Kapitel 22: How to Hatch your Dragons
"He was going to betray us," the magister told me over a couple of drinks.
I looked up from my untouched lemon water to study the fat man across the room. There was something about Illyrio Mopatis that screamed sociopath. I never really trusted what he said, both as a reader and then living the story I found myself in. He was a man who'd happily ignite war on multiple continents, killing hundreds of thousands without remorse, all the while indulging in mindless hedonism. Jorah was right. Illyrio cared for none but Illyrio.
We weren't the only ones in the room. Crowding the chamber were the officers of the Golden Company. Some of whom had nothing to loss and everything to gain, while others were more cautious but that didn't eliminate the threat they posed. Lysono Maar stood in the corner with half his face coated in shadows, fiddling with one of his earrings. Homeless Harry sat next to Illyrio, red-faced from wine; his stubby fingers brushing the rim of a gilded goblet half full of Arbor Gold. Blackheart sat with his legs spread, leaning forward in a padded jack bearing his namesake held aloft by a pair of black wings. At the door, barring anyone from leaving, was Dalabhar in full legionary kit and horsehair crested helm, his thick arms folded behind his back.
Despite their number, I felt alone and isolated. Duck was forced to wait outside. Lyra was barred as well, and Vaquo wouldn't have come even if he was allowed. Neither Lemore nor Haldon could attend, and Jon Connington was in the Disputed Lands. It made me wonder if Griff was even aware this was taking place. It wouldn't have surprised me if they ordered Jon south to keep him out the loop.
Maar chuckled darkly, raising a thin sardonic eyebrow before saying, "Oh really? Because Viserys Targaryen just struck me as so trustworthy. Must have been his eyes."
I found it most improper, and more so when a few officers snickered or showed a brief smile, though the expressions were gone quickly enough. The room was tense, but not unexpected considering what happened. Still, none of them looked that upset. Despite Viserys Targaryen being little loved by the Company, they could have at least made the effort to treat him more respectfully. "May I ask what was the manner of His Grace's death?"
"His Grace? Viserys Targaryen was no king. Never was. It was a title he bestowed upon himself. Nothing more," Blackheart's voice was flat, expressionless.
"You haven't answered my question, captain-general."
It was Homeless Harry who answered after taking a sip of his drink. "Prince Viserys was a foolish fool. At sunset he rode out into the city for a local wine sink he had grown accustomed to visiting. No doubt to drink himself into a stupor. He was found dead with multiple stab wounds to the chest. Not only him. Alongside his corpse was the body of Ser Tommen Westmare – a true knight whose house served alongside us in exile since the days of Daemon the Black Dragon – and our precious Ser Jorah having disappeared. One doesn't have to think all that hard to come to certain conclusions."
"Are you saying Ser Jorah Mormont killed him?" Harry nodded slowly and I gritted my teeth. "Did you find the culprit?"
"We did. Mormont was caught trying to flee the city at the docks. He had bribed a merchant galley to accept him as an oarsman but was accosted by the city watch after the bell was called. Two died confronting him. Now he's rotting in the darkest cell of the city's dungeons."
"And questioned?"
"Sharply. He's been stubborn and professed innocence but will soon confess to being a kingslayer who begged a pardon from King Robert Baratheon, as well as the return of his former lordship of Bear Island. The Spider informs us that's what Robert offered for the head of Viserys and that of your future wife. What better way to get close to a king than act the false bodyguard and assassinate him at the opportune moment?"
I was no fan of Ser Jorah Mormont, that must be said, but I was surprised he would murder the Beggar King. The exiled knight didn't like Viserys all that much, but would he kill him, even for a prize as big as Bear Island? He did sell Daenerys' information but that doesn't compare. Then again, he did sell children into sexual slavery . . . I couldn't help but wonder though. Schemes within schemes within schemes.
"Ser Jorah is the one who did it," my father added for confirmation as if such a thing was needed. "His Grace was safe inside my manse. With its high walls and grounds guarded by Unsullied, it is the most secure location in all Pentos. No assassin of King Robert could have touched him here. He was most vulnerable out in the city, the poor dragon prince."
"An idiot dragon prince," my adjutant said, his voice as rough as the sound of a saw on wood. "Ser Jorah Mormont began worming his way close to Viserys during the dance and was at his side since. It was most likely planned from the start. One doesn't survive being an exile without becoming patient. As of now, King Robert Baratheon has decapitated a head off the three-headed dragon."
"I would rather say snake, but that's personal presence," Maar chuckled. "At the end of the day, we have lost an important resource that could have proven beneficial but the loss of it is not going to halt our operations."
You don't sound that perturbed, do you? Not that I was expecting much different. Viserys was only a pawn. He was always a pawn that was to be disposed of whenever advantageous, be it serving as a fall guy or an antagonist for me to fight. That was the plan but honestly, ever since returning Rhaella's crown, he seemed to be improving. Oh, there were days where he was still a twat, but he seemed to be getting better. He didn't seem so cruel to Daenerys and acted more cordial in my presence. I couldn't help but feel sympathetic upon handing them the crown and saw the young man almost ball his eyes out, though the invasive hug was not all that desired. That was perhaps who he could have been and not the man he became.
I shouldn't be thinking emotionally. Not here, not now. It was not a luxury I could afford and instead thought about how it'll affect the future. There were a few benefits to Viserys' death I could not deny. Robert sending an assassin, as was claimed, would no doubt anger lords like Lord Eddard Stark who looked down upon hired knives. It would also ignite anger and demands for retribution within the Reds. With Daenerys being Viserys' heir, she would be declared the true queen of the Seven Kingdoms and require a regent, say Connington, installed until she came of age. Sooner or later we'll be married, and our children will carry the claims of both houses. If both Targaryens had died, as Robert desired, that'll sure up my claim as the last contender of the Targaryen bloodline – excluding the Baratheons and Maester Aemon – and leave me open for a Westerosi marriage. Whoever planned this made my position more secure. If it was Robert, I doubt he knew what he was doing.
"What happened has proven it is now time," Myles announced, "Viserys' death has proven Targaryen exceptionalism doesn't extend to immunity to knives and I pray this is a warning to all of us. The marriage should happen and soon. Marry the girl and start securing the line by giving her some little hatchings to suckle from her teats. Unite the branches, unite the claims, secure the line."
"We should give Daenerys some time to mourn for her brother first. We can't seem too heartless by organising the marriage shortly after her own brother's death. The Faith says there should be seven days and seven nights of mourning at the very least. I think it should be a bit more. It'll look less suspicious."
"Do you believe we did it?" Harry asked me.
"I do think it is a passing strange." And awfully convenient.
"Things like this happen," Illyrio Mopatis told me. "It was Robert and we need to move forward. When the grieving sister is done crying, you will wed her and bed her. Daenerys has bled and if she is old enough to bleed, she is old enough to breed."
She is a child! I wanted to scream at him. Those words won't mean shit to them. They had no objections to impregnating an underage girl and should said girl die from compilations, she'll be easily replaced by another. So continues the pattern. I couldn't deny them, but I could delay the consummation until a later date. "And what if Daenerys refuses such an arrangement, my lords?"
"She won't refuse," Illyrio said in the most ominous tone possible. "She holds no power here."
Just wait till she has dragons, mate, then you'll see the shoes on the other foot. "Aye. Because you exiled Connington who could have helped her should that come to pass." He tried to put Rhaegar's son on the throne, but I destroyed that and made him go down the road of despair. Now the brother was dead and only Daenerys remained. If anything would give Jon Connington peace of mind, it was to put the sister on the throne as consort or regnant. And revenge. That man knows hate. It fuels him.
"Connington is no fool," the griffin's boyfriend said with a hard pale-green stare. "We have made up our minds. He is to serve as regent until you come of age as king in your own right. The king that Westeros needs after so long under the disastrous reigns of false lords, usurpers and weak men. A true king that will return Westeros to greatness."
"I have no way of refusing, do I?"
"None at all," Illyrio scolded me. "I am your father and you'll do as I say. If I tell you to marry a princess, you will do so. If I tell you to marry a crippled old woman to get me her inheritance, you will do so. You live under this roof, you are my blood, you will do as I say. Count yourself lucky that Daenerys is a fair creature, even if she is simpleminded."
"Yes . . . father." Fuck you, you walking piece of lard. I did not care for myself in this arrangement, but I did for her. Daenerys held little power for herself and was treated little more than a tool by everyone around her. Perhaps he wishes me to become a widow when she becomes useless like when the war ends. I could see it in his pig eyes.
"Good lad," Harry Strickland said with a broad smile. "Be an obedient boy and keep your head down. Do so and this will turn out well. You are in good hands."
And your words just fill me with confidence.
...
When our meeting was done, I couldn't take my leave fast enough. Away from the rest of them, I pressed my back against the wall, took a deep breath and angrily ran a hand through my hair.
"Fucking dammit," the words came as a growl from the back of my throat. Screw Illyrio, screw Jorah and screw everyone else. Why does this world just love actively working against me? I had plans for Viserys and they involved him of actually being of some use, with myself as the puppet master for the early part of the Westerosi campaign. There were much more subtle ways to remove Viserys than him bleeding to death in the street, like in the middle of a battle or having an undiagnosed peanut allergy. There was always the option of him truly being king if he worked away from being an arse like he was in canon. But none of those would come to be.
Now I need to renew my schemes. Again! Unless some highborn lady wanted to marry a corpse, I could no longer use Viserys to build up alliances for the war effort. Nor could I use him as a convenient excuse should I need to commit a few necessary war crimes to ensure victory. I mean, he was the perfect scapegoat for such a thing. It's not like Viserys was the most pragmatic person in the world, and should I need to perform a few terror tactics, I could easily claim they were the commands of the Mad King's son. Not me, I'm just the sweet innocent Blackfyre who fought hard against it. That won't be happening now.
After massaging my forehead and taking a few deep breaths, I straightened myself, cleared my mind and approached Daenerys' chambers. No doubt she heard the news and would need someone to talk and comfort her in this troubling time. I knocked on the door and waited.
No answer.
I waited for a moment before listening closely to make sure she was on the other side. Upon hearing a soft noise, I knocked once more. "Dany. It's me, Aegon . . . Blackfyre." Go ahead and give the name of her ancestral enemy after her brother was murdered in the streets why don't you? I'm sure that's the first thing she'll want to hear. When it didn't open, I sighed and turned on the balls of my feet, took a few steps forward only for the door to open behind me.
Turning around, I was met with a red-faced Daenerys Targaryen pressed against the door frame. Her eyes were puffy and tear stains ran down her cheeks. She was wrapped in a blanket, though underneath she only looked to be wearing her nightclothes. Never once had Dany looked more like a lost girl in that moment and when she tried to say my name, let out a muffled sound. "I-I . . . I wasn't expecting you."
"I came to see how you were," my voice was gentle. Thankfully the hall was empty, giving us both much needed privacy. "I only received the news of what happened. You don't look well." You don't look well? Seriously, brain? Are you blind or just stupid? Look at her! I doubt those are tears of joy at your presence. "Come, let me escort you inside. We don't need the servants seeing everything." They'll only gossip about it.
Dany nodded and, taking her hand in mine, gave it a gentle squeeze before leading her inside where I closed the door behind us. As soon as it shut, Daenerys wrapped her arms around me in an impossibly tight embrace and pushed me against the door where she sobbed into my chest.
Instinctively, I returned the hug. It would be wrong to say, horrible if I was being honest, but there was something about having a very pretty girl in my arms that I enjoyed. There was just something so tragically beautiful with her willing to be emotional vulnerable. It only made me want to hug her until she felt better and did so, tightening the embrace and letting her rest her head against the crook of my neck. The bad thing, however, was that Daenerys was using my shirt as a handkerchief.
We remained there for what felt like forever before I led Dany towards the bed and sat on the end with her beside me. "I loved him," the girl's voice was soft, little more than a whisper. "He was my brother. My last brother. R-Rhaegar . . . h-he died before I was born. His children as well. I am the last Targaryen." The way she spoke, the way she looked, was heart-breaking.
Taking a deep breath, I wondered on what to say and do. I was never good at talking to distressed people or the whole mourning thing. I had my own fair share of death, more than that, but I actively suppressed any emotions regarding them. That was the only way I managed to get this far. Taking a breath, I wrenched myself from her hold. Daenerys' eyes were swollen and puffy, and the rising blood in her face made her skin blotchy. She looked so helpless. Instead of letting her wet my shirt anymore, I pulled out a silken cloth. "Dry your tears, princess. You must be strong. You are the last dragon. Neither Rhaegar nor Viserys would want you looking like this."
Giving a weak nod, Daenerys agreed though looked nowhere close to accomplishing it.
I summoned her handmaidens to fill a tub and bring fresh clothes. She was a princess, the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms and last of her line. She couldn't be seen crying, especially for how the world valued strength and the belief women lacked it. The last thing the officers needed to believe was Daenerys as weak. The handmaidens rushed forwards, face downcast and paying sympathies, brought out flesh clothes and added sweet scents to the water.
Dany turned to me; her eyes still red though the stream had dried. I cupped her cheeks which were feverishly hot in my palm and, with a calloused thumb, wiped away a stray tear. "Thank you."
"For what?"
The Targaryen princess didn't say anything. Instead she stood on her toes, leaned in and pressed her lips against mine, our noses bumping. They were soft and plump, moulding against mine so perfectly it didn't seem real. It felt like a dream. My first kiss . . . This is wrong. This is so wrong. She is a child. A child who is grieving for her brother. She pressed herself against me, deepening the kiss. It was wet, clumsy and awkward. There was the salt of her tears on my lips and she grew more desperate, more fervent.
I gently pushed her away. Dany looked hurt, making me feel strangely guilty. "We can't. Not now."
"W-why? Why not?" Her voice grew stronger but with all the grief it cracked.
"You are grieving. We shouldn't be doing this." There are names for men who take advantage of women when they are vulnerable, but I shall never rightfully be called any of them. "You are not thinking clearly, and I care about you too much to take advantage of you like that. It is a line I will not cross." No doubt some of my friends will think differently on the matter. Even Duck might give me strange looks if I refused someone on her level. The worst part was that I wanted to. It made me feel dirty.
The princess only stared at me, eyes flickering for a moment before brushing them with the back of her hand. "Mayhaps you should wait outside. It would be most improper for you to remain here."
"Of course, princess. Get yourself cleaned up." Bowing my head, I headed off. Knowing Daenerys would need some space from me with what just happened and instead of dwelling on it, I devoted time to sparring. I fought Duck with sword, mace and polearm for a few hours until I was sweating and bruised in more than a dozen places. It wasn't just to exercise, but to vent my anger at everything around me. I didn't feel any better for it.
Upon returning to talk to her once more, Daenerys turned to me from her vanity. She wasn't dressed like a princess, only in a plain lambswool tunic with no jewellery or ornament. Wavy hair, still damp and shining, went down her back in a silver shower. A bowel of fruit had been laid out before her, but it'd been left uneaten. She looked better, having cleaned up and somewhat calmer.
"Princess," I said, bowing my head politely. She smiled sadly and dismissed her handmaidens who curtsied and left, mumbling gentle words. "Are you feeling any better?"
"A little," she admitted. "When will the funeral be?"
"On the morrow or the day after. The red priests are cleaning his body and making it presentable, as is the custom. Your brother is going to have a traditional funeral in the manse, his body placed in the pyre like the Targaryens of old." And hatch the dragons from stone . . .
"It would be wrong if that's not the case. Even the Usurper allowed Rhaegar's body to be burned in the pyre despite everything. Viserys, he is my brother and—was the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms."
"He proclaimed you his heir," I said softly. "That would make you the rightful queen."
Daenerys Targaryen stared at me with large purple-eyes before looking down at my feet. "I am, aren't I? If I am being honest, I don't want to be. I have no desire to be queen. Westeros is not a land I know. It's not even a land I remember. Sometimes, when I look out into the brick streets of Pentos, I see children playing barefoot and breathless. There were times I wanted to be one of them. What I want - what I truly want—"
"Is what?"
"Home. The house with the red door and a lemon tree growing outside my widow. I want a brother who cares for me, someone to protect me. I want somewhere to belong." Her voice grew stronger. "I do not wish to run from place to place. I am sick of hiding, sick of running. Viserys was forced to run and hide and you know what happened to him. Viserys was frightened, fearing every shadow on the wall, fearful of everyone and everything. He ran and hid and pulled me with." Daenerys looked up, her face now an expressionless mask. "Viserys hurt me more than once and there were days I was afraid of him as much as, if not more so, than the Usurper. But he also did what he could for me. My brother told me stories of Westeros. He told me stories of the Wall with such pride it was as if he made it himself. When the Gonfaloniere of Lys gifted me a pony, it was Viserys who taught me to ride her. He told me of castles reaching the sky, knights who travelled the land and slept under hedgerows, of castles and noble houses beyond count. The Field of Fire where Aegon the Conqueror crushed the might of the Gardeners and Lannisters. The great castle of Harrenhal, so big it was said to be built by giants but melted like candle wax to Balerion's black flame. He loved to talk of dragons and, of late, I've been visited by dreams full of them."
"As have I," I lied.
"At first I was confused. I've had strange dreams all my life, but they have become more common as of late. I asked Septa Lemore what they meant, and she said you had your own upon waking up from your fever on the side of the Rhoyne. Do the dreams come regularly to you?"
"Sometimes. They tell me things. That was why I did as I did."
"I had a dream recently," she confined. "Of eggs and dragons, of fire and blood." She bit her lip and looked at the four eggs lined up on the side of her chambers. "Flames that were calling for me, saying my name."
I need a little more to work with than that. "Anything else?"
"They burst forth and I heard a roar. I don't know though. I can remember bits and pieces, but much was forgotten shortly after waking. I tried to hatch them, put them in a hearth and watch them for hours at a time, hoping to see a crack or hear a little cry, but all they are is stone. Haldon says they are no more than that."
"Haldon is wise but wise men can be wrong. Many have been and many will continue to be. The Halfmaester thought I was going to die from a fever and had been wrong to the anguished cries of everyone around me. Daenys Targaryen dreamt the Doom of Valyria. It didn't come straight away and they called Aenar Targaryen mad. A craven when he fled with his slaves, processions and dragons to the outpost of Dragonstone. House Targaryen was the weakest of the forty families but, when the Doom came, the most powerful of dragonlords, wisest of wizards and most knowledgeable of scholars had all been proven wrong for the last time when the air turned to ash and burnt them from the insides. Thanks to Daenys, House Targaryen managed to survive the Doom and Century of Blood, something I'm sure we are both thankful for. I will summon Lyra to you. She knows more about everything relating to dreams and prophecy than myself. Mayhaps she'll help you make sense of it all. She did for me."
"I thank you for the offer and humbly accept," she smiled shyly at me. "Still, as was said, I am Viserys' heir. The last of my line, just as you are. We are the same in this regard. A dragon, be it red or black, alone in the world is a terrible thing. As the Usurper came for Viserys, no doubt he'll come for me. Jorah must have only been the beginning. He'll send more knives and worse men to wield them. Can one truly be at peace when they are forced to run all their life? I don't desire to be like my brother."
"There is one way to avoid being like him," I put forth. And you know what I'm suggesting.
Daenerys didn't respond straight away, letting the tension linger for a moment before saying, "I have the duty to do so. For Viserys and Rhaegar, for Willam Darry, for Aegon and Rhaenys, my mother and father, my house and all those who died for House Targaryen. As his heir, I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Westeros' rightful queen."
"Many would dispute that, I'm afraid." I felt my lips tug into a half smile when she looked at me with a fire behind her eyes. And here is Daenerys the Mother of Dragons, not Dany. "There would be many who oppose such a thing."
"Why is that, Aegon? Answer me that."
"There are many who would seek to oppose you. Some desire to put me on the Iron Throne for my scales are black and I was born a man. Others would support Robert Baratheon. He used his warhammer and made himself king."
"Baratheon is no true king," Daenerys said scornfully. "He did no justice. That is what kings are meant to be for. Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the innocent and all those who cannot protect themselves?"
I almost smiled. "So, should you become queen of the Seven Kingdoms and all the lords' kneel before you, what will you do for them? As queen, what do you desire for your subjects?"
"If I am queen? My desires are not what's important. A true king and queen put their people first. If I sit the Iron Throne, I want to be a just ruler unlike Robert Baratheon. Haldon Halfmaester had been teaching me about Aegon the Unlikely, how he had travelled Westeros in his youth and gained much love for the smallfolk and tried to better them to the anger of his lords. But isn't it a queen's duty to care for all her people, and not only those who live in castles? He is now seen as mad because of Summerhall. A tyrant because he tried to help those at the mercy of lords who mistreat them. I have travelled the Free Cities, been with Septa Lemore and provided charity. I have seen how the smallfolk are treated. Would it be any different in Westeros where they are under the care of a usurper who cares for nought but fighting?"
"Good Queen Daenerys Targaryen," I said, tasting the title on my tongue, "the second coming of Queen Alysanne. Do you think that can happen? Do you think you can reform Westeros where Aegon the Fifth tried and failed?"
"Reform? As innocent as I am, I do not doubt such a thing will be challenging."
Oh, challenging it will be. Between all the pretenders and claimants, Daenerys did have the most noble intentions and seemed no different here. She was easily charismatic, able to form a cult of personality in Slaver's Bay without even trying, had people undyingly loyal to her and while she couldn't always achieve it, tried to do the best for her people. She just needs a firm hand, good policy and able advisers. "Ruling is always challenging; it must be said. Viserys had openly named you his heir, the crown princess of the Seven Kingdoms. As I had sworn to serve King Viserys, I am bound to serve you, to stand behind you in all matters and provide honest counsel. As a friend, I will install you upon your rightful throne. That I swear."
"A friend . . ." her face grew almost shy. "I thank you, Aegon. I have only one question though. Why? Most here don't desire me to sit the Iron Throne on my lonesome. If they see me as a queen, it is only as your consort. But you see me as the proper heir. Why is that? What do you want?"
"More than one question, that is. Someday, I might explain what I want for Westeros. But what I will say is that I have no desire to be king, as much as it'll pain father and all those who seek a Blackfyre monarch. But you though . . . if you are willing, I'll be more than happy to provide some advice from what I've learned. No doubt it'll be helpful."
After Doreah providing us some drinks, we laughed, we argued but above all, Daenerys listened.
...
The air was cold as we stood in the open courtyard of Illyrio's manse, dressed in warm woollens under a starlit sky. A comet should be above us, burning blood red and spreading panic through the uneducated masses, but all I saw was the moon, pale and half obscured by clouds like an eye peering down at me. Lyra claimed to know the stars and insisted they had mystical power. I didn't believe her, yet I wasn't about to argue against her either. Since arriving, I had never managed to shed my scepticism and rationalistic mindset. In this world, my view of magic was that it was just another form of science but following different rules and should be researched to better understand the world. Lyra held similar views, though hers still retained a religious flair even if considered borderline heretical to the Rhoynish faith. If I showed Haldon or anyone else the beauties of modern computing, no doubt they'd assume it was a magical artefact of unparalleled power and not a bunch of switches flipping back and forth.
Lyra shot me a glance. She was dressed in a simple black dress cut more conservatively than what she usually wore and hiding what seemed to be a slight bulge in her belly. When she bothered to try, she could be quite attractive and more than once had grabbed the men's attention whilst on campaign. It was just a shame she was the anthropomorphic personification of sandpaper, both intentionally and unintentionally grating everyone's nerves. Yet despite that, I had grown to respect her, even if it didn't quite reach the level of friendship. The only person she was close to was Vaquo, which was odd considering their backgrounds.
"Not the kind to let an opportunity be missed are you, Young Griff?" Thankfully her voice was hushed so others couldn't hear.
"I was told that when an opportunity presented itself, that I need to grasp it with both hands."
"Wise words."
"I like to think so. This is mayhaps our best opportunity to hatch these eggs. Imagine the power we can obtain. Are you ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be. I haven't slept in many a night for I've been hunched over ancient books with pages crumbling in my hands." Lyra rubbed her eyes and in the glow of the surrounding torches, I glimpsed dark circles beneath like Vaquo when he spent nights working without sleep.
"I only hope that doesn't affect you. I'd rather you not fail. We only have this one chance."
"How encouraging. Remind me not to poison your drink next time."
"You already do." I shot her a slight smile to take the sting off my words. I meant it though. We only had this chance unless we discovered another trick to pull from our sleeves. "Your lack of rest and entire days sprawling before ancient documents should be proven in due time. Should they hatch, we all stand to benefit."
"Aye. Mayhaps you'll finally allow me some sleep." Lyra sounded bitter. "The night is still young. I do think waiting for the comet will improve our chances. His Grace's corpse may rot and smell worse but so what? It would ensure this ceremony will go a little quicker and I will be all the more thankful."
"I know you don't like him, and few here do, but could you at least be a little respectful? This is a funeral." I didn't know whether the comet would improve our chances as Lyra claimed. It could as far as I knew for that celestial body was in the sky when Daenerys hatched her eggs, or it could have just been a lucky coincidence. Either way, I needed them to hatch soon as possible. While I don't expect the dragons to be large enough to ride during the invasion, I predicted numerous rebellions sprouting up afterwards.
I turned from my associate to the pyre where Viserys had been laid to rest. Nothing had been spared for the Beggar King's final moments. For once he actually looked like royalty, and the priestesses had armoured Viserys Targaryen as if to fight Robert Baratheon in some final battle. He wore black plate with golden inlays on his gauntlets, greaves and breastplate with indents where rubies should have been. A helm masterfully crafted in the form of a snarling dragon laid beside his head that had been smoothed out with makeup and balancing atop his eyes were two painted stones. Laying upon his chest was his gilded longsword, clutched hands grasping the hilt. Even in death he was still brandishing the bloody thing. The armour was a last-minute addition, of course. Viserys had never worn that armour in life for it was still being crafted when he was dying. It had been hastily scraped together by the armourer so he could wear it at least once.
I suppose it'll be worth it by the end of the day, should the dragons hatch.
I could say similarly to Khal Drogo as he was being tired to the stake by Unsullied. What had once cut a heroic and intimidating figure was no more. Lyra had seriously done a number on him in a way that scared me. When I first saw him, Khal Drogo had been injured from battle, burned and needing amputation, but he had been tall and muscular with a long drooping moustache and a braid reaching his thighs. Overall generally impressive. What I saw wasn't him. The man being tied to the pole was bald, with missing limbs and bandages that almost covered the entity of his body. After so long in Lyra's tender care, the man who had been Khal Drogo was not even a shadow of what he once was. His skin had been flayed, his blood drained from his body, and several toes and fingers had been removed. Ageing what seemed centuries, Drogo looked the image of a man with one foot in the grave. Which is it? Is he climbing in or climbing out?
Drogo wasn't the only one. Bound hand and foot, Ser Jorah Mormont watched Illyrio's slaves throw more thatch onto the pyre. His face was so swollen I had questioned Blackheart whether he was truly Ser Jorah and, apparently, he was. This was the punishment for betraying the man he had sworn to protect and attempting to flee. The knight had been beaten within an inch of his life in the dungeons but still he stood defiant. I could respect Mormont for his bravery.
I supposed once upon a time, I would be horrified at what I did and what I was about to do. I'd subjected someone to the angel of death and was about to end it all by burning them alive. Not once had I imagined I'd let this happen, let alone order, but this world had hardened me in ways I had never come to expect. I didn't feel anything as the man tried to break free of his bonds or scream in the horrible growl that was the Dothraki tongue, only watched. Any empathy urging me against it was gone. While the first few killings had been horrific, our battle against the Dothraki held no emotional impact for me. Them being the archetypal evil barbarian with all the negative qualities used in propaganda made it shockingly easy to dehumanise the swarms that smashed against our lines.
I'm a monster, I decided. By any metric of modern day, I fit easily in the brackets of being a war criminal. While those I fought against were no innocents themselves, they were still people and only going against more 'acceptable' targets made it no less bad. Ends justify the means. If I can save lives with dragons by making the lords of Westeros and later Essos bend the knee without bloodshed, it'll be worth it. What is one life or two against thousands? It made me wonder how much of the original me was still left at this point.
Upon giving Vaquo a polite nod as he rubbed his gloved hands together, Doreah announced her master's presence and we all turned around. The servants had clearly done their best and Daenerys Targaryen looked stunning. The soon-to-be-declared queen wore a high-collared black silk gown with red scales running down her arms, her silver-gold hair had been curled in the fashion of Lys and her face was obstructed by a black veil of translucent silk. It was a beautiful sight, though ruined when Khal Drogo yelled some more words I didn't know, but I doubted they were pleasant ones at that. Around Princess Daenerys was her court of handmaidens, all dressed splendidly in gowns of mourning.
I bowed my head as did many others as a sign of respect. "Princess—"
"Why do you call me that?" Daenerys challenged me, her voice hard as granite. It wasn't her normal voice. It sounded forced, the kind one would have when they tried to make themselves more powerful and threatening. "You had bent your knee to Viserys. You proclaimed him king, did you not?"
I paused before reluctantly replying, "I did bend the knee to your brother, and I did proclaim him king." Is this a trick? From the way she was speaking, the authoritative tone and words, I had an inkling of what she was doing. She wants me to swear an oath before everyone. Daenerys was quick to act. I'd grant her that.
"When you approached me after my brother's death, you told me I was Viserys' heir. Correct?"
Oh, you clever girl. I had never quite expected her to do this. While it wasn't the most complicated or masterful ploy, it showed a certain cunning. I could claim I didn't say such a thing which, while not weakening my influence with my allies in the Golden Company, would reveal me as deceitful for lying to her face and diminish our relationship. That'll especially be counterproductive with what I had planned. On the other hand, I could admit I did say that and that'll be me admitting my own claim was inferior to her own, which it honestly was. The Blackfyres were thought dead in Westeros and had been victims to a series of defeats that essentially eliminated any legitimacy they had, but that was minor to the fact my parents were an up-start merchant and a bed slave, neither of whom would be accepted in highly elitist Westeros. I chewed the inside of my cheeks. The words, as a friend, punctuated the sentence of me bending the knee. It won't matter who sits their arse on the throne, I will govern.
"I did say something along those lines," I confessed.
"Viserys is dead and I am his heir, the last member of House Targaryen. Everything that was his, be they claims and processions, are rightfully mine. Are you mine, Aegon Blackfyre?"
I paused, noticing Blackheart and all the other officers of the Golden Company watch me with interest. I couldn't have a read of them. Their expressions were blank, waiting to see what I'd do. This may finally turn them against me. I almost let out a bitter laugh. All I had done from reforming the Golden Company, reforging the Triarchy as a subservient alliance of tributary states, to defeating Khal Drogo on an open field, and I get outplayed by a fourteen-year-old girl because I said the wrong words in a moment of compassion. Fuck.
It didn't take long to decide who I'd rather be my enemy between the die-hard Blackfyre loyalists within the Company or Daenerys Targaryen. Would it truly be so bad to be a servant? Kingship never appealed to me, nor did I think I'll perform that highly as king. I didn't hold myself in high regard when it came to public speaking and every action would be utterly scrutinised by the lords. My more unorthodox attitudes on governance, my radically liberal attitudes (at least compared to this world) and opinions of the smallfolk would win me no love among the lords who'll resist at every opportunity. I glanced at Illyrio Mopatis who stood at the side, standing on legs I'm surprised hadn't buckled under his impressive weight. The rotting sea cow of Pentos. "You will do as I say," his words rang in my ears. He was glaring at me with a face saying no, I shouldn't bend the knee. It might be spiteful and extremely petty, but if there was something confirming what I should and shouldn't do, it was that.
"My queen. The sword that I had sworn to King Viserys is now yours."
"Even the Golden Company?"
There was a pause.
"If it is my power, I swear it."
She lifted me up, pulled the veil from her face and kissed lightly me on the cheek. It was dry but it reminded me of the one she gave before though not half as pleasant. "Thank you," she whispered before turning to the officers, her face a stoic mask like what a queen should be. "Men of the Golden Company. Officers and soldiers, you are my army now. As you stand before me, I see the faces of exiles, men of renown and infamy, those who had been exiled to Essos for crimes committed against realm and crown. If you swear your vows to me, just as you had done for my brother, I will see you returned to Westeros. I will see you returned to your home and ancestral keeps, to live lives worth living. Bend the knee and promise me your swords and I will see your birthrights return to you."
"Westeros has never taken a ruling queen before," Ser Harry Strickland said calmly. "The last time that issue was pursued, it caused a civil war called the Dance of the Dragons. Thousands died; houses extinguished. Lords love not to be ruled by mere girls."
"Mere girls? Good thing I am no longer one than. I was a child yesterday, ser. Today I am a woman and tomorrow I will be old. To each of you I will say this, give me your allegiance and I'll make sure there is always a place for you at my side and in my heart. Captain-general Myles Blackheart Toyne, knight and former bandit of the Kingswood Brotherhood, as the highest-ranking officer of the Golden Company you swore your service to my brother and named him your rightful king. Am I his heir?"
"The boy said as much, but I serve House Blackfyre, an oath I swore once I took the position as head of the Golden Company, to see the black dragon sit the Iron Throne of Westeros in any matter I am capable of."
"But what of me, ser? Aegon bent the knee, promising to serve me faithfully. He is to stand by my side in the coming war. You are loyal the black dragons, I know, but should Aegon command you to serve me, is it your duty to obey or refuse?"
"He did and I am bound to serve him," Myles admitted, his homely face turning to the side. "But Westeros has never taken a woman to rule over them before. The lords will be most resilient. I will ride by your side and install you both upon the Iron Throne, but only if you take Aegon as your king and sovereign, and you serve him as consort. Your brother was a king and you are a girl, too soft for such a burden to be placed upon your shoulders."
Surprisingly, Dany only nodded. She turned to Illyrio who wore loose gowns of flame-coloured silk most fitting for the occasion, with gemstones glittering on his fingers and a yellow beard forked and perfumed. The anger he had shown when I offered my sword had vanished from his fat face. "Magister Illyrio," she began, voice clear and loud. "I would like to thank you on behalf of House Targaryen for all you have done. Without you, both me and Viserys would be on the streets, forced to run and hide from the Usurper's knives. While Viserys couldn't outrun them in the end, I thank you for the protection you have granted us during our stay here. I pray you support me just as you had done my brother, that your son will sit by my side as prince and consort, and I'll offer all the rewards deemed suitable for your support in these challenging times. I ask only for ships and coin and your counsel. Should the war be done, and I sit the Iron Throne of Westeros as queen of all, you can be Master of Coin, and deemed a high lord. What say you, magister?"
"I would be most honoured, princess," and he almost sounded convincing.
Then she turned to the first companions I had in this world. "Septa Lemore, you have given me counsel on the Faith of the Seven, wisdom and much comfort. I would desire to take you into my company, to give me guidance whenever needed, for you speak with the voice of the Seven above. I only ask that you are honest and act with integrity as befits a septa. What say you?"
I urged Lemore with a shallow nod. "I am a servant of the Seven who are one, Your Grace. My duty is to serve in their stead. I am thankful for the honour and will perform my duties to the best of my abilities."
"Haldon Halfmaester. You served as Aegon's teacher, and then my own. I ask of you what I asked of Septa Lemore, that you join my service to advise me whenever I need advising. That you are honest in your intentions and dutiful in the role expected of a maester. Even if you lack the chain, I consider you no less of one."
Haldon was more hesitant, but he bowed his head in the end. "It will be done, Your Grace. I served Aegon but he is a man grown and getting to the end of his education. If you are to be queen, you have more to learn and I will do my best to prepare you for the burdens ahead."
"That is all I want. To those who had sworn me oaths, I will keep you to them and pray I never give you cause to question, nor hold any regrets for swearing them." She turned to me, "Aegon Blackfyre, for your fealty and oath, I name you Protector of the Realm in my service. You will the realms sword and shield, to protect my person and that of our children. You will lead the armies of the Seven Kingdoms to return House Targaryen to its rightful throne and defend it against all those who seek to raise their swords against us. What say you?"
"I would be most honoured, Your Grace. I vow to serve you, to die for you if needs be. To stand by your side no matter what may come."
"No matter what?"
"No matter what."
It was midnight when the ceremony was at an end. Lemore stood before the body of Viserys the Third of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. She spoke of life and death, the seven aspects and finding peace in the seven heavens. I ignored the sermon and spent my time deep in thoughts of the future, Westeros and magic.
"Oil," Illyrio commanded and his household slaves brought forth jars to pour over the pyre, soaking the silks and linens, the brush and bundles and hay, until it trickled beneath the logs and the air was rich with fragrance. Not even the two prisoners were spared and were soon glistening with substance. Both Khal Drogo and Ser Jorah thrashed but the ropes were taut and didn't budge in the slightest. "Bring the eggs."
Each of Daenerys' handmaidens stepped forward, each holding a separate egg and laid them around Viserys. The black under one arm, opposite was placed the purple, the green beside his head, the cream-and-gold between his legs.
"You shouldn't do this," Lemore urged, voice clearly directed at me despite looking at Daenerys. "You shouldn't destroy these eggs, nor burn these two people. They are villains, yes, but you shouldn't burn them. It would be wiser to sell the eggs to buy ships and men for Westeros."
"And what do you suppose we do with them, septa?" I asked her. "Leave them in a cell to die of starvation or chop their heads off? They are to be executed. Simple as that." And I've lost my humanity long ago.
Dany ignored Septa Lemore and climbed Viserys' pyre to brush aside his pale hair and kiss him on the forehead. As she climbed down, Haldon said, "This is madness."
"Madness and wisdom are two sides of the same coin," Daenerys Targaryen said sadly. "How far away are the two truly? Some of you here must have thought Aegon mad for what he has done. Why should he have the benefit of the doubt?"
Ser Jorah Mormont spat out his gag and his voice was an angry growl, frantic and angry. "You are mad! I NEVER KILLED YOUR BROTHER!"
"You did. He was stabbed and you abandoned him to die in the streets. You fled. How is that not a sign of guilt, ser? Though I do thank you, Ser Jorah, for the lessons you have taught me. I will be more cautious to those trying to gain my trust."
"YOU WILL NOT HEAR ME SCREAM!" Jorah screamed as oil dripped down his bald face, through his beard and down his clothes.
"It is not your screams I desire, ser, only the life of a traitor." Daenerys Targaryen stepped away from the pyre to my side. I took her hand in mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. She replied by pressing her side into mine and I felt a desire to wrap an arm around her. It would have been romantic, should we not be about to watch two people burn alive. Jorah's face went from that of fury to that of fear. Utter, primal fear. I looked up at where the stars flashed in a sea of darkness and filtered out the shouts.
A slave stepped forward, carrying a torch and thrust it between the logs. The oils went alight at once, the brush and hay and wood a heartbeat later. It burst forth in an explosion and the man darted back, skin red and burned from just the hot air. A heat puffed at my face, soft and sudden as a lover's breath, warm and gentle and comforting, but only for a moment, and soon became too hot to bear. We all stepped back. Flames in the form of hot blistering fingers skated over the oil, licking the air and darted up the wood towards the laying king. His silks took fire and, for an instant, Viserys was clad in wisps of orange silk and tendrils of grey smoke.
I sheltered my eyes and people voiced their opinions of horror or excitement, all except Daenerys who watched the flames in silence.
Once the fire began, Lyra sang a shrill, ululating tongue that sounded . . . wrong. It wasn't her normal voice but something else. The flames whirled and withered, dancing around each other and consumed the air to produce a hellish shriek. The wood crackled and hissed, eager fires climbed up the poles of the knight and khal who were struggling to free themselves. Flying embers spewed upwards into the night sky like a swarm of fireflies. The air soon became thick with the scent of burning flesh and both their screams added to Lyra's voice, creating something unnatural, something that made me sick to my stomach.
Then I saw them.
Someone screamed, and not from those in the pyre. Around the inferno, the shadows danced. Lyra's cry rose to a high wail that sent shivers down my spine. Septa Lemore stepped back, holding the crystal around her neck before her and muttering a prayer, eyes widened to the size of eggs. The fires shifted and changed colour: red and gold and orange, blue and green, growing hotter and fiercer. They swirled like the dancers who entertained Myles and his men, whirling and singing while dressed in yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, and scary. I glimpsed the shadows and knew they shouldn't exist. They danced on the walls and ground, circling the pyre, utterly surreal and drinking the light. For a moment, I saw a dragon and elephant, a manticore and a horned man. There were others; creatures I had never seen before, creatures that may not even have names. I was unable to look away despite every fibre of my being screaming that I should, that I should run away and hide. I didn't. I stood my ground, utterly transfixed.
A terrible roar filled the air.
The wood crackled and the pyre began to collapse. The fires grew hotter and my skin began to sweat. Yet despite that, I couldn't move. It was like I was physically restrained by someone. Something. There was a second loud crack, as loud and sharp as thunder. Through the flames, the pyre broke in upon itself, kicking up smoke. The fire grew stronger. Thirty feet it climbed, swirling and dancing, restless and angry.
Dany's hand slipped from mine and she stepped forward, towards the firestorm with arms spread as if to hug the flames. Her skin shimmered like it'd been coated with oils. Someone screamed and then I realised it was me, begging Lyra to do something. I tried to grab Daenerys, to pull her back from the pyre but the fires intensified, bellowing a warning. I pulled my hand back, growling in agony, and collapsed to the ground. My right hand flared in pain so great I screamed. The skin was red and raw like I'd just dipped my hand into a burning hearth. The mage turned to me, gasping for breath and mouthed something I couldn't hear.
Images danced in the flames: crimson lions and burning dragons and smouldering wolves, men running in fear and a kraken with tendrils made of smoke. There were burning trees, so many burning trees.
Her dress beginning to smoulder, Dany stripped the garbs and let them fall. They burst into flames before even hitting the ground. Yet Dany remained unfazed, entering the fires like they were nothing. I screamed internally, someone wept but most were silent. Lyra was frantic, her mouth open in a soundless, primal cry.
Then a crack, like an explosion happening right in front of me. The platform shifted and collapsed in its entirety. Fires turned to smoke and ash and cinder. One of the burning poles came crashing down before me, little more than a pillar of flame. Roaring filled the world and there were cries inside, tiny things I strained to hear. The pyre collapsed with the sound of the world breaking and all that remained was smoke.
Lyra turned around and when I saw her face, I could swear she had aged decades. The flesh had all gone from her. Skin stretched tight around her skull in certain places, sagged in others. Her cheeks were hollow, and her arms were little more than sticks. There were dark circles under Lyra's eyes that, once dark with intellect, were now sunken deep into black pits. She looked ready to collapse, and did, falling unceremoniously into the dirt. Only Vaquo rushed to her aid, throwing his sable cloak around the withered frame and helping the mage up to be led inside.
Only death can pay for life. How many lives must be snuffed for dragons? It was a horrible cost yet just the idea of them sent a strange joy to erupt through my body, filling it with more warmth than I felt from the pyre. Should anyone threaten to stop me, I will bare my teeth and dare them to deny me.
When the fires died at last, what had been Viserys' funeral pyre had turned into a blackened nest. We stepped forward and found Daenerys Targaryen sitting with her legs crossed in the centre, surrounded by blackened logs, bits of glowing embers and the burnt bones of men. She was naked, covered with soot, her clothes nothing but ash and her beautiful silvery hair had all crisped away, yet there wasn't a single burn on her. Not a single mark beneath all the ash and soot.
Where two existences had died, four more came into being. Surrounding her were tiny creatures with long tails, serpentine necks and small leathery wings. The cream-and-gold dragon whined like a newly born pup, curled around her right arm, the green-and-bronze was being cradled in her arms, content in its slumber. The black-and-scarlet beast was draped across her shoulders, its long neck tucked under her chin. It took me a moment to see the last one, the black-and-purple dragon on its own, eyeing me with eyes as black as onyx.
Everyone was silent, all pushing for a closer look at the girl who survived the flames and the dragons she had birthed. Daenerys rose on wobbly feet with glassy eyes not looking up to greet us. Without being asked, Dalabhar provided her his woollen cloak. She accepted with a nod and turned to us, to me, with a growing smile.
Wordlessly, I dropped to one knee. Haldon and Lemore and Duck, Dalabhar, Damon and Qarro all fell in behind, as did the common soldiery and servants. Lysono Maar followed with the Essosi officers, pulled out his jewelled sword and planted it into the ground, Harry collapsed beside the spymaster and laid his sword to his feet where he said, "Daenerys of House Targaryen," his voice stilted and was unable to look away from the dragons.
"The true queen of the Seven Kingdoms," Myles finished, his voice a cracked murmur as he and Illyrio were the last to bend the knee, and with no great haste. "Queen of Dragons."
"Mother of Dragons," I finished.
Everyone was on their knees before Daenerys, before her children. The dragons' hissed, pale smoking venting from their mouths and nostrils, staring at everyone. The red-and-black dragon let out a call and the other three added their voices to the chorus, translucent wings unfolding and stirring in the air. For the first time in hundreds of years, the night came alive with the music of dragons and the world trembled.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein