Chapter Text
“Amongst the Burned Men, a youth must give some part of his body to the fire to prove his courage before he can be deemed a man. This practice might have originated in the years after the Dance of the Dragons, some maesters believe, when an offshoot clan of the Painted Dogs were said to have worshipped a fire-witch in the mountains, sending their boys to bring her gifts and risk the flames of the dragon she commanded to prove their manhood.”
— Excerpt from The World of Ice and Fire
If Daeron were more sober, he would have noticed the way their surroundings quieted, the sharp sound of steel being drawn from scabbards, and the way his horse began shifting in unease beneath him.
Instead, he takes another sip from the leather wineskin he has strapped to his belt, attempting in vain to drown out his uncle’s inane chattering to his left. At any other time, he would have marveled at Rhaegel’s choice to ride a horse instead of a carriage, but now is not that time.
“Alys and I have spoken of staying in the Eyrie for three more months with the twins. You must consider lengthening your stay as well, Daeron. My brother—that is, your father Maekar,” Rhaegel clarifies, as though any one of his other brothers would give a damn about Daeron’s whereabouts other than his own father. “He insisted I give you a tour of the wonders the Vale has to offer. My good-father, Lord Donnel, has graciously hosted a tourney in honor of our arrival. It is your father’s hope that you should participate in the tilts.”
Were Daeron not so hungover from last night’s bout of drowning himself in wine, he might have deigned to respond to his uncle’s good-natured, albeit droning and overlong, suggestion to participate in the tourney. As it is, however, his eyes sting from the rays of the overhead sun, and his head is pounding something fierce.
Would that there were a magical cure for the ailments that drinking wine brings, he would have paid any maester a significant sum to relieve him of the throbbing behind his eyes and temples. Last time he’d been tricked by a woodswitch to buy her concoction that supposedly granted the drinker a headache-free morning after drinking; what he got was nausea and a chamber pot filled with vomit. His father had the woman hanged for attempting to poison a prince. Ever since, Daeron has been leery of anything merchants and the like try to sell to him, lest another lose their life on account of his foolish naivety.
It isn’t until one of the Kingsguard leads his horse in front of Daeron’s that he notices that something is amiss.
“My prince, the scouts have reported a group of the mountain clans making its way to us,” Ser Gwayne relays solemnly, the grizzly scar he obtained from his duel with Daemon Blackfyre visible amidst his open visor.
Daeron’s uncle immediately pales at the mention of the mountain clans. Being married to an Arryn, he must know more than most how savage they truly are. Rhaegel dismounts from his horse, looking about wildly as if men dressed in rags and human body parts will start pouring out from the thickets at any moment.
“I must return to the carriage, where it is safest. Yes, I must,” Rhaegel says, more to himself than anyone. He fiddles with the reins of his horse before turning away and making for the large carriage in the center of their entourage, where his wife and twin children are staying for the duration of the trip.
Then, as if remembering that he isn’t the only royal that needs to be protected, Rhaegel turns back to Daeron, seeming to reach for him before thinking better of it. A wise decision. Daeron doesn’t think he can stomach his uncle’s coddling, not when they’re about to be set upon by a group of men no better than the wildlings north of the Wall.
“Daeron, come quick. We must retreat to the carriage where it’s safest.”
He needn’t have bothered. Daeron would have hidden away even if his uncle hadn’t made the offer. Lounging inside the softly cushioned carriage is a great deal better than having to fight against the men of the mountain clans. Daeron might even become a hindrance to Ser Gwayne. He wouldn’t be surprised if he got himself killed.
Last night he dreamt a great bronze dragon stole him away in his sleep and hid him in a cave on the mountains. Perhaps he misremembered and the dragon was no dragon at all, but a mass of unwashed men in rags who would take him to their dens and make soup out of the meat on his bones. He’s heard enough tales from his aunt Alys of what the mountain clans do to unruly children, though he hasn’t been afraid of such tales since he was a boy of seven dreaming of war and death.
Uncle Rhaegel is waiting for him to dismount and follow, but Daeron waves him away.
“Go, uncle. I must regain my bearings first.” By which he means he doesn’t want Rhaegel to witness the lack of grace with which he will dismount from his horse. His uncle means well, truly, but he will inevitably bring the event up in conversation with Daeron’s father, and he will once more be subject to Maekar’s disappointed stare in the near future.
“Are you certain? If you need help—”
“I’m fine,” he snaps a bit too sharply, immediately regretting his tone when Rhaegel flinches. He brushes his fingers through his hair in an attempt to distract himself from the guilt. “I’ll follow soon, uncle.”
“I… very well.” Rhaegel dithers in place for a few moments before he seems to decide that Daeron is not worth wasting his time on. He smiles at the Kingsguard watching their interaction silently, a hasty, “Ser Gwayne,” uttered toward the man before Daeron’s uncle makes his way to the carriage.
“Your Grace,” Ser Gwayne calls out to Daeron, a question in the tone of his voice that he mislikes.
“Just give me a minute,” he huffs, blinking rapidly and willing the world to stop spinning for a moment so he may dismount from his horse without falling on his arse. He rests his forehead on the back of his horse’s neck and pats the great beast’s side. “Catch me if I fall, girl,” he whispers before putting all his weight on one stirrup and raising his leg.
And he might have gotten off relatively intact, had the mountain clans not chosen that moment to blow their horns and come charging from the bushes. The sound of it intensifies the ache behind his eyes, and he miscalculates the distance between his foot and the ground, such that when he yanks himself off the horse, he finds that the ground is much, much farther away than he realizes.
“Your Grace!”
The familiar sound of steel on steel rings in his ears. Daeron begins contemplating the merits of lying in place and pretending he’s dead. Surely the mountain clans would hold no interest in a corpse, no matter that it is the corpse of a prince. They never seemed very interested in the goings on of politics beyond the mountains of the Vale. What is a dragon prince to an Arryn of the Vale?
Oh.
They aren’t here for him. They are here for his aunt and, in turn, Daeron’s little cousins, and perhaps even his sweet uncle Rhaegel, too.
Except that it was not them Daeron dreamed of getting whisked away into the mountains. There was a large dragon, a great deal of fighting, and a cave that was oddly devoid of the coldness and dampness usually found in them.
It seems he must find his uncle’s carriage after all, lest his dream come true and he finds himself a captive prisoner.
Daeron picks himself up just as a man falls dead on the ground next to him. Thankfully, the man is not one he recognizes, nor one he should recognize, if the matted furs and the mace that looks as if it belongs in the Bronze Age are to be believed.
“Your Grace!”
Ser Gwayne Corbray is there in an instant, grabbing his collar and hauling him up like he weighs nothing. Daeron resists the urge to empty his stomach from the motion, instead holding onto the Kingsguard knight’s arm for dear life.
“Ser Gwayne, what…”
“No time, my prince. Come, we must get you to your uncle.” Ser Gwayne unsheathes the sword from Daeron’s belt and passes it onto his hands. “It is to your left, Your Grace. Go whilst I hold them off.”
Daeron nods clumsily, looking around and fighting another wave of nausea at the amount of corpses strewn around him. He flexes his fingers against the handle of the sword and tries to ignore the sound of his father’s voice in his head, berating him for his inability to unsheathe his own sword. Oh, he knows how to unsheathe his sword alright, just not the one his father would be proud of him for.
His uncle. Right. He needs to go to his uncle and hide away in the safety of the carriage, where the smell of piss and blood won’t reach.
He gets five steps before something collides to his side. He tries to fight, raising his sword with shaking hands only to get it smacked away by a weapon that looks as though it was pillaged from a lord fifty years ago, with how rusted and corroded the metal is.
Daeron sees the moment his attacker realizes who he is, the man’s eyes honing in on the three-headed dragon stitched to his breast.
“Oi! This one’s a dragon!”
And like an avalanche descending upon him, the rest of the men begin fighting to get to him. Daeron moves to pick up his sword, but he can’t duck to the ground unless he wants to have his head separated from his shoulders. Evasion is all he can do, cursing the savage in front of him, then cursing himself for refusing Rhaegel’s offer to help him down earlier. What is a bit of humiliation compared to being threatened with decapitation? He vows to apologize to his uncle if he manages to get out of this alive.
He can hear the sound of clinking armor and hopes Ser Gwayne comes to his immediate rescue.
“Your Grace!”
Another man with heavy burn scars on the right side of his face leers at Daeron with hungry eyes.
“Oh, you’ll do nicely.”
I wish I’d just stayed in Summerhall, are the last words he remembers before something hits the side of his head, and everything goes dark.
His time in captivity goes like this: they drag him through the forest with his hands tied behind his back, a sack thrown over his head that smells like it was once used as a chamber pot, and his stomach growling with hunger as hours pass without any sign of rest.
Daeron pretended to be unconscious for a good while, until his captors realized he was faking it and began kicking him until he walked on his own. And he has walked, miles upon miles, hours upon hours, tripping on rocks and overgrown roots, having to endure their merciless jeers whenever he falls face-first with no way to catch himself with his hands bound. The soles of his feet hurt and his wrists ache something fierce from the too tight ropes biting into his skin, but he voices no complaint, lest they find that he is more useful to them dead than alive.
He curses his uncle for bringing up this trip to his father, then he curses his father for making him go, then curses Aerion for throwing away all of Daeron’s nondescript clothes he often used to sneak out of the castle. If it weren’t for the embroidered cloak he had to wear, these savages would have been none the wiser of his status as prince.
“Almost there. The fire-witch will be pleased with our sacrifice this time. Eor and his men will be howling with envy.”
They laugh at the expense of this Eor fellow and his supposed envy. Daeron could care less about whatever politics the mountain clans of the Vale participate in, except he’s almost certain that the sacrifice they spoke of is supposed to be him.
For the first time since he was taken, Daeron voices a question, “Who exactly is this fire-witch you speak of?”
“Who is the fire-witch, he says,” a man bellows with a laugh, the rest of them cackling as well, like Daeron has made a jape instead of a question that merits a proper answer. Then again, he supposes he is at fault for expecting a proper answer amongst people who could hardly be bothered to bathe, let alone be proper.
“You’ll see soon enough, lad. But you ain’t gettin’ to be seein’ much after that.” Another round of laughter follows that cryptic statement. “Now, get! Stop draggin’ your feet!”
Daeron, for what feels like the hundredth time this day, is shoved and ordered to walk faster, threatened with taking his fancy boots off, and threatened once more about getting roped to a horse and dragged until they reach their destination. Daeron, for all his faults, decides to keep quiet and embrace his fate.
He knows they’ve reached the lair of this fire-witch they keep speaking of when a hush falls over his captors, their easy banter and crass japes turning silent.
“Mistress, we’ve brought an offering for you!”
Everyone seems to wait with bated breaths, none daring to make a sound. Daeron finds himself swept up in it as well, sweat beading down his back as he imagines what this fire-witch they spoke of might be like.
A hag with a hunched back and withered face? He tries to recall the woodswitch who swindled him his coin years ago, but all he remembers is the way her tongue lolled out of her mouth and how blue her face was as she hung from the rafters. Maekar made him watch to teach him a lesson, though what lesson he was supposed to glean from watching a woman be hanged other than how agonisingly long a person struggles before dying, Daeron will never know.
He finds himself unconsciously tensing up as the sound of footsteps approaches, lighter than he expected them to be.
“What in the hells have you people brought this time?”
The voice is young, much younger than he thought would belong to someone called a fire-witch. There is a casualness to the way the witch spoke, a sort of dismissiveness that is clear to hear, like this is all something she finds inconvenient rather than something that will dictate whether Daeron lives or not.
“Something big, mistress! Bigger than anything our ancestors have ever brought.”
Someone kicks him in the back of his legs, sending him falling to the ground on his knees. He will be bruised all over once he returns home—if he returns home, which is starting to sound less and less likely the more he spends time here.
“Did you kidnap someone?!” She sounds… not angry, but more as though she is in disbelief of their actions. Daeron dares to hope that she is the kind of witch that does not accept human sacrifices, and therefore will let him leave and go home once she realizes that he is very much alive and not dead.
“I… yes? But, mistress, he’s different, look!”
Daeron can feel a hand grabbing his cloak, showing off the three-headed dragon faced to the right, a very unimaginative sigil he made when he was six-and-ten, and his father told him he would need to have a sigil of his own to show off during his very first participation in a tourney. Not that it did much, as he was quickly unhorsed on his first tilt, much to Maekar’s disappointment.
“You idiots. You kidnapped a prince.”
His cloak drops to the ground, forgotten.
“An offering, mistress. Dragon blood to sate a dragon’s—”
“Enough! Just. Good gods, I hate you people.”
Even unable to see as he is, Daeron can practically hear the exasperation on the woman’s voice, can imagine her rubbing her temples the way he’s seen Maekar do when Daeron does something that further dishonors him in his father’s eyes.
“Mistress?”
“Oh, for the love of—just go. Leave. I thank you for your generous offering, now go and I will… burn him alive. Or something.”
Daeron’s heart starts beating rapidly at the witch’s words. Perhaps he misread her intentions and she truly is the kind of witch who sacrifices people on a pyre. He’s heard tales of priestesses across the Narrow Sea who practice such things, but to think one would be here in the mountains of the Vale, of all places, where the teachings of the Seven are most prominent.
“But we want to watch—”
“Unless you want to be burned alive, I would suggest you leave.”
There’s a hardness to her voice now, leaving him sweating underneath the sack they tossed over his head. She intends to make good of her words, that much he can tell from the way footsteps begin leaving the lair of this witch. None of them utter a complaint, these seasoned warrior savages. Earlier they had japed and mocked him at his expense, now they leave because of a few mere words from a woman. A fire-witch, but a woman nonetheless. Either she has dirt upon these men for them to listen to her so, or she truly does have the power to burn someone alive. A loyal set of warriors different from the ones that brought him here, perhaps?
When the last footsteps have faded, and Daeron is almost certain that he and the witch are alone now, he hears her sigh, a long, put-upon one that shows her chagrin. It reminds him of Aerys, when his bookish uncle tires of Aemon’s unceasing questions and sends him away. Daeron would almost feel amusement at the comparison, almost, if only his life weren’t about to be sacrificed for some nefarious purposes unknown to him. Would that rumors of his family being dragons made flesh were true, then Daeron might pretend at being burned alive, before making a quick escape once his restraints turn to ash.
“Sorry about that,” she says after a while. With a start, he realizes that her voice sounds much closer than it was before, seemingly right in front of him. “Let’s get this thing off you.”
The sack upon his head is unceremoniously removed, and for the first time after hours of that unbearable stench, Daeron breathes in the fresh scent of nature. His eyes squint against the sudden glare of the sun, blinking rapidly to rid himself of the spots that have overtaken his vision. He finds that the shadows cast by the trees around him have grown long, nearing sunset. They left the inn along the High Road at dawn, a mere few hours away from the Bloody Gate. Daeron just had to be idiotic enough to be caught and taken prisoner right at the edge of safety.
He wonders what his uncle is doing at the moment, whether he fainted from the news of Daeron’s disappearance or is frantically urging their household knights and sending scouts along the mountains in search of him. His father, Daeron knows, will be wroth and come riding for the Vale once news reaches him of his capture. Perhaps Aerion might come along, not because of concern or anything of the sort, but to see Daeron’s corpse with his own eyes and ascertain himself of his place as Maekar’s heir.
His eyes are still struggling to adjust to the sudden onslaught from the sun, when a hand grabs his chin and forces his head to stay still. A shadow passes over his eyes, providing a nice reprieve from the sun.
Daeron raises his gaze to the witch, only to find that she is neither a hag like he imagined or a withered old woman.
The first thing he notices are her eyes, a dark shade of blue that is almost hard to discern with the sun alight against her, casting her face in shadows. Her brows are thick and currently furrowed, set upon a dusky face that is looking at him with concern. Dark hair falls in waves along her shoulders, half of it pushed up by a stick poking up from her head. Pursed lips capture his attention, an enticing shade of cinnamon that makes him wonder if they would taste just as sweet.
Daeron acknowledges within the confines of his mind that were he in a whorehouse and he saw her face among the rabble of girls working there, he would have chosen her in a heartbeat.
A second later, he realizes that it is perhaps not wise to lust after the woman who spoke of her intention to burn him alive just minutes ago.
“Are you alright?”
Is he? Apart from the bone-deep ache in his body from being forced to hike his way through a mountain, the throbbing of his head when one of the savages knocked him out cold, and the howling of his stomach begging for a morsel of food, Daeron can almost call himself all right.
“Hello? Earth to the Targaryen princeling?”
Hel…o? What in the gods’ names is a hello?
She waves her hand over his face, her eyes pinched with something he hesitates to call worry, but it is the only apt descriptor he has.
“I’m…” He finds himself tongue-tied, his throat dry and unused to speaking after hours spent holding his tongue for fear it may be the last time he spoke. “I am well.”
“Oh, good. I was afraid those oafs might have given you brain damage.” She smiles, as though the idea of Daeron’s brain becoming damaged and leaving him simple is something she finds amusing. And suddenly, he remembers that for all that she has a comely face that Daeron would, on any other occasion, proposition, she is also the one those savages called a fire-witch.
With her hands returning to her sides, the glare from the sun returns in its intensity. Daeron realizes that she used her hand earlier to shield his eyes from the light, an oddly considerate act that leaves him questioning her intentions.
“Sorry about earlier. I don’t even know how you managed to get yourself captured by them. They’re barely competent on a good day.” Her lips twist into a sardonic smile, eyeing him like they’re sharing a joke only they understand. Daeron, unfortunately, does not.
“They called you a fire-witch,” is all that manages to leave his mouth, his biggest question yet.
Something uncomfortable passes through her features, before it settles into one he is familiar with: annoyance.
“Yes, they did call me that, but I’m no fire-witch, or any sort of witch.” She adds that last part hastily, in a tone that tells him she has discussed this a number of times and has grown weary of misunderstandings. Or, at least, that is what he wishes were true. It would give him a great deal of relief if her words prove true, although it is just as likely that she is lying to give him a false sense of assurance.
But it is not as if Daeron has any sort of choice on the matter. He is bound and bruised, and were he to run away, he is certain one of the men who dragged him here will be at him before he has the chance to go far.
He will have to trust that she is being truthful about not being a witch, though even were she not one, it doesn’t mean she does not have an ulterior motive.
“If it is gold you want, then you will have it. My father will be glad to pay any sum you demand, so long as I am returned to him whole and alive.” He is grasping at straws here. What use does a woman have for gold in the wilderness? Ransoms paid by noblemen from the Vale have always ended in betrayal or having their kin return missing parts of themself. He realizes with sudden dread that there is no going home; at least, not one where he would keep all of his limbs intact.
She frowns, and Daeron prepares himself for the inevitable doom her words will bring, but she proves him wrong yet again.
“I don’t want your gold, prince,” she says, her lips set in a straight line that reveals her seriousness. “I want you to leave this place and forget you ever saw me.”
What?
“That can’t be it,” he insists, further proving Aerion’s claims that Daeron is a fool, for why else is he insisting that there is more to this than what she has already said? He should be grateful that she doesn’t intend to burn him alive, but he cannot let go of that feeling inside him that this cannot be all that she is, that there is more he has yet to uncover.
But the question that gives him pause is why he even wants to know more about a woman whose existence he hadn’t been aware of until mere hours ago?
She purses her lips but says nothing else, choosing to gaze at the sky instead of meeting his eyes.
“It’s nearly sundown. I can escort you down the mountain tomorrow, but it’s too dangerous to go tonight.” She rises to her feet, eyeing him still kneeling on the ground. His legs have begun to turn numb. Sighing, she procures a knife from her belt and goes to stand behind his back.
Daeron tenses, fearing the worst. This is it, she has lied and her true objective is to have him lower his guard, then stab him in the back when he least expects it. Foolish, naive Daeron. He can almost hear his brother’s chafing voice at the back of his head.
But instead of stabbing him in the back, she cuts away at his restraints.
The ensuing relief from the tension that’s been forced on his shoulders and arms leave him nearly falling face-first onto the ground. Were it not for the steady hand that grabs onto his shoulder, he might have.
“Woah, steady there.” She comes into view, eyes wide as she surveys his body. He thinks he might have seen her wince. “They really did a number on you, ugh. Sorry again.”
She keeps apologizing, though Daeron knows not why she does. It’s not as if she was the one who inflicted these injuries upon him, but he appreciates it nonetheless. After hours spent weathering their mocking words and harsh kicks, this care she’s showing him, however false it may be, is a welcome one.
“So you’ll let me go?” he asks, just to be sure he heard her correctly earlier.
She huffs. “Only if you promise not to breathe a word about my existence.”
She makes to stand, only for him to reach for her arm in a silent request for support. His father, were he to see his eldest son needing help from a woman to stand, would balk at the scene. But Daeron’s legs ache and his shoulders are sore, and only last night he was drinking himself merrily until the world began to swim, and he could dare to hope that his dreams might finally be peaceful ones. No such luck.
“You’re heavy,” she complains as she pulls him up by his arm, but despite this she continues to support him well after he’s stood up on his own. An arm loops around his own, and Daeron is not proud enough to decline help when it’s offered so freely. He rests his weight against her, only just. She might tumble to the ground should he rest his entire weight on her.
They begin to trek through the hard packed dirt, a pathway of sorts that leads to somewhere covered by trees. He thinks no more of hidden motives and nefarious schemes. If she wanted him dead, she would have taken her chance when he was bound and defenseless on his knees. The fact that she is helping him walk, presumably to her home, is enough to tell him of her character.
A pretty woman in his arm dragging him to her home. Were the context behind such a thought not so depressing, Daeron thinks he might have found the experience more pleasant.
“What is your name?” he asks, if only to fill the suffocating silence that has engulfed them, and perhaps because he wishes to put a name to such comely face. If he does make it home after all this—a fact that is starting to become more and more likely, however baffling the thought is—he wants something to remember her by other than pretty blue eyes and cinnamon-colored lips.
She hums noncommittally. “Why don’t you tell me yours first, prince? You’ve got the eyes, but where’s that pale hair everyone seems to talk about?”
He understands her confusion well. Many a time he has escaped from the Red Keep thanks to the inconspicuous color of his hair, needing only to don a servant’s clothes and steal a ratty cloak for him to be mistaken for one of the commonborn. His eyes are telling, but if he keeps his gaze low and stays in low lit areas, he finds that most people will think they are blue rather than violet.
He has no compunctions about telling her his name. He asked for hers, it is only proper that he give her his own.
“My name is Daeron.”
She stops, stumbles more like, and now it is his turn to support her so she won’t fall to the ground.
“...of course it had to be…”
He catches her mumbling something beneath her breath, but he only manages to catch a few words before she shakes her head and continues their walk. The sun is beginning to set, casting her face in an orange glow that compliments the warm tone of her skin. It is here, with the sun finally casting its light over her face, that he sees, truly sees, her eyes, crinkled as they are as she gazes up at him.
And he finds that he cannot look away.
He is so distracted by this revelation that he misses the words she says next.
“What?”
“I said,” she huffs, smiling up at him—and there. There it is again, mocking him as they shine brightly against the dying sun. “My name is Elissa.”
Her eyes are not blue. They’re purple.