Chapter Text
Only four days by ship across the Narrow Sea, and she could be there.
Home.
Westeros.
Her ancestral lands.
If Daenerys looked long and hard enough, squinting in the bright light, she could almost make out a small spot of land in the distance. Perhaps that was King's Landing itself, or the island of Dragonstone.
Viserys told her she was born in Dragonstone. On a stormy night — the worst storm in living memory — their mother Rhaella died while her only daughter was brought into the world, kicking and screaming. Well, that was how her brother remembered it, being older than her by eight years. He always told her she was a daft, silly girl, prone to ridiculous fancies. When she had asked once what their mother had looked like, he had sneered. Then he had slapped her for being impertinent.
He never did like speaking about their mother. The memory of her was too painful. And in a way, he had blamed her for leaving him all alone to raise Daenerys.
The sister he never wanted, and a burden he wished to cast off as soon as possible.
That was why when her nameday came this year, she was dreading it.
For this year, she was eighteen years of age. By all accounts, suitable for marriage.
Fixing her sights on the near harbor and the sandy beach not too far from it, Daenerys tried to push such thoughts out of her mind. The Targaryens were famed for dragons and for madness. While that family name could buy her a powerful suitor, she herself was penniless. A lost princess, chained to her name as much as she was chained to this manse, under her brother's constant watch. At his every beck and call.
He would order her to do what he wanted, and she had nothing to say.
Magister Illyrio Mopatis was their host. A wealthy merchant, he had welcomed the Targaryen siblings under his roof and into his lavish manse. Before that, they had been starving orphans, begging and wandering the streets of the Free Cities. Now she was dressed in the finest silks and linens from exotic lands. She ate from silver plates, and handmaidens attended to her every need.
As for Viserys…
Day and night, he clamored for his crown. The crown that would give him the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne. More than anything, he wanted to be the King of Westeros. He believed himself to be the Dragon, his claim incontestable.
The Magister seemed kind. After all, her brother called the man their friend. Yet more than once, when she caught his roving eye, she saw a hint of something she didn't like. His true intentions, hidden well beneath his facade of hospitality and generosity, peered out at her like a dragon emerging from its lair.
A chill would sweep over her then. Her skin would break into sweats, and she could hardly breathe.
He whispered honeyed words into her brother's ear. Poisoning his mind, raising his hopes.
All the while, she was the one who suffered. When she questioned anything, Viserys would chastise her. If she upset him, he would strike her with his hands. Though he called her his sister, he saw her as nothing but a means to an end.
His burden still, but a princess.
A woman grown, with royal blood. He would make sure she earned her keep and was of use to him.
His temper frightened her. One day, she worried that either anger or lust would take hold of him completely. Then she would find herself defiled or beaten within an inch of her life.
It was why when the Magister had suggested a marriage alliance, she said nothing. They wished to find her an interested suitor, and she wished to go home. If anything, a husband could offer her protection and a chance to return to her homeland.
Perhaps, if she were free of Viserys—
Sighing, she stared at the horizon. Where the sea met the sky, the sun was climbing slowly downward to join them. A flock of birds rose, then gilded on the gusts that followed.
How she wished that could be her, flying through the open air and touching the waves as she passed them by! After hearing the many stories about dragons from centuries ago, she had dreamed of being one since she was a little girl. Dragons were fierce and wild. They could not be tamed.
Finally, she would be her own master. She wouldn't feel like a slave to her brother's whims, subject to his fits of temper. She would breathe fire and spread her own wings, taking flight whenever she pleased. She wouldn't have to answer to anyone. She wouldn't be afraid any longer.
Yet dragons had not existed for centuries. Sadly, they were gone.
Once, Viserys was good to her. He cared for her. Their hardship should have brought them closer together. Their bond as brother and sister should be strong.
Yet he only despised her and saw her as nothing. No better than a broodmare to be sold to the highest bidder.
She longed to defy him. To cross him. To tell him he was wrong to treat her as such. She was still the last Targaryen princess. She was her mother's daughter. She wasn't the dust beneath his boots.
She was Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen.
Every time he entered a room, she wished she could tell him that. Yet she could not. The moment she laid eyes on him, her throat became parched. Her vision blurred. Her heart began to hammer away as her breathing quickened.
And her hands always trembled, so much so that she had to clasp them together to hide it.
Fear. Always fear. Was she never to be brave and stand up to him?
"Daenerys!"
She flinched. Out here on the balcony, the wind was light and gentle, bringing delicate scents from the many blooming trees in the gardens below. Though sunlight kissed her skin with its warmth, it did not hurt her. Now that spell was broken with a single cry of her name.
If only she had been born otherwise. If only she were not a Targaryen.
"Daenerys, where are you?"
Turning, she hastened between the parted sheer curtains, swaying in the breeze, and entered the bathing room. It would not do to hide from him.
One way or another, he would find her.
"There you are."
Not a moment too soon. In he strode, without a thought for her comfort or privacy. He often entered when she was bathing, to look upon her form and remark on where he thought she was lacking.
Her breasts were too small. Her bottom was too large. Her hips were not wide enough to bear children. She was much too short.
At least today, he was smiling. Carrying in his arms a piece of cloth. Made of silk, no doubt, since their host spared no expense in his household.
Or a venomous spider's web, ensnaring her in its threads.
"A gift from Illyrio." He motioned towards the garment he was holding out to her. "For our bride-to-be. Touch it. Feel the fabric. Isn't he a gracious host?"
She was no fool. In a world where only men ruled, no one offered gifts out of kindness or without expecting something in return. Why should Illyrio Mopatis be any different?
Doing as her brother asked, she smoothed her hand over what appeared to be a gown. Soft as a feather. Thin and light in hue. If one were to wear it, everyone would clearly see the naked body beneath its folds.
Was this how she was to be offered to her future husband? No better than a slave, to be inspected as fine goods for sale? Suddenly, she felt an urge to retch into the nearest standing vase.
"We've been his guests for over a year, and he hasn't asked us for anything." She glanced at Viserys, then quickly looked away. If she held his gaze for too long, he would see it as an act of defiance.
"Illyrio is no fool, Daenerys. He knows I'll remember my friends when I come into my throne," he boasted. "It was he who arranged this meeting with the captain of the Golden Company. I hope this one is more respectful than the last. Remember what happened?"
How could she forget? They had mocked him and dubbed him "the Beggar King" after drinking his wine and eating the food he had prepared for them. Whenever Viserys recalled the past, it was only to tell tales of grievances and how the world wronged him.
Yet he never acknowledged that it had wronged them both. She, too, was an outcast. He was the only family she had left, but she had never felt more alone.
"They did not wish to help us then. We had no gold to pay them," she finally said, keeping her eyes downcast. "Why would they help us now?"
"Isn't it obvious?" He leered at her. "They have a new captain now. A Westerosi lord, if you can believe it. Exiled, naturally, like most of the soldiers are. But he was a lord once. He has agreed to meet you. The hand of a princess, for the services of an army."
"Why would he agree to such terms?"
"Little sister…" His hand swept fallen locks of hair away from her shoulders, fingering the ties of her dress. "You are the daughter of a King. What man would not want such a prize?"
"I am no prize," she said in a small voice as unease crawled under her skin. "I just want to go home."
"Oh, you do, do you? Look where we are. We are naught but guests under Illyrio's roof. How will we go home unless we take it back, with fire and blood?"
"Must I marry him?" She could not imagine giving herself to a stranger or letting him touch her body. The very idea was maddening. "Does he want nothing else?"
"Don't be stupid. We have nothing else to offer," he snapped. "You are of age, you have the blood of the dragon in your veins. He will have a Targaryen for his wife, the greatest honor any Westerosi lord could ask for. Now. Enough of your whining. You have a woman's body. Come, let me see you."
Daenerys could scarcely breathe as he tugged on the ties and her gown fell down to her waist. Where should she look? What could she say? He was taller and stronger. He held her fate in his hands. She had nowhere to run and hide, no safe haven where she could seek refuge.
Of course, he was not content to merely stare. His hands cast aside the curls that hid the tips of her breasts. Then he began to fondle the swells, thumbs brushing over her nipples. She was as still as stone, unwilling to speak or do anything that might anger him. Her heart sank lower into her chest and her stomach churned wildly as he continued to touch her.
"I need you to be perfect for me today. Can you do that?"
She finally dared to meet his eyes, but when she tried to speak, no words came out.
"You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?" Now there was a sharp edge to his voice, a silent warning that was all too familiar.
She bowed her head, unable to stop shaking. "No."
He nearly pushed the new gown into the hands of a nearby handmaiden. "Good. Go on and bathe, Dany. Get ready to meet your future husband."
The moment he turned on his heel and walked away from her, she let out a long sigh of relief. Anything she said that he disliked — he would slap her face. If she questioned him, he could hit her. It was a careful dance to guess what would appease Viserys, depending on his moods. Sometimes, it was best to say nothing at all.
Then her heart came to a near halt when he stopped mid-step and looked back at her. "When they speak of my reign, dear sister, they will say it began today. Remember that."
As soon as he was out of sight, she couldn't wait to cast off her gown and enter the steaming bath. Let the hot water scald her if it meant washing away the imprint of his fingers upon her skin.
"No, my lady, it's too hot!"
Ignoring the handmaiden's cry, Daenerys descended and reveled in the heat that surrounded her. The heat that never burned her and always welcomed her into its depths.
It could swallow her whole for all she cared.
The three-headed dragon pins, made of the finest silver and with tiny rubies for their eyes, rested heavily on her shoulders. In contrast to their splendor, her hair was pinned simply behind her, flowing freely down her back. And as she had feared—
Illyrio's gift of a dress hardly left anything to the imagination. It was spun of the most delicate gossamer silk — a rarity, even in Essos — and it hung down to her ankles like the lightest cloud, floating above her feet. Clinging to her body like a second skin.
She hated it. She hated how she might as well be wearing nothing at all.
It was as if all male eyes were upon her as she stood on that terrace, waiting with bated breath. Some of their servants carried large parasols, to better shade their masters from the glaring heat. Farther along the path, a small crowd had gathered, no doubt to bear witness to this transaction.
That was all she was. A barter and trade. An army of twenty thousand men, in exchange for her. And their captain could do with her as he pleased, whether he found her satisfactory or not.
The corners of her eyes stung. She had to stifle a soft sob by biting down hard on her tongue.
"Where is he? Are you sure he's coming?" Viserys sounded worried. Not for her, by any means. Only for what he might lose should their distinguished guest choose not to appear.
"Yes, my Prince. He will be here soon." Illyrio cleared his throat. "Captain Jorah Mormont is not a man who arrives late. He will be here precisely on time. As a knighted lord, he knows all about the proper deportment."
That was news to Daenerys. "The captain is a knight? As well as a lord?"
"Indeed, Princess. He fled Westeros some years ago. Joined the Golden Company not long after he came to Essos. And he has been serving them ever since."
"He fled?" She didn't like the sound of that.
"Yes, something about selling slaves. It is forbidden there. If he hadn't crossed the Narrow Sea, I imagine he would have been executed long ago."
"A resourceful man, then." Viserys straightened. "He rose in rank to command one of the most powerful armies in the world. That counts for something."
"He is a skilled warrior. Was knighted by King Robert himself during the Greyjoy Rebellion."
The very man who usurped her father and stole her brother's throne. That was surely a glowing commendation.
From the distance echoed the thundering of hooves, beating the dirt. Then the banners of the Golden Company came into view, solid gold with no insignia. With ten other soldiers around him, Captain Mormont must be the one riding in front. As a unit, their armor glinted brightly in the sun. It reminded her of the rolling waves she saw earlier.
The waves of the same sea that might take her home soon.
"Our word is good as gold, they say," Viserys muttered. "But will they truly keep their word in this matter?"
"I assure you, my Prince. If the captain agrees to this match, he will not break his vow. And Jorah Mormont himself has a reputation for honor and loyalty."
As the horses slowed to a halt, Illyrio strode forward to greet the small troupe. In a proud, elevated voice, he announced Viserys as the rightful King, then Daenerys as his sister.
When she moved to follow in his footsteps, Viserys grabbed her arm and held her back. "I warn you, Dany. Do not say anything that will anger him or turn him from our cause. He must like you. Do you hear me? Flaunt your worth, or it will cost you dearly. If the Golden Company does not rally to us, then I will be forced to take…other measures."
She shivered, and a chill ran down her spine. Aside from his interest in how the Targaryens married brothers and sisters to keep their bloodline pure, he had also mentioned the Dothraki and their horselords. The greatest of them, Khal Drogo, was said to have forty thousand men in his khalasar. He was seeking an exotic bride and had sent an envoy already to the Magister. If this were to fail—
Fire began to burn, deep down in the pit of her stomach. When her brother released her, she walked forward, slowly and carefully.
She was afraid. She was unwilling to marry. She only wanted to go home.
Yet she would meet this Jorah Mormont with her head held high. No matter her true feelings, she would not show him any trace of fear. And she would not let Viserys sell her in marriage to a Dothraki warlord, either.
To her surprise, the captain immediately dismounted from his horse when he saw her approaching. Even from where she presently was, the golden armor defined his breadth and height.
Well, he was a tall man. Older, judging by what she could see. And as for his face—
Her breath caught in her throat.
Oh.
Two soulful eyes stared inquiringly at her, both as blue as the sea beyond and the sky above. Curious, intelligent, and with a spark of warmth that soothed. She couldn't help but stare back.
"My Princess." He bowed his head, then looked up. "Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. Captain of the Golden Company. It is an honor to meet you. "
The timbre of his voice, mellifluous and deep, reached across the space between them and swept over her senses. To regain the use of her tongue, she forced herself to focus on the color of his hair — golden, like the rays of the sun — and sharp cheekbones, dusted with a darker golden beard—
"I brought you a gift. Songs and histories from the Seven Kingdoms."
Then, with hands outstretched, he offered what seemed to be a small collection of books. Worn and well-loved. Did they belong to him?
Books. Only lords owned books, and even then, they were hard to come by. And books from Westeros!
Her heart was pounding. He came to their first meeting with such a gift? For her? With something this precious?
Eagerly, she reached for them. "Thank you, Ser. For thinking of me. I promise I will treasure them."
A moment of silence passed. Though it would have been easy for him to gaze down at her revealing dress, he continued to look only at her face.
"You are from my country," she finally managed to say.
His lips curved slightly. "Aye. When your father was king, I served him."
That woke her from her dazed state. "My father? But that was years ago. Nearly twenty."
"True. I was a young man then. Quite young. Now I am not." His face fell. "I suppose that displeases you. My age. You are very young."
"No, I am not." Then she bit down on her lower lip. Was she too quick to correct him? "I only meant — I am a grown woman now. And you are a grown man."
"A very astute observation, my lady."
"Are you — are you teasing me, Ser?"
"Captain, as it were. As for teasing…" He rolled his shoulders as he stepped back to scrutinize her from head to toe. "Perhaps it is you who are teasing me, Princess."
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Then she glanced downward, unable to meet his eyes. He had noticed. Surely, he did not think that she herself had chosen to dress this way.
"Do I please you, Captain?" she murmured, clasping his books to her chest. "My brother will want to know."
He smiled, and the lovely sight of it gladdened her, though she could not explain why or how. "Aye. You are beautiful, my lady. Only a fool would not be pleased."
"Daenerys? Daenerys!"
She sighed inwardly. Of course, Viserys would get impatient at how long this was taking. Never mind that she hardly spoke to anyone else — or that he wanted her to marry this man.
"Your brother?"
"Yes. He is…worried. He wishes to speak to me."
He glanced in that direction. "It appears so. I will take my leave of you, then. Farewell, Princess."
"Wait."
She felt her face growing hot again when he stopped and turned to face her once more.
"Will you come back?"
Back to me, came a whisper from within. She knew it was untoward of her to even ask, but something about Jorah Mormont intrigued her. Did she intrigue him? Or was she too simple for him?
Either way, she wanted to find out for herself.
"Aye." His warm smile returned. "If you wish it."
She had no choice in the matter. Even if he had not been told, she knew the truth. Yet he was the first man to offer her a choice. To imply that she even could choose. That her opinion on the matter was important. More than what Viserys or anyone else thought.
And that meant everything.
"I do wish it, Captain." At long last, she let herself smile back, hoping the gesture was pleasant and becoming. After all, she rarely smiled these days, so she was out of practice. "Will you come back soon?"
"Very soon." He held her gaze a while longer, unflinching and bright, and she couldn't breathe. "Until we meet again, my lady."
As he mounted his horse and rode off, she clung to the books in her hands. Now there was a strange ache in her chest, rising higher and higher until it seemed her heart was lodged in her throat.
She wanted to see him again. That much was certain.
And if the way he had looked at her was any indication…
Well, perhaps this dragon could fly free after all.