Chapter Text
She was all alone now. Her mother was gone when she was born, her father she suspected long before that, and now her guardian as well. Wulfric had been the only family Mireya had ever known. He may have been ill-tempered, stern and strange, but she had loved him nonetheless. He may have never said it, but she knew he had loved her back.
Looking at the sorry pile of earth before her, she could feel her cheeks dampen. Wulfric was not fond of tears; he thought them a waste of time. The memory made a slight smile tug at her lips. She wiped the tears from her cheeks quickly, thinking of how Wulfric would have scolded her for them.
She placed a bundle of shrubs and flowers over his grave. The forget-me-nots glowed against the dark brown on which they rested. She had been lucky to find them, given the season, they were suitable– a symbol of remembrance and love. Wulfric would have tutted at her sentimentality.
“I hope you approve,” she said, “You always did say that we must return to the earth when we die.” She sighed, unsure of what to say. So many words weighed heavily in her heart, and yet none of them came to her mouth. “You were a good man, a kind man, even though you often tried not to be. You looked after me, took me in as a babe even though I’m not… I wasn’t your blood.” She knelt and ran the soil through her fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as it cracked. “I’ll make you proud… or at least try.”
It had started to rain, Mireya’s pearlescant locks sticking to her forehead as the water hammered down on her. She took the ragged wool cloak that had once belonged to Wulfric and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was too long for her. Wulfric had been a tall man, a giant practically. It pooled at her ankles, soaking in the mud beneath her feet. Its scent engulfed her, smoke and herbs soothing her. She tucked her loose hair underneath its hood, remembering what the old man had hammered into her head so many times over the years. Always cover your hair, girl, he would say, there are people out there who would mean to hurt you because of that hair. She hadn’t understood why, as a child, but her years travelling across Westeros had taught her that not all were friendly to those bearing the features of Old Valyria.
Mireya mounted Wulfric's horse and started to walk him through the woods, pulling their caravan behind her. It was strange riding Old Boy. Wulfric rarely let her, only really when he had finished brewing his mead.
“Where should we go, hm?” she sighed, patting his honey-coloured mane. “We could go to the Westerlands, see the Sunset Sea? Or the North?” The horse snorted at that in disapproval. “Okay, not the North… I know, it’s cold.” She smiled, looking up at the dark grey sky, thunder rippling through it. She frowned, “Shelter first.”
She eventually found a cave that seemed stable enough to rest in for the night, the ground covered in plush moss, which meant sleeping there would not be too uncomfortable. She shivered under her makeshift blanket made from Wulfric’s old cloak. The rainfall had destroyed any chance of finding dry kindling, so a fire was out of the question.
As she listened to the sound of the storm outside, willing it to lull her to sleep, her mind wandered back to old Wulfric. A dark pit of loneliness settled in her stomach as she lay there. Her only family, the only one she had ever known– life with him– gone in the blink of an eye.
Now she had no one, save Old Boy, whom she had always suspected didn’t like her very much. What would she do now? She supposed she could continue as a healer, wandering through the seven kingdoms. She smiled at the thought. Wulfric would certainly approve of that path.
Eventually, her eyelids grew heavy enough that she drifted off into a dreamless slumber, with only her sorrow to keep her company.
--- ✧✦✧ ---
Mireya had always liked spending her days amongst the rivers, meadows and forests. The gentle quietness of nature was a welcome comfort. It helped fill the empty void inside of her. At least, until night came.
She found it hard to sleep without the sound of Wulfric’s snores. She would lie awake at night, unsheltered when the weather permitted, counting the stars until she drifted off to sleep. In her dreams, she wasn't alone. Sometimes she was a little girl, and Wulfric would be alive. They would wander along a riverbank or down a dusty road, and he would recant old stories from the age of heroes, singing strange ballads as she skipped ahead. He always stops along the way, picking a little herb from the earth and telling her about its healing properties.
Other nights, she would dream of her mother. She had warm hands and gave soft kisses, but when Mireya tried to look at her face, all she saw was a blur and a mess of hair the colour of moonlight. She often dreamt of her mother, yet each dream was the same.
Eventually, she knew she would have to find a town. As winter approached, the food she could forage for was sparse, and with most animals going into their sleep for the cold months, she had even less luck hunting. Her supplies were in desperate need of replenishing.
She followed a stream through the dense forest in her search. Had it been warmer, she would have removed her boots and walked barefoot in the water. In the morning, a thick mist would embrace her as she travelled, her breath fogging with each exhale.
It took Mireya a day of riding to find a village. It was small, a collection of little shacks and a tavern and smithy, really, but people nonetheless.
Her hair was wrapped in a cloth, not a single strand loose to be seen. She hated it– covering it up. When she was alone, wandering freely through the wild lands of Westeros, she could have it loose, tumbling down to her back in wild waves.
She settled her caravan on the outskirts, out of sight and shielded by the trees, with Old Boy tied next to it. “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered, “With some food, hopefully.”
As she wandered through the streets, Mireya felt a wave of fear overcome her as she felt eyes on her. She had never gone through a village alone before, the presence of her guardian always offering a sense of protection she hadn't even known she’d felt. Not until that protection was gone.
She made her way into the tavern, the Old Eagle, it was called. Mireya recalled briefly Wulfric mentioning something about being in Mallister land. She had never much cared to learn about the houses of Westeros, nor had Wulfric cared to teach her about them.
It was dark and dingy in the tavern. The smell of ale seeped from the walls, creating a thick cloud that seemed to choke her. Wulfric rarely ever let her go into the taverns with him, making her mind the caravan and Old Boy or forage for herbs. With the way heads turned and eyes leered at her when she entered, she could understand why.
She didn't know what to do. How had Wulfric found customers? Mireya had only ever been involved in the treatment. She had no coin for a hot meal, so she would have to figure it out soon. She quickly made her way to a small table in the corner and settled there, pulling Wulfric's cloak close like a shield. The last bit of his protection she had left.
“These sorts of places aren’t the kindest for little girls travelling alone,” someone said. Mireya looked up to see a young woman standing before her. She looked to be only a few years older than Mireya herself, with a plump figure and rosy cheeks. She was rather plain, but sweet-looking enough.
“I’m only passing through,” Mireya replied, in barely a whisper. She wondered if the woman could even hear her. The woman stared at her keenly, as if she was inspecting her.
“I’ve never seen someone like you in these parts,” she noted, “Where are you from?”
“Nowhere, really.” She then smiled, “Or everywhere, I suppose.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Mireya’s smile immediately fell.
“Oh… er…I just meant that…”
“It’s fine, don’t get your smallclothes in a twist. If you don’t want to say, then don’t say,” the young woman sighed. “Just don’t go around speaking in riddles like that. Us riverfolk don’t tend to have much patience for such things.” Mireya nodded at her instructions. She had been born in Dorne, though that part was obvious from her honey coloured skin. Even so, she had found admitting that fact tended to get her in trouble- people in the seven kingdoms were not fond of the Dornish. “You really here alone?” She asked, taking a seat at the table with her.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mireya.” The woman smiled.
“ I’m Tilly. Ale?”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
“So,” Tilly continued, pouring herself a cup and taking a swig, “no family then?” Mireya chewed her cheek at the reminder.
“No, no family.”
“Hm, I can always tell,” Tilly hummed, looking wistfully into the distance. “Me neither, unless you count all the fuckers in here,” she chuckled. “I work here,” she continued, catching Mireya’s questioning eye. “A tavern wench, if you will.” She wiggled her eyebrows mischievously. Mireya’s eyes widened. She had heard of such things, of course, in her time travelling through the realm, seen and treated the repercussions of them. She was not naive, but such openness was more than she was used to. Wulfric, for all his knowledge and lessons, was something of a prude. She knew the logistics of what Tilly spoke of, but not the human part. “Goodness, aren’t you the blushing maiden!” Tilly laughed at her reaction. Mireya chuckled uncomfortably at her words, worried Tilly had interpreted her shock as disapproval. But before she could respond, a shadow was cast over their candle-lit corner.
“Tilly, who’s your friend?” Mireya looked up to see a young man standing over them. “I’ve never seen you here before,” he smiled. He was comely enough, no great beauty, but possessed an alluring ruggedness nonetheless. “I think I would remember your face if I had.”
Mireya felt her cheeks heat at his comment. She stared at him wordlessly, willing herself to try and come up with some reply. She was not used to such attention. Most people she interacted with were too consumed with the treatment she was providing to take notice of her looks, and the ones she interacted with outside of that never dared do anything, even if they wanted to, not with Wulfric always looming nearby.
“Oh fuck off, Tom, you're always too pissed to remember anyone’s face,” Tilly rolled her eyes, glaring at the man.
“Oh, Tilly, that's not true, I could never forget your face, it haunts my nightmares,” Tom responded, smiling wryly as he joined them. Tilly rose slightly from her seat enough to smack his arm.
“Arse,” she muttered.
“Don’t mind her, she disguises her ungying love for me as disdain,” Tom smirked. “I’m Tom, as she said,” he continued, offering her his hand.
“Mireya,” she replied, smiling, though not taking his hand. His eyes flickered briefly with disappointment.
“Pretty name for a pretty girl.” Mireya was certain her face must be bright red by this point.
“Thank you,” she muttered, looking down at her hands.
“What brings you round these parts?”
“She’s just passing through,” Tilly interrupted, eyeing Tom with an expression of annoyance and suspicion.
“I’m a healer,” Mireya explained.
“Really? Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” Mireya hummed wistfully in response. “I go wherever the wind takes me.” Tom raised his eyebrows and chuckled.
“Well, aren’t we lucky the wind brought you here?” Mireya smiled again, this time meeting his eye.
“I suppose you are. Though you have less the wind to thank for that, and more my desire for a hot meal.” She giggled slightly.
“A meal? Well, why didn’t you say? I’ll fetch you one now,” Tilly suddenly gasped, rising to her feet.
“Don’t worry about it, I have no coin to pay you.”
“No mind, I’ll give you this one on the house. It would do you too much good to deny you. Looking at you, you really don’t have much meat on your bones.” She wasn’t wrong, of course. Though her figure was curvier, more womanly than others she’d met her age, a life on the move often means one with sparse and scrappy meals. Before Mireya could respond to her observation, Tilly whisked away into the crowd.
Tom turned back to her with a grin. “She likes you.”
“She’s only just met me.”
“Still, Tills has always had a soft spot for people like you.”
“People like me?” Mireya looked at him quickly.
“Mhm…” he nodded before leaning close as if her were divulging a secret. “Little fawns,” he smirked.
“You presume to know a lot about me, given we met only moments ago,” Mireya smirked back, her eyes shining as she met Tom’s, her past shyness having melted away. The man looked stunned by her response. She moved away from him, leaning back into her chair. “You and she are friends?”
“Since childhood. She used to chase me around, threatening to bash my head in with a rock. Think she still wants to if I’m honest.” The story made Mireya giggle. She had never had other children to play with; it must have been wonderful for them. “How long will you be staying?” Tom interrupted her musings.
“I don’t know. I need some coin. Though I’m not entirely sure how to get some.”
“Aren’t you a healer?”
“Yes, but I can’t well walk up to strangers and ask them if they have any ailment for me to cure.”
“Don't fret, I’ll spread the word.” Mireya’s eyes widened.
“Would you really?”
“Yep, and the news of a beautiful, mysterious healer arriving will certainly win you some visits at least.” Mireya blushed sheepishly.
“What is it exactly you hope to win from your compliments?”
“The pleasure of your company.” Tom leaned in again, his eyes sparkling in a way that made Mireya feel both shy and intrigued.
“Be careful, once you’ve got it, it’s pretty hard to get rid of.” She was shocked by her own confidence.
“Here you go, lass,” Tilly interrupted, appearing with a bowl of pottage that she dropped in front of Mireya. Mireya felt her stomach start growling immediately. Her hunger must have been evident to the others as well, as Mireya quickly exclaimed, “fuck off, Tom, let the girl eat in peace without you ogling her.” Tom opened his mouth to protest, but was quickly shooed away by Tilly, who then took his seat. “Don’t mind him, he’s always been a flirt.”
“I didn’t… mind, I mean,” Mireya replied between the spoonfuls she was wolfing down. Gods, she had been starving. Tilly watched her carefully, her expression almost sad.
“Just,” she sighed, “be careful.” Mireya looked at her in confusion. Tom had seemed kind. “Tom is harmless,” she continued, “but not everyone else is. You see how they are looking at you?” Tilly gestured to the crowd in the tavern. Mireya felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she looked around, and the eyes she hadn’t noticed before, the men's greedy eyes. “They’ll see you as a piece of meat if you let them. So don’t let them.”
Mireya nodded in understanding, suddenly wanting nothing more than to get out of there. “Thank you for the food, but I best be getting back to my horse,” she said quickly rising to her feet.
“Need a bed?”
“No, thank you, though.”
“Alright, well, while you're here, if you need anything, come find me, alright?” Tilly smiled kindly, gently taking her hand before she could leave. Mireya swallowed thickly at the action and turned to leave. She was unused to such displays of concern, of affection.
Before she walked away, however, she looked back briefly.
“Why have you been so kind to me? I’m a stranger.” Tilly seemed almost amused by her question.
“Us girls have to stick together now, don’t we?”
--- ✧✦✧ ---
Over the next week Mireya spent in the village, she made good on Tilly’s offer. The young woman, three years her senior at twenty years old, she had found out, was like no one Mireya had ever met before. Granted, while she had met many a manner of man, she knew very few people.
She was sharp and funny, crass and sometimes rude. She knew how to command people, carrying a strength within her that one could not help but admire.
Though Mireya had staunchly avoided the tavern since the first night, more than happy to avoid the lustful stares of its inhabitants, one night, Tilly had forced her to go dancing with her. The music has been loud, dissonant, and with a terrible rhythm. The crowd had been rowdy and uncoordinated. It was some of the most fun Mireya had ever had.
During the days when she wasn’t constantly wandering the surrounding forests searching for plants to replenish her healing supplies, she was busy with the villagers. Tom had made good on his promise there, though he continued in his insistence on flirting with her. Mireya had found she did not mind it too much and had even become better at flirting back, or so Tilly had told her. She liked the way Tom seemed so flustered and wordless whenever she did.
Her coin purse had, subsequently, grown, thankfully. Though only by a little, as Mireya would only ever take what people were able to give, she ought to have enough to keep her going as she travelled.
As much as she enjoyed her time in the village, around the other people, she was beginning to feel an itch to move again. She was tired of feeling like an outsider. The forest never treated her in such a way. She would miss Tilly and maybe even Tom a little, but her life was much like the water in a flowing stream: impermanent.
Tilly had looked as though she wanted to cry when Mireya told her, pulling her into a tight embrace and making her promise she would be back to visit. Of course, she had said, this will not be the last time you ever see me– nothing in this world is ever truly over. Her friend, because Mireya supposed that was what she was, her friend, had scolded her for the riddles.
Then, on her last night, it happened.
She had been sitting in a clearing not far from her camp, sketching the constellations, when she heard it. A scream. Not the screeches of animals that she was used to. This was distinctly human.
It had been Tilly.
She was with a man, one that Mireya was sure she recognised from her first night in the tavern. He was large, caked in grime from months of not bathing, with a huge, imposing figure. And his monstrous hands were wrapped around Tilly’s neck.
Every lesson Wulfric had told her about running away from danger flew from her mind in that moment. She found the vial of spurge sap he had always made her keep in her bag, uncorking it and tossing it at the vile man's eyes.
He released her friend, stumbling over his own feet, his arms flailing as the white liquid burned his eyes and blistered his skin. But while it had been successful in freeing Tilly from his grasp, it had also made him angrier. Blinded, he lunged forward, once again reaching for Tilly, this time striking her. Without thinking, Mireya had grabbed a rock and smashed it into his head.
The man hit the ground motionless.
He had been bleeding so much. Mireya was used to blood, but not like this, not gushing from a man's skull like a rapid. She had tried, she had tried so hard, but there had been nothing she could do.
The man was dead, she had killed him, and her hands were soaked in his blood.
Tilly had soothed her as she sobbed, leading her to a nearby stream and gently washing the blood from her hands. “It’s alright,” she had repeated like a prayer until Mireya’s breathing had slowed into an even rhythm again. “It’s alright. You saved me, remember that, not the man.”
“You must think me pathetic, crying over a monster like that,” Mireya had whispered to Tilly back at her camp as she gently dabbed a cold cloth dipped in the stream's water and applied a salve of leopard’s bane to the blooming bruise around her neck.
“Not at all,” Tilly replied, “I think it shows you are kind.”
“I think it shows I am weak.” That had seemed to anger Tilly.
“Do not ever say that! Do not ever even think it!” She had snapped.
“Why not? It’s true. You saw me that first day in the tavern, alone, timid, weak.”
“I saw someone gentle, not timid nor weak.”
“My gentleness is my weakness!” Mireya bit back, growing frustrated, though she wasn't sure if at Tilly or herself. Maybe both.
“Your gentleness is your strength.” Tilly cupped her cheeks in her hands, her blue eyes gripping on hers so strongly that Mirya couldn’t tear away her gaze. “I’ve seen you with the townspeople. You treat your compassion, your care. That is your strength. Your gentleness makes you kind, your kindness makes you good, and your goodness makes you strong.” Mireya almost scoffed at her words.
“I’m not strong. Tom calls me a little fawn, and he’s right.”
“Tom’s a fool, and you should never listen to anything he says,” Tilly responded, winning a brief laugh from Mireya’s lips. “The person I saw fighting that man, save my life, was strong. Tell me, did you not do that because you are kind?”
“I did it because I care about you.”
“And what is it that makes you care if not your kindness? Your good heart?” Mireya wished she could think of an answer, but she couldn’t. “That is your strength,” Tilly continued, her voice soft and comforting. “Were it like armour, wield it like a blade. Don’t ever let anyone, don’t let him, take it from you.”
Mireya looked at her with wide eyes. “How… how are you so…how do you do it? Be almost…unaffected by it all?” Tilly looked almost amused by her question.
“I’m not. But I’ve come across enough men like him to not let it show.”
“I doubt kindness will defend me against them,” Mireya responded almost sheepishly, embarrassed by her own naivety.
“No, but you have your plants and potions, like what you did earlier– that's what poison is for,” Tilly giggled. Mireya felt her stomach drop at the mention of poison. She had the knowledge, of course. She knew which plants were dangerous, how they could be used. Wulfric had even taught her how to make different kinds. But she didn’t want to use them; she didn’t want to hurt anybody. But he was going to hurt Tilly, she thought to herself.
Tilly seemed to have noticed her hesitance. She sighed and took Mierya’s free hand in her own. “I know your heart hurts even at the thought, but I need you to listen to me very closely. There are plenty of men like him out there, men who like to take what they want and make us feel small. But they can’t if we don’t let them, so I’ll never let them, and neither should you. Never let them make you feel small. Even more so now,” she seemed to have grown anxious, glancing around them as if to look if anyone was listening. “Have you been in the tavern recently?”
“No, why?”
“So you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what? Tilly, what is going on?” Tilly sighed.
“The queen’s son is dead, killed by her own half-brother, they say.” Mireya’s breath hitched. That poor woman. “A war is coming.” War? Mireya thought as she felt a sense of doom dawn on her. “War makes monsters out of men. You need to be prepared to protect yourself, no matter what. Don’t let yourself find yourself at the mercy of a desperate soldier.”
And so she did.
--- ✧✦✧ ---
Everything was falling apart around her. Daemon had acted in a fit of rage, and Rhaenyra felt bile rise in her throat at the thought of what he had done. Her heart ached for Helaena. Sweet, kind, gentle Helaena. The poor girl deserved none of this. But a dark part of her thought of Alicent and her son. They deserved all of it.
She couldn’t trust Daemon. Perhaps she never could have. You’re pathetic, she had told him before he left, stormed away on Caraxes to Harrenhall. No doubt to serve his own ambition more than his queen.
Loyalty was a rare commodity, she was finding. She could count those she was certain would stand by her on one hand. To the others, she would always be a woman before she was their ruler. And now one of the few she trusted was gone. Rhaenys, sacrificing herself in a plight to kill Aegon. In vain, it turns out, as her half-brother had survived. He may be deformed, but he was still breathing.
And they had lost a dragon, the fastest Westeros had ever known. Now they were left with only Syrax, Vermax and Moondancer, the latter two barely grown. Even combined, they could not face Vhagar. Rhaenyra’s forces were dwindling, as was her family.
How many more would the seven take from her? First, her mother, all those years ago, then her father, and now Rhaenys. Her son and her daughter.
She thought of Luce, her sweet boy. She should never have sent him to Storm’s End. All he had wanted was to make her proud. He had been afraid, and she had made him go anyway. What sort of mother did that make her? She would have Aemond. She would have his head. She would cut him apart limb by limb and feed each one to Syrax as he watched. She would make him suffer as she suffered.
Then there was Visenya, her little girl. Her first daughter was lost before she could even take a breath of air. She thought of her mother then, of all the children she had lost, all the sons. It was strangely ironic. Her mother, with only her daughter and all those dead sons, and now her daughter with all her sons, and her only daughter dead.
She looked at the blanket in her hands. A pitiful thing that now would never be used. She brushed her fingers along the embroidery. A golden dragon dancing with a red one, below them, three smaller dragons, one emerald green, one pearlescent, and one violet, all surrounding an egg. A gift for Visenya, an ode to her family. She rested over the violet dragon, Arrax, lost along with Luce. The egg he, Jace and Joffery had chosen for the baby had turned to stone shortly after she gave birth. Rhaenyra supposed the little hatchling was now with her rider. With Luce and Arrax as well, she thought, looking after their little sister and her dragon, she thought, wiping the pooling tears from her eyes.
--- ✧✦✧ ---
It had been weeks since she had left the village, and Tilly’s words– and the coin and clothes she had insisted on giving her– had served Mierya well. She had learnt to harden herself when necessary. Mireya had always suffered from a temper, often tamed by Wulfric, but now, she found it was a useful tool. As was the flirting Tilly had taught her. She found that the right smile and batter of her eyelashes found her with aid from some poor young lad when she needed it.
Her poisons had come in handy as well. Though she had not had to use them since– she had maintained keeping to the forest most of the time– she had found they opened up a new market. The woman who came to her reminded Tilly that night, of the bruise that had marred her neck. It was strange, for all her reservations around hurting people, she was more than happy to oblige these women’s requests.
Something else had changed, however. Mierya couldn’t quite name it; she wasn't even sure what it was. A strange sense of longing had filled her, a pull almost, yet she didn’t know what she was longing for.
At night, her dreams of Wulfric or her mother had been replaced with dreams of flying. She would soar through the sky each night, the wind burning her eyes as it rippled through her loose silver waves.
When she was awake, she would hear noises, cries from an animal she had ever come across. They were melancholic in a way that made her heart ache.
The more the sounds haunted her, the more she felt alone. The company of the wilderness was not enough anymore; something was missing. Her dreams had awoken an empty part of her that she couldn’t fill.
--- ✧✦✧ ---
Silverwing was restless. Ever since the dragonseeds had come– and died save for Hugh– she had been. At night, her cries echoed through the volcanic island, sounding almost sorrowful. Perhaps she was lonely, perhaps the presence of the dragonseeds had reminded her how much she missed a rider.
This night, she was particularly bad, her cries tearing through the halls of the sleeping castle. Outside, a storm raged, as they often did on Dragonstone. A storm like the one Luce died in, Jace thought.
It had been six weeks since Shipbreaker Bay, since Aemond had slaughtered him. It had been seven weeks since Jace had told his mother to send them as envoys to the great houses, since he had sent his baby brother to his death.
He couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed at the dragon, for in a strange way, he understood her. A dragon’s rider is their other half; the bond is ineffable. The bond between brothers was much the same. Luce had been his best friend, but also so much more.
He didn't have time, however, to ponder such thoughts, not when the war had only just begun. His stepfather was gone, the Rogue Prince truly living up to his name. The kinslayer was still alive and riding the largest dragon in the realm. The Usper’s son was dead, a child slaughtered while he slept.
It was all a mess, truly.
His plan with the dragonseeds had been half successful, at least. Vermithor, the bronze fury, had a rider in Hugh Hammer. But he– and the rider who claimed Seasmoke, Addam– had no experience flying. It would take months to get them to a proficiency that would mean they might survive battle. Even worse, Nettles, who had arrived on Dragonstone only a few days ago, had claimed Sheepstealer, a wild mount with no battle experience.
“It’s late. You need to sleep ñuha dōna (my sweet),’ his mother interrupted his worrying. She walked to the table he was seated at, glancing briefly at the book lying out before him. “Maegor the cruel? An interesting choice.”
“He may have been a tyrant, but he crushed the faith militant uprising. If we are to win this war, we have to look at all of our family’s victories, not just those of the ones we like.”
“Wise words,” she hummed, standing behind his hair and placing her hands on his shoulders. “That doesn’t, however, change my first point. You need to rest, Jace.”
“I’m fine.”
“Maybe right now, but we can’t have you falling asleep at the council, can we?” She trailed her hand up his shoulder into his hair, something she used to do when he was little and couldn’t sleep. He felt his body immediately relax into his exhaustion at her action. He shook his head quickly, Rhaenyra slowing her movements at his resistance.
“We should start training them tomorrow. Seasmoke and Vermithor are battle-seasoned, so we just have to worry about the riders, but Sheepstealer is… wild. The Dragonkeepers will have to work with her.”
“I agree.”
“In the meantime, I should go and do a scout of the Crownlands, try and gauge the forces gathering–”
“Absolutely not,” Rhaenyra interrupted, her voice turning stern.
“Mother–,”
“Not while Aemond is still out there.”
“What, you still send Baela instead? She must bear the burden alone until the Dragonseeds are ready?”
“She understands her duty to the crown–”
“And should Aemond happen upon her? You would willingly send her, a lamb to the slaughter, while I remain trapped here under lock and key?”
“Baela is not the heir!” Rhaenyra snapped, “I do not wish to send her into harm's way, Jace, but this is war, and I am queen, I do not get to do what I wish.”
“And yet you wish to keep me here, on Dragonstone!”
“Because I cannot risk losing you! I could not bear it; the kingdom could not bear it. Think of Joffery, he has already lost one of his older brothers, would you truly wish to leave him as well, to force him to be heir, to carry the burden you carry, simply because you wish to fulfil some need for vengeance?”
“Luce died!”
“Exactly! Luce died, you cannot be next!”
Jace fell silent. He tried to form words, something to say to counter his mother, but he couldn't. Rhaenyra sighed and cupped his face in her hands.
“You are the most important figure in this war. “ Should anything happen to me, you are my heir; you will be king and lead the Blacks to reclaim your rightful throne.” She stopped for a moment, bending his head towards her and placing a kiss on his forehead. “And before that, you are my son. Nothing in this world is more precious to me than you and your brothers.”
Jace felt the burden of his mother’s word settle on his shoulders.
“Get some sleep, ñuha dōna,” she whispered, before turning and walking away, leaving Jace alone with only the echo of what she had said to keep him company. She was right, of course, no matter how much he disliked it. He was the heir, and one day he would be King of the Seven Kingdoms. The thought was dizzying. It was strange; he had known his fate his whole life, yet now it was so close. His mother could fall in this war at any moment, and it could all fall to him.
He straightened his shoulders and shook off the self-pity that was consuming him. He was a Targaryen prince, the son of the queen and the heir apparent. He knew his duty, and he would fulfil it.
--- ✧✦✧ ---
“Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma 'jagon’ (what do you mean ‘gone’),” Rhaenyra demanded. “Skorkydoso could emā ivestragī bisa massigon? (How could you let this happen?)” The dragonkeepers shifted uncomfortably.
“Ziry vestragon naejot emagon geptot isse se bantis (she seems to have left in the night),” one answered.
“Silverwing ēza daor geptot Zaldrīzesdōron isse hārēpsa jēdri (Silverwing has not left Dragonstone in thirty years),” another one said, “Konīr iksis mērī mēre run bona would mazverdagon zirȳla henujagon. Iā kipagīros (there is only one thing that would make her leave. A rider)."
Rhaenyra’s heart stopped. A rider. She ought to be happy. Silverwing claiming a rider meant more strength to her forces. But she knew nothing of who the she-dragon would claim. The dragonseeds had come to her willingly, and in doing so, they had shown their loyalty to their queen. The same couldn’t be said for whoever Silverwing’s rider was.
“Another rider would be good,” Jace said, sensing her unease. He had always been able to do that well– to read her.
“And if they fly to Kings Landing and pledge themselves to the Greens? Will that be good?” Rhaenyra responded harshly, then immediately regretted it. She rubbed her temples, soothing her temper.
“What new rider would be able to keep Silverwing from returning here to Vermithor?” Jace countered. “We’ll cross the bridge of their loyalty when we come to it.”
--- ✧✦✧ ---
Mireya wasn’t sure what woke her. The sun had only just begun to creep into the twilight sky. She was used to the sounds of the early birds in the morning.
Something else had pulled her from her slumber, from another dream of flying. Her limbs moved almost unconsciously with a sense of urgency she could neither explain nor ignore. She found herself wandering through the forest, not minding as the shrubs and leaves grazed and scratched her skin. Even the biting cold of the morning had no effect on her; in fact, she felt as though her skin was alight, like fire was burning through her veins.
She eventually stopped in a clearing where the ground jutted down into jagged rocks leading to a clear lake. Above it was a river morphed into a waterfall, droplets spraying out and rippling the lake's surface as they tumbled down. Yet she couldn’t pay the sight any mind, its beauty barely fazing her. Her mind was consumed by whatever had called her there.
Then she saw it.
A shadow cast over the clearing, blocking out the pink and purple hues of dawn. She looked up to see that the sky had been replaced by iridescent scales. Impossible, she thought to herself. She told herself to run, yet couldn’t bring herself to do it. Everyone knew of the dragons, of course, of the last remnants of Old Valyria, yet seeing one was not a feat that many thought they would ever accomplish.
Mireya’s breath stopped as it descended, settling itself at the top of the waterfall and looming over her. It was beautiful. Its body was sleek and refined, regal almost, and covered in silver scales that glowed like dragonfly wings.
It looked at Mireya curiously, its expression almost friendly. In that moment, when she met the dragon's eyes, the colour of the sky on a summer's day, every ounce of fear vanished from her body. It crooned at her gently as it leaned its head forward, extended its slender neck so that its face was before her.
Instinctively, Mierya extended her arm, her hands suddenly close enough to feel the heat radiating from the dragon’s body. She could feel herself beam, her cheeks aching as she smiled.
“Hello there,” she said softly. “Aren’t you beautiful?” The dragon crooned at her in response and dipped its nose forward so that its scales brushed her fingertips. Mierya gasped, her skin feeling alight. Slowly, she stepped closer, keeping her arm extended until her open hand hovered over the dragon's scales. She glances up briefly for permission. The dragon nodded slightly in response before moving to connect its nose with her hand. Mierya felt something warm settle in her heart. Belonging. “I’m Mireya.”
At that, the dragon bumped her body with its nose, though gently enough to cause her to stagger a few steps, causing her to giggle. “Do you have a name?” The dragon made a chortling sound. “Hm, I suppose I ought to give you one… are you a girl or a boy?” The dragon only hummed again. “A boy?” At this, it snickered, sounding offended at her question. “ A girl, then,” Mireya laughed, “yes, you’re too pretty to be a boy anyway.” The dragon found that funny. “But you will need a name,” Mierya continued, feigning a solemn voice. She could have sworn the creature rolled her eyes at her words.
She didn’t know why she was so certain that the dragon would stay, but she was. It was as if the feeling were ingrained in her bones. She knew. They were meant to be. Twim flames
“How about… Starlight? Like your scales?” She was displeased by these options. “No?” Mierya hummed, racking her brain for another option. “Pear? Moonflower?” None seemed to appeal to the magnificent creature, who groaned distastefully at the options. “No worries,” Mierya giggled, “We’ll find a good name. How about I simply call you ‘my girl’ then? You can be mine, and I can be yours, and we’ll look out for each other?” Us girls have to stick together, now don’t we, Tilly’s voice rang in her ears. The dragon purred happily at her offer.
Mierya smiled to herself, pressing her forehead to her girl's scales and feeling the warmth engulf her. The dragon was scalding, and yet she felt no pain, only comfort. I’m not alone anymore, she thought, I have my girl.