fingers when she spotted the specks of floating flesh. “M’lord?” She hadn’t forgotten what he had said nor foolish enough to argue. Arguing isn’t obeying. Slaves listen, accept and then do. 

“He’s not going to Tyrosh.” His color changing eyes were inscrutable to her.  

Doreah lowered her head in contrition, understanding now why she had been summoned by him and him alone. I’m to be punished. Her legs didn’t buckle. And we’re out here because he doesn’t want the floors bloodied. She wasn’t new to punishment. “I apologize, m’lord.” She heard the splash of water as he cut his way through, and then felt his own shadow as he drew closer. I won’t tell the princess. She had decided. Let her remain happy. She had fallen to her knees before she was fully consumed by his shadow. 

“Get up,” he ordered. 

She did. “I’m sorry that my information was wrong, m’lord.” How does he punish his thralls? She knew how slaves were punished. It varied, from being used and beaten, to being starved, overworked, lost sleep. It went on and on. “I’ll accept whatever punishment you see fit.” 

“There won’t be any punishment.” 

“M’lord?” Puzzled, she raised her head to see he didn’t look angry at her. 

“You’re not to blame,” he said, “All the spies were fooled. Saan actually concocted something clever and made sure to leave and hide just the right amount to make it appear genuine.” Lord Farwynd’s voice conveyed how little he thought of Saan. 

She was struck by being called blameless even though she had been wrong. She had failed, but there was no punishment for it. Unusual. But her attention didn’t stay on that. All the spies were fooled, she turned the words over, but he still knew the information was wrong. She felt his eyes on her just as the question came to her. So how did he find out? 

The shark fell into the red and foamy water with a loud PLOP.

Writhing like a worm and sinking fast without its fins. One of the sea’s fiercest creatures, he thought with growing pride, and I made it as weak as a wingless fly. He was turning some of the best hunters into nothing more than easy prey. 

He surveyed the sea around his aptly named ship: Shark’s Bane, but there was little blue to be seen. The water had turned pinkish from all the blood of the sharks they had already cut and tossed overboard as well as the chum they had used to lure the first animals in. And there were still more sharks, small fins darting and cutting through the water as they ate on their fallen brethren without remorse or fear they could be next. 

And it was all for some soup. Quenton Qoho didn't like the soup they made with these fins, but he did love the gold they used to pay for them. And it was a lot. 

“The fins have been stored with the others,” Daemar reported dutifully.  

Gaeryk was next to approach. “Should we call it a day, Captain?”

The scoff could only have come from Quenton’s second, Mark. He was the only Westerosi amongst them, hailing from a place called Gulltown, but he claimed his mother was Lyseni though he didn’t look it, with his dark hair and eyes. “There’s still plenty of sharks to be had. If we stay out, we could have our best haul yet, Captain.” 

“I would like to spend what gold I have instead of gold we may have,” Gaeryk was a bit too glib for his liking, but Quenton accepted it because no one wove better nets in all of Lys. “And there’s a storm coming, Captain.” 

Quenton had been inclined to agree with his first, to stay out a while longer, collect a few more fins and then head back. But a storm m ade him reconsider. Gaeryk seemed to have an uncanny ability at sensing them. It wasn’t his crew, but a caw that interrupted his thoughts. They all looked up to see a large and beautiful albatross had joined them. 

“We’ll stay awhile longer,” Quenton decided, the sight of the bird was surely a good portent. With the albatross with us, what could go wrong?

“Put in the nets,” Mark ordered. Daemar was quick to follow, Gaeryk smiled first, but it was too showy to be sincere, but he did join Daemar at seeing to the nets. 

Mark glowered and grumbled, before returning to his post. 

Quenton was about to retreat to his cabin knowing his crew had everything well in hand when movement made him turn. He used his hands to try to shade his eyes, squinting to see what looked to be a boat off in the distance, spotting its sail. Fast, he frowned, too fast, he looked up at his own sail to see the wind wasn’t blowing with such ferocity that could make such speeds possible. When he looked out again, he realized at once his mistake. That’s no ship. It wasn’t a white sail he saw but a grey fin. It’s a shark! 

“Captain,” Mark had seen it too. He sounded as excited as Quenton felt. 

“Forget the other sharks,” When Quenton saw that creature he saw only one thing: gold! That fin alone would be worth more than all the fins he and his crew had gotten today, likely this whole month. “I want that shark!” When he brought that creature in, he’d be the most famous fishermen in all of Lys. He could see people paying coins just to take a look at an animal that large, even a corpse. 

I’ll never have to pay for another drink again. And when he was done showcasing its impressive hide, he’d sell it to some magister who’d want it as decoration for their manse. They’d likely claim they killed it themselves, but with the amount of gold he'd be paid to be parted from it, Quenton would allow them the lie. 

“It must be over twenty-five feet,” Gaeryk observed quietly. He didn’t seem to share their enthusiasm at their good fortune. Its presence had sent all the other sharks scattering so only the great grey fin remained, slicing through the red waters like a large knife. 

When it came around another pass, he sensed its gaze on him, its eye, black and menacing. Almost as if it was appraising- he shook the thought away, before chuckling as if to further stamp down on the ridiculous idea. Impossible! 

“Your harpoon, Captain,” Daemar brought him said weapon. 

The first strike was his to make. He was the captain. And with a find such as this, the honor was his. He took the offered harpoon, the long spear which had served him well enough to kill dozens of sharks now seemed as small as a dirk when returning his attention to the great shark. He ignored that observation and the sliver of fear it elicited, instead reminding himself that his men were positioning and arming themselves including Mark with the mounted crossbow. 

 “It went under!” Gaeryk called out. 

For the first time that day, Quenton hated the sight of the blood muddled water. It made it impossible for them to see where it was. They learned soon enough when a thunderous impact struck the boat from underneath, rocking it to port. So sudden and forceful, Quenton slipped, nearly crashing onto the deck before righting himself, but in doing so he had dropped his harpoon. 

“Gods be buggered!” He shouted angrily. A shark had never struck his ship before. “Stupid beast,” he growled. “It actually thinks it has a chance.”  

Somewhere in Lys, Dagon Farwynd smiled.

Chapter Text

Rosamund was crying again.

Myrcella didn’t need to open her eyes to know it was still night. Her mind was still fuzzy with sleep, but she knew where her friend was. When her hands found her sleeping companion, she hugged her from behind.

She stiffened. “Princess,” she sniffed, the word was a wet huff. “I’m sor-” 

Myrcella hushed her. “It’s fine,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes closed. Though, she was tempted to roll them at how Rosie clung to titles even at this late hour, when they were huddled under the blankets in nothing but their nightgowns.

“But Septa Eg-” 

“She won’t know.” The last thing Myrcella wanted was to have Septa Eglantine or any septa serve as her bed companion. “A Princess’s purity is of the utmost importance,” Septa Eglantine would often say, and so Myrcella would find herself sharing her bed with different companions. They were tasked with guarding her virtue. And such ferocious protectors I have, Myrcella thought on her giggling gaggle of handmaidens.

Recently, Myrcella had the relief of only having one overnight visitor. She preferred her handmaidens, but she knew her future good mother wanted to pick some of them. No doubt, one of her creatures and spies, but so far Myrcella had been able to successfully dodge the obligation. Out of her handmaidens, Rosamund had been her favorite even now when she struggled to sleep through the night. “Was it another nightmare?” 

The sniffle came first and then a shaky ‘“yes,”  followed. “It was about my father.” 

They always were, she thought sadly. In her mind’s eye she saw Rosamund wiping her cheeks with the sheets before she continued. “Of his death,” Rosamund’s shoulders shook as a wrenching cry wracked through her. “He was surrounded by sharks,” this was the first time she had shared the dream with her. “I yelled and called to him, but he couldn’t hear me. He tried to fight them off, but he-” 

“No,” Myrcella had heard enough. “He fought and killed many ironborn.” She went on with the scene in her head. She wanted to not just give her friend some much needed relief but make Jason Lannister’s death a proud one. The sort that was so valiant he was given the honor of being interred within Casterly Rock’s The Hall of Heroes. So lost in it, she couldn’t keep track of what she was saying, but it seemed to be working given her friend’s change, who had shifted to her side sometime during the story to face Myrcella. They were so close that even in the dimness of the night, she saw her companion’s shiny cheeks and puffy eyes. “Dream of your father, Rosie, of his love and courage.” Myrcella used part of the blanket to dab at a stray tear her friend missed. 

“Thank you, Princess,” Rosamund’s smile was shaky, but there was a twinkling of pride that poked through her red rimmed eyes. “I will.” 

“Go to sleep,” Myrcella told her, “I’ll stay awake until you do.” Seeing Rosamund was about to object, Myrcella stopped it by tapping her friend on the nose. She giggled at how her friend’s face scrunched, reminding her of one of Tommen’s cats. “I’m the princess, remember?” 

She opened her mouth to argue, but she then promptly closed it, remembering having already tried and failed a hundred times before. “Thank you,” she whispered, “Myrcella.”  

Myrcella smiled. “Go to sleep, Rosie,” she encouraged, just as quietly. 

It didn’t take long for her friend to fall back asleep, and when she did, Myrcella rolled over onto her back, sleep now eluding her. Her mind rested on the cause of her friend’s duress. Who was this shadow that cast itself over the royal court? That angered her father and haunted her friend. She had to know. 

Queer things are said of the Farwynds and the smallfolk they rule. Some say they lie with seals to bring forth half-human children, whilst others whisper they are skinchangers who can take the form of sea lions, walruses, even spotted whales, the wolves of the western sea. 

Myrcella closed the book disappointed. That was it? She had learned little and less from Haereg’s History of the Ironborn. It was all guesses and gossip when it came to the Farwynds of Lonely Light. Begrudgingly, she knew why such things were still written down. I was there that day at court, she remembered it well. When the Pentoshi captain was brought in to explain what happened to my uncle. She had seen the faces of the royal court: Legends could be as powerful as the truth. 

She placed the book on top of Yandel’s text on the Greyjoy’s Rebellion. That had been the only book of note during her research. In it, she learned that Lonely Light and its cluster of islands were some of the only ones that went untouched in the war. Too distant, Myrcella reasoned, too unimportant. However, Lonely Light wasn’t without its losses when she kept reading, she had learned that Farwynd’s grandfather, Lord Maron Farwynd had died during the rebellion. A name in a long list of names of lords and knights who had fought and perished. He had died just days before Balon Greyjoy had surrendered.

It was her Uncle Tyrion who ignited Myrcella’s interest in history. He was the only one who encouraged her in pursuits that dwelled outside what was expected of princesses. It had been her Uncle Tyrion too who planted the idea about writing her own histories. She’d not forget the day she’d found her uncle after finishing the story on Aemon Targaryen. She knew he died, but it still made her cry having to read it, but it was what wasn’t written that had startled her. “Uncle, Uncle,” she had come to him, babbling about Jocelyn Baratheon. 

“What about her?” He had asked, completely perplexed by her ‘hysterics.'  

“What happened to her?” Jocelyn Baratheon had become a ghost. Besides one single passage, she had completely disappeared from the histories. Disregarded. 

“She died,” Her uncle had answered, as if that was the end of it. 

But it wasn’t. Jocelyn’s daughter was a princess and a dragon rider. Her grandson was a dragon rider too, and a claimant to the Iron Throne. Just think of what she had seen and known and thought in such trying times, but Jocelyn Baratheon was gone, swallowed up by the mists of history. And she was not the only one, Myrcella learned the cruel lesson of history and of how often many women were just forgotten. Daenys the Dreamer’s birth was disputed with two different years being listed. And on and on the examples went, with unsure dates and large gaps where the maesters believed nothing of note could be said for a ruling lady or princess. They didn’t concern themselves with what these ladies and queens were doing, the princess realized bitterly, only their husbands and fathers, sons and brothers. 

Will this be my fate? She feared, forgotten as soon as I pushed out my last child? She had seen it plainly.  All my life summarized in a paragraph that would be about my father, then my husband, and finally my children. My sons, she corrected herself. And that was if she was blessed to even have them, and if I wasn’t, she knew the blame would be on her and her alone. She didn’t let her thoughts linger on her future, because it made her attention traitorously drift towards her newly named betrothed, and she didn’t wish to give him an inch of room inside her mind. 

“Then write,” her uncle had said as if it was the easiest thing in the world when she presented her problem. “If you do not wish to be forgotten then make your quill heard.” 

And she did. Though as of now, she knew her life wasn’t interesting enough to tell, but she still kept great details and observations of what she’d seen and heard. I could one day write a history of my father’s reign. The other work that she wanted to write was on Johanna Lannister, the Lady of the Rock during the Dance of Dragons. She had accomplished so much that not even the maesters could ignore her. Grandfather had even promised her access to books and records that were usually kept privy to just the lords and ladies of the Rock during her next visit to Casterly Rock. 

“My, my, something has caught your interest today,” Uncle Tyrion walked into view, smiling. His mismatched eyes were on the pile of books on her small table. “Ironborn?” His brow furrowed when he spotted Yandel’s tome on the Greyjoy Rebellion. 

“The ironborn are on the mind of many within the capital, Uncle.” 

“Not the ironborn,” Tyrion corrected, “A ironborn.” 

“He killed my uncle,” she said, but there was no real grief or anger in her answer. I'm not doing this for him. 

“Pride killed your uncle, Princess,” Tyrion said plainly, “For Renly to think he could beat a man who lives on the sea. It was confidence born of ignorance.” 

“He had more men.” She thought of Rosie crying for her father. There were hundreds of Rosies out there, she knew, mourning fathers and brothers, husbands and sons. Men who would never return because of Farwynd. And my uncle. 

Her uncle was unimpressed. “And now they’re all corpses.” 

Uncle Renly had been the only body that Farwynd sent back. And that was a message not a show of respect. Bold, she had thought, very bold. It had just been another little thing about him that had caught her interest. She idly wondered how her grandfather would have reacted if he was at court that day, but she had her answer quick enough. He’d not care a whit, she guessed, unless it was a Lannister wrapped in that Targaryen cloak.  

“If your father had sent Stannis, this ironborn and his bride would be here in chains.”

She had similar thoughts. “If only you were on my father’s council.”

“Gods no,” Her uncle snorted, but she saw the pleased flicker in his eyes to know he valued the compliment and the idea. “The only seat I’d accept is Master of Wines and Whores.” He grinned, deflecting her praise with one of his silly japes. 

Myrcella giggled, but then the idea came to her, prompting her to ask. “And what are the whores saying, Uncle?” She felt a touch of warmth dot her cheeks at such a bawdy subject, but she was too curious. “About this Farwynd and his exploits.”

It was a rare thing to catch her quick-witted uncle by surprise, but her inquiry had done just that. She suspected it was more gossip, but she still wanted to hear it, to record it, to sift through it. It couldn’t be helped. Farwynd intrigued her, even though she thought his supposed feats felt more fitting in the Age of Heroes. 

Her uncle did her the courtesy of not insulting her intelligence by denying where he spent his time and coin.  “At the Dark Horse there are no whores, but his name has come up.” 

She perked up, pleased that he was going to indulge her request. “What do they say?” She had heard of the Dark Horse;  it was a popular tavern in the city. 

“Silly things, princess,” He tapped Haereg’s book, “The sort that isn’t found in books backed by facts, but stories by drunks and liars who seek attention.”

“I’d still like to hear them,” she picked up her quill. The stories had to have come from something that had once been right or true, didn’t they? The truth was out there, and she was determined to find it. And if she didn’t: Well, at least, I’ll have more entertaining stories I can add to Haereg’s History of Ironborn. 

“They speak of sharks following Farwynd like crows,” Her uncle sighed. “Wreckage of ships broken in two, one particular sailor claimed to be on Farwynd’s Fleet. He speaks about a ship being crushed by the sea and pulled down by the many fingers of the Drowned God Himself.” Her uncle snorted. “The sailor was obviously lying. He was trying to impress the Dark Horse proprietor, not that I can blame him, Esmerelda is an enchanting woman.” 

Myrcella wrote it all down, save for the part about the owner. She then looked it over. Mayhaps, I treated you too harshly, Haereg. She bit back a sigh, consoling herself with the reminder she had to start somewhere. “Anything else?”

“That’s not enough?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You want more of this nonsense?” One look at her unguarded interest made him sigh again. “There is something else,” he admitted, a touch reluctantly. “There’s talk that some sailors have begun to pray to the Drowned God.”

Myrcella bit back a gasp, more startled by this than any talk of attacking sharks and sunk ships. “Truly?” She asked before she even wrote it down. He nodded, but before she could press her uncle for more, he spoke first, and it was on the last thing she wanted to think about. 

“Are you excited about your dinner with your betrothed tonight?”

She suppressed a groan, but she knew her face betrayed her thoughts on both the dinner and her betrothed. She knew growing up she was to be betrothed. Myrcella Baratheon was a royal princess and was taught to be prepared to do her duty. She just wished her betrothed had been someone else. One of the rare times she had been grateful to her mother had been by how vehemently she had argued against it, but like always father didn’t listen or care. The only solace she had in his choice was that her betrothed was still young. At least I’ll have a few more years of freedom before I must wed him. 

“Please, Uncle, do not remind me of my dinner with him and his family.” The boy’s mother already hates me. She acts if I’m stealing her precious son. Myrcella wasn’t sure how she was to endure an evening with both his parents and hers, until she had an idea. “Uncle you must come,” she looked across the table to see her uncle didn’t look enthused at her idea.

 “Please, Please, Uncle,” Myrcella didn’t let up. Uncle Jaime wouldn’t be there because he was in the Stormlands with Tommen. And she already knew Uncle Stannis wasn’t invited, besides he wasn’t the type who could help her. “You're my only hope, Uncle Tyrion,” She then did what he called the pleading princess look that had so often worked for her in the past. And watching her uncle’s expression cave, she nearly grinned. And it still does.

“Fine, I’ll come,” he threw up his hands as if knowing this was a terrible idea. “But you can’t be cross with me if your mother throws me out.” 

“She won’t,” Myrcella had already thought of another idea, “because you’ll be escorting me.” 

 Tyrion chuckled. “You’ve thought of everything.” 

“Not everything,” Myrcella sighed, “I couldn’t think of a way to get out of it.”

As expected, neither her mother nor her future good mother were pleased when Myrcella arrived with Uncle Tyrion as her guest. Mother had greeted him with cool courtesy, and the queenly smile she used for court. Lady Lysa Arryn frowned, without so much as a greeting before she turned her attention back to her precious son. 

My betrothed, Myrcella smiled at him and presented him with a proper curtsey, because it was expected of her. Not that he noticed . Robert Arryn was a sickly and sullen boy of ten and one, who couldn't bother to spare her a look let alone a greeting. It fell on his father, Lord Jon Arryn to greet Myrcella which he did with a smile and a kind word. He was the only Arryn she liked. She took her seat across from Sweet Robin as his doting mother often called him in that sickly sweet voice of hers. Myrcella had picked out a beautiful red and gold dress of myrish lace and silk that showed just the right amount of her skin without being scandalous, but as expected she didn't get a single glance from him. 

He was more interested in his mother than his betrothed. It was no secret that the heir to the Vale had suckled his mother's milk well past his sixth name day. I’ll have the only husband who covets his mother’s breasts over his wife’s. Her stomach rankled, and the presented greens did little to soothe the nagging and gnawing thoughts that splintered into her mind whenever she was forced to be around the Arryns. 

She looked for distractions around the table to discover she had very limited options. Her father, the King, was a storm cloud in dark silk. Lord Arryn sat to one side of the king, and her mother sat on the other. The Arryns were seated together with Myrcella and her uncle across from them.

The chair at the end was empty, and she was glad of it. No Joffrey. Their new Master of Laws, a jape, if ever she heard one. Believing Uncle Tyrion would do far better than her meaner older brother. She had no doubt where he was, with his new title, the royal confessors answered directly to him. He’s likely in the Black Cells enjoying his duties while his men sharply question whoever’s in there. 

She felt Lady Arryn’s eyes on her often as she ate her greens. Myrcella knew the crone was waiting for any chance to criticize her. She’ll find any excuse to belittle me, she thought sourly, or to try to undo this betrothal. Oh, the Princess just can’t marry my boy, do you see how she folds her napkin? Did you see how she used her fork? Myrcella would welcome being set aside, but she was certain that would only earn her further ire from the Lady of the Vale. No doubt she'd take offense to me not wanting her darling boy. She stabbed a tomato with a bit too much force, seeing its juices leaking from its wound. She smiled a little, when she pictured it was her future good mother. They have the same look, round and red. 

Myrcella already knew how their marriage would be written, her life to be told, if she hadn’t taken her uncle’s advice. Even after many valiant efforts from her husband, the Princess Myrcella had proven barren, unable to provide the needed heirs that he so desperately wanted. That is what they’d say and have others believe, but she’d make sure not be binned or blamed for this terrible marriage. So lost in her sinking mood, she hadn’t realized she had been addressed until it was too late. 

“I’m sorry?” She ignored Lady Lysa’s judging sneer at her for having to have whatever was said repeated to her. 

“Forgive, Myrcella,” her uncle rescued her with all the chivalry of a knight. “She’s been so focused on her lessons and sometimes needs to be reminded that it’s alright to allow yourself a reprieve.” 

She flashed her uncle a grateful smile, but it curdled when she heard Lysa’s soft snort. 

“And what work is that?” She pointed with her fork at Myrcella’s fingers that were still muddled with ink stains she hadn't been able to wash off. “Too unseemly for my tastes,” ending it with a sweet smile, as if she had just complimented her. 

Myrcella hated the flush of embarrassment that rose within her. Suddenly self-conscious, she resisted the urge to hide her hands under the table away from Lysa’s judging glare. She found an unlikely defender in her mother. 

“I’m sure my daughter can be a bit perplexing to some in court, but you see we value a certain independence in our children.” Mother made sure her eyes had fallen on the oblivious sweet Robin when saying the word, before flicking back to a now reddening Lady Lysa. However, before either mother could slip in another insult lobbed at their future good children, the eunuch made his appearance. 

He appeared as if out of nowhere. He giggled out an apology before slipping deeper into the room to where her father was sitting. “What is it, Varys?” The words were slurred, confirming to Myrcella that he had been drinking well before their dinner had started. 

“News from the east, I’m afraid.”

“Farwynd?” Some of the fog seemed to clear from her father’s eyes. 

“Yes,” Varys looked around the table, hesitant to continue, but when her father angrily waved his hand, he obeyed and revealed the details of his news. 

“The Targaryen princess is pregnant.” A few soft-spoken words that ignited a deafening roar from her father. 

“Are you certain?” Jon Arryn asked, and Varys bobbed his head. 

Father slammed his fist down onto the table as loud as a thunderclap. Goblets spilled over, utensils shivered, and plates trembled. “Damn it, Jon!” He snarled, “I knew this was going to happen.” 

“What does this change?” Jon asked, “her husband is still an ironborn second son.” 

An ironborn who sunk or stole a chunk of the royal fleet, and had killed her uncle, and hundreds more, but Myrcella wisely stayed quiet, wanting to put this all to memory so she could record it all later. 

Father glared, while drops of wine shone in his dark coarse beard like red beads. “My wife had the right of this and not my Hand,” he gave a derisive snort, waving one hand at his wife and with the other holding out his goblet for more wine. “We should’ve killed her and been done with it.” 

Mother opened her mouth to no doubt crow, but father silenced her. “I want her dead! Send assassins, send the Iron Fleet, send them all, do you hear me?” He demanded, “I want her and her husband dead!” He slurped loudly from his goblet before continuing, “I’ve suffered soft hearts for too long.” He didn’t even wait for Jon to answer before he turned back to Varys. “Get Pycelle and have him write a message to Winterfell. Tell Ned that I want Greyjoy’s son sent to the capital. The crown will now be overseeing the hostage.” 

“Of course, Your Grace," Varys bowed and left. 

“An assassin, Robert?” Jon groaned, looking torn between disappointment and another feeling Myrcella couldn’t quite figure out. 

“Enemies of the Crown should be punished, Lord Arryn,” Mother said, “not coddled.” 

Father looked pained at being in agreement with her. “See to the arrangements or I’ll take that pin and give it to someone who’ll follow his king’s demands.”

“My father would-” 

“Quiet woman,” Robert growled.  

“I can see the wisdom in recalling the hostage, Robert,” Jon observed delicately, “And I do believe steps should be taken, but,” he paused, looking around the room, as if remembering they weren’t in a Small Council session, but at a family dinner. “We should discuss our next steps with the rest of the council.” And before her father could object, Jon called over one of his servants and informed him to summon the other members.

Robert didn’t object, storming out of the room with his squires and kingsguard in tow. Jon followed next, but he had the decency to apologize to them before excusing himself. Lady Lysa all but jumped out of her seat once her husband was gone, pulling up her sweet Robin whose head nearly collided with her sagging bosom. Not that he’d complain. 

Myrcella noted Mother too had gotten up and sent a scathing look towards the Lady of the Vale for the indecency of getting up before her. Mother then left with her own retinue of guards, and servants and then Lady Lysa and her son, none of them sparing Myrcella or her uncle a single thought. 

“Never a dull moment with our family,” her uncle drawled, and she couldn’t agree more.