72

Chapter 72: Interlude: Daena INotes:

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm back!

Did you miss me? I know I missed writing.

My A levels went well. I'm expecting at least 3 A's. Thanks for all the well wishes, everyone.

Well without further ado… enjoy the first chapter in a long long time.

Chapter Text

"Did everyone see that? Because I will not be doing that again."

-Iron King Theon Drumm, the Surprisingly Successful

111 AC, Gold Fleet, enroute to Qarth

"Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home."

Under the silver gaze of the moon, a dozen oil lamps cast flickering rings of orange light interspersed with furrows of darkest black. The air was thick with salt and song, the sea shanty sung by a dozen sailors sitting atop the poop deck serenading the ring of pirates on the deck below.

"The captain's daughter I suppose, 

Could be called a Western Rose,

What would you think when I propose,

The pox to me she gave a dose."

The sword came for her neck.

The blow was superb, the culmination of a lifetime of training and skill. The footwork was excellent, and the swordman's full body weight was coiled behind the blade.

Daena easily blocked it with her spear, turning the blow such that the force behind it was redirected, the blade skimming off her weapon without biting into it.

Gapeth Eelskin angrily snarled, immediately transitioning into another viper-quick blow, but Daena had already retreated several steps, avoiding the tip of his sword before counterattacking with her longer weapon.

Thrust. Thrust. Cut. All three of her strikes was batted aside by Gapeth's blade, before the Ironborn man struck out at Daena once more, but the Dragonseed had taken stock of her opponent.

"Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home."

The young man was skilled. His bladework appropriately vicious and his ferocity unmatched. But he was all attack. There was no defence in his style. All there was was reckless rage and fury. He was really like Daena's younger brother Aerion. Swaggering and confident, and with some skill to back it up, but ultimately no match for a serious fighter like Ser Jessamyn or Ser Criston.

Rhae's swordsmanship was trickier than his, all feints and ripostes. Bell packed more weight into her blows, and Daena knew from experience that taking them head on would cause her to lose feeling in the parrying limb. Ser Jessamyn swung faster, and more precisely.

"This rose well did she prick me sore,

I never felt so bad before,

Thanks to the girl I did adore,

I thought I'd never row no more."

It was a difference in environment, she theorised.

Ironborn weren't soldiers. They were pirates and raiders. They preferred hitting soft targets hard and fast and retreating before enemy soldiers came to call.

Their training—or whatever passed for their training—emphasised mainly on brawling and unfair tricks, with their opponents being mainly sailors untrained at arms. This meant that their weapons of choice were the ever-reliable cutlass or axe, themselves as much tools as a weapon. And while spirit and ferocity were great, they hardly made up for the disparity in training when it came to fighting a serious opponent.

And though Gapeth Eelskin preferred a longsword, he was swinging it around like it was a cutlass, and that meant that there were… openings which Daena could exploit.

"Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home."

The oldest Dragonseed dodged a slash, and brought her spear down, timing it just right.

Cutlasses were heavier on the tip than longswords, allowing greater force to be put into the blows, while being shorter as well. This meant that Gapeth was using strength to change the direction of his blade instead of using dexterous wristwork to control the sword's center of gravity. Would he have done that, he could have allowed one sword strike to smoothly flow into another. Instead, it was all brute-force hacking and slashing, lightning-quick reflexes compensating for the sloppy bladework.

Hence when Daena's spear struck his wrist, adding the force of her blow to the force of his swing, the sword went wild. And before Gapeth could recover, Daena stepped into the Ironborn's guard, catching his wrist with her left hand before he could recover and slamming her helmeted head into his nose.

"I called the maester right away,

To find out what he had to say,

That′s two silver ten get on your way,

I′m sure the girl is in her pay."

As he reeled back, stunned, Daena dropped her spear, drawing a dirk as it clattered to the ground and holding it to the Eelskin's throat.

"Yield!" She barked, the man purpling but reluctantly surrendering.

The surrounding men whooped and cheered at her victory, someone tossing her a flask of grog, which Daena took a pull from, feeling the burn flow down her throat. Her time with the pirates had taught her how to handle the strong booze, and she could now down it without coughing.

"Aye, good show!" An old grizzled man cheered. "Next person into the ring!"

"Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home."

Gapeth snarlingly got to his feet, sword in hand as a large Ironborn man thudded in, twirling an axe in either hand. The duel was short but brutal, Eelskin easily disarming the man before whacking him senseless with his blunted weapon.

With his victory, Gapeth got the right to leave the ring, while the loser was stuck inside, the next challenger going in to brawl.

"They say life has its ups and downs,

That really now is quite profound,

I′d like to push the capstan round,

But its row me boys before we drown."

The Ironborn concept of melees, Daena had found, ran contrary to that of the mainland. On the continent, it was the winner that stayed inside, to be challenged until he lost. For the Ironborn, it was the loser, which meant that everyone was motivated to not be the weakest. A fundamental difference in culture, Daena surmised. Knights were taught that dying on the battlefield was an honour. Ironborn were taught dying anywhere was a dishonour.

Her first few nights with the Gold Fleet had seen her be the loser more than once, for the Dragonseed hadn't adapted yet to the lamplit deck or the swaying of the ship by the wind and waves.

Daena had tripped and fallen countless times before she grew used to fighting at sea and even once nearly drowned when she fell overboard while sparring in her scale armour. If it weren't for Caraxes physically picking her up and dumping her back onto the deck of the longship, Daena would have died at the ripe old age of fourteen.

"Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home."

Now that she'd gotten her feet under herself though, it was a completely different story. Like the Ironborn, Daena had eschewed all armour save for a steel cuirass, with an outer layer of boiled leather to shield the metal from the salt and spray. Hidden clasps on the side allowed the wearer to quickly ditch the armour when thrown overboard before the weight could make them sink. Under it, she wore a thick aketon of oiled linen, waterproof and padded to blunt blade blows.

The only holdover she'd kept from her previous suit of armour was the helmet, as she'd felt that the skullcap-style helmets used by the pirates was a tad too exposed for her liking. It had once belonged to Rhaenyra, before the Crown Prince replaced it with her new blade-crowned helm. Made of black steel, it had a long nose guard that reached Daena's chin, and cheek guards that covered much of her lower face, leaving only the eyes exposed. There was a hatch in the back of the helmet that allowed her ponytail to flow out of, melding seamlessly with the wool plume atop the helm.

"The ocean we do all adore,

So come on lads let′s row some more,

Don't worry if your stiff and sore,

I′m sure we've rowed this bit before."

"You fight well." Lady Sayan Blacktyde said, sitting down beside Daena. The older woman had been rather taken by Daena since she had arrived, and had unofficially taken the Dragonseed under her wing.

"I've had good teachers." The eldest Dragonseed shrugged, removing her helmet and placing her short spear on her lap. Her weapon's blade had been covered by a sheath of leather, allowing her to use it in practice spars without killing her opponent.

The weapon had been a gift from Rhae, the shaft four feet strong wood bound by leather, well made but not ostentatious. The head was a cold steel blade a foot long, with three fullers fully incised. Weighted for slashing, stabbing and throwing, the spear was a practical tool of war, it's only ornament the dragonglass sphere that laid within the bronze pommel capping the butt of the spear. But even that had a practical purpose, allowing the spear to serve double duty as a focusing staff for Daena's magic.

"Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home."

"Most nobles I've met favour the sword." Sayan noted, eyeing Daena's spear. "You're the first I've seen to use such a weapon."

"I like keeping my opponents a few inches further than my body than a longsword allows." Daena explained. "And I also find that the unusual weapon allows me to catch my opponents off guard. Everyone knows how to counter a sword, but a spear on the other hand?"

"I see your point." Sayan Blacktyde noted. "Though you'll have far less success in my home."

"Sometimes when I am in me bed,

And thinking of me day ahead,

I wish that I could wake up dead,

But rowing′s all I get instead."

"The Summer Islands?" Daena asked. "I can see why. Your archers are famous across the world."

"Not just that." The teak-skinned woman informed Daena. "It is easily overlooked, but we too prefer the spear to the sword."

"I'd like to visit sometime." Daena mused. "Mayhaps I might, after this voyage. I believe I'd enjoy myself there."

"Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home."

"But first, Volantis, New Ghis and then Qarth." The older woman's accent was still like honey on Daena's ears, but the Dragonseed couldn't help but hear the scorn dripping from every word.

"You don't like them?"

"No. Volantis is a festering cesspool of corruption and decadence. New Ghis is a hive of misery and suffering. And Qarth a pustule of a city, grown fat and arrogant from their trade route."

"Yes, how I wish that I could die,

The swine who built this tub to find,

I'd bring him back from where he fries,

To row him until the beggar′s dry."

"And yet we sail there."

"I do not gainsay the Dragonqueen's decree. She speaks wisdom. This trade will enrich the Iron Islands beyond even our highest peaks." Sayan coldly said. "But that does not mean that I have to like it."

"I hear you." Daena muttered. "Rhae has made many decisions I dislike, but still agree with."

They left it at that, both enjoying the night sea breeze and the surprisingly good singing from the drunken pirates.

"Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home.

There′s so much water down below,

Just how it got there I don't know,

The old man says let's row and go,

But I'm found we′re bound for the abyss.

Row me boys, row her dry,

Down to hell and up to the sky,

Bend your back and break your bones,

We're just a thousand miles from home."

———

111 AC, Volantis

Volantis was worse than even Sayan's scathing description.

Daena didn't mind the heat or even the suffocating humidity. She didn't mind the rancid stench of elephant dung or the countless cloying scents of spices, perfumes and incense. She didn't even mind the tattooed slaves and the countless poor living hand to mouth on the streets.

What she absolutely loathed however, was the nonstop attempts by the local nobility to woo and marry her. She'd always known that dragonriders were exceptionally eligible bachelors and bachelorettes, but had never realised just how far some people would go to add dragonriders to their family.

"Milady, if you would most kindly—" A handsome boy tried.

"No." Daena half-snarled, immediately turning her back on him, only for another preening noble scion to appear in her face.

"Lady Rider, your beauty is—"

"Cease the flattery. I'm uninterested in marriage or a courtship." Daena sharply said. Gods, it was as though every single young Volantene bachelor was chasing her like a prize bull.

"But milady!"

"Gapeth; break his fingers." Daena ordered her bodyguard, not even bothering to look as Tall, Dark and Vicious fell onto the boys. Gapeth Eelskin may have been a murderous vagrant, and clearly half-tempted to push her down and rape her bloody, but the Ironborn was competent in all manner of violence.

"Please, please, no!" The lordling got out before there was a vicious crack and his voice went into the soprano range.

He reminded her vaguely of Bell. Except where Daena's younger sister was like a loyal dog, obediently doing Rhae's bidding, Gapeth was a wild mutt on a truly short leash.

Daena had just managed to ditch the gaggle of boys only to run into an even more unpleasant person. One that even her wild mutt would be unable to scare off with his barking and biting.

"My dear Rider, it was fated that—"

"Quit it, Melisandre." Daena irritably hissed. "I'm not interested in your Lord of Light."

The tall woman clad in red didn't seem offended, and the look in her eyes made Daena's fists ball. She knew that look. It was the same one Rhae wore whenever she saw Vaelon and Baelon goofing off. The look of an adult, looking down contemptuously at the foibles of blind children. Amused at the children's belief that they thought they knew how the world truly worked.

"That may be so, but your ruler is the Prince whom is Promised, and—"

"Enough." Daena grumbled. "I have no patience for the belief of a religious fanatic. Rhaenyra was born in King's Landing, not in a ham smoker."

"Oi, the Lady Fyre don't want you flapping around her." Gapeth snarled, trying and failing to loom over the tall priestess. "So I recommend that you take your claptrap and—"

The pirate never finished his sentence, as Melisandre simply poked him on the forehead, and Gapeth Eelskin collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, falling onto the cobblestones with a most ludicrous look on his face.

Gods why did Daena even entertain the Red Priestess when she first arrived? Melisandre of Asshai was a powerful mage, stronger than even Daenys or Rhaegar. And mayhaps even Rhaenyra herself.

Daena had thought that she could have learned from the Asshai'i, but had been thoroughly disappointed. Prince Daemon's firstborn had assumed that the religious priest aspect was a facade. Something to placate the masses, making her sorcery seem more docile and acceptable. A persona hiding a great sorcerous mind rivalling Rhaenyra herself.

Alas, that wasn't the case. Essos wasn't Westeros.

Here, the Valyrians had been top dog for so long that sorcery wasn't something feared or prejudiced against. Mages could practise their craft openly on this side of the Narrow Sea, and unlike their counterparts in Westeros, wouldn't be burnt at the stake by a mob of Seven-obsessed zealots should their sorcery be discovered.

There was no need to pretend that their sorcery were 'miracles from the gods' or some bullshit like that.

No. The unfortunate truth was that the Red Woman was cast from the same mould as Daena's brother Haegon.

Haegon could recite the Seven-Pointed-Star entirely from memory, and was convinced that his sorcery was 'a gift from the Seven'. That was one thing, but her younger brother's grand goal in life was to become a septon, and bring the gospel to the masses of Essos. Converting them with the Light of the Seven. And it had to be said that even Maegelle and Daella Fyre— mindless religious nitwits whom let the Seven-Pointed-Star do the thinking for them— knew how badly that that would go.

"Ah, but did the Prince not consolidate her repute and rule in Driftmark and the Kingsroad?" Melisandre drawled, ignoring the pirate sprawled at their feet. "She triumphed twice against the Three Daughters. Once in the salt of the Narrow Sea and a second time in the smoke of the Kingsroad. Her reputation was born there."

Daena scowled, and sent her magic out in a ripple, tearing through Melisandre's attempt to beguile her. The woman was subtler than even Shaera at weaving magic into her voice, to make her words more compelling, but Daena was no fool. She'd spent enough time beside Rhae to know when she was being manipulated.

"You're just chopping up this prophecy of yours to fit reality." Daena retorted. "That's the thing about prophecies, no? Be vague and cryptic enough that it can be interpreted to apply to a whole variety of scenarios that happen in the future. How many poor souls have you deluded into thinking they were this Prince, and how many of them died like a dog in a ditch?"

"The Lord of Light sees all. His wisdom is impeccable. Perfect." Melisandre hissed. "It is only we, his mortal servants, that misinterpret his will. But even that serves his purposes in some ineffable manner."

"The gods are perfect. The priests are not. And even if they screw up, it's all part of his master plan that will only be revealed once it has come to pass." Daena translated, kicking Gapeth roughly in the head, the Ironborn man letting out a surprisingly girly yelp as he regained consciousness. "Pull the other leg, zealot. I'm not buying what you're selling.

"On your feet, Eelskin, we're leaving." The Dragonseed ordered, her bodyguard hastily picking himself up and following her.

———

"It isn't a good idea to antagonise either the Old Blood or the Red Priests." The older woman gravely informed Daena, elegantly pouring the Dragonseed a cup of tea.

"We'll just be here for a week." Daena grumbled, glaring out the window at the waterfront. Specifically at the massive flotilla of ships flying golden sails. Over a thousand of them. So many that not even the Port of Volantis—the largest in the world west of Qarth— could accommodate them all. "We'll be gone before you know it."

The bulk of the Gold Fleet was anchored offshore, in the Rhoyne. Hulls lashed together to form a floating town of wood, cloth and iron. There was a constant flow of boats to and fro from the ports to the flotilla. Barges bearing crates of food and barrels and water. Rowboats filled with pirates heading into the city for some well-deserved rest.

The Gold Fleet was the single largest fleet in Westerosi history. Only Nymeria could have boasted of more hulls. But where the first ruler of Dorne's fleet was made of river craft, poleboats, pleasure barges and other lesser ships, crammed full of refugees and barely seaworthy—A beggar's armada, held together by faith and desperation more than anything else— the Gold Fleet was a true armada. 

No less than one hundred dromunds formed the backbone of this mighty fleet, with twice as many galleys and thrice as many longships serving alongside them, all bristling with Legion-made siege engines. The remainder of the fleet was made of over four hundred cogs, carracks and merchanters. Supply ships and troop transport in times of war, cargo ships in times of peace.

Some might have called their quick construction into question. Wondered if the ships were even seaworthy. Questioned how many corners were cut to make the deadline.

But Daena knew better. The Ironborn were many things, but incompetent at shipbuilding was not one of them.

The shipyards raised on Sea Dragon Point were wondrous things. Northern craftsmen, Ironborn shipbuilders and maesters familiar with the Braavosi Arsenal shipyard had pooled their knowledge to raise grand factory-shipyards of an unprecedented scale.

One of the reasons why the Arsenal could pump out a warship in a day was due to them using a standardised template. That meant that instead of making one hundred unique ships, they simply made the same ship a hundred times.

It allowed them to dramatically decrease production time, shrink costs, and ensure a constant supply of spare parts, while having the added benefit of allowing Rhaenyra's old trick of hundreds of unskilled workers, each working on a single part of the machine, to be applied to this grand endeavour.

That being said, the Arsenal was still ultimately superior to the factory-shipyards of Sea Dragon Point, capable of producing better quality ships in less time. But it had a weakness: there was only one Arsenal. There wasn't enough space or trees in Braavos to justify building more.

A problem that Sea Dragon Point did not have, boasting no less than ten factory-shipyards. Each may have been only half as efficient as the Arsenal at best, but as that old adage went: 'Quantity has a quality of its own'.

The coincounters had wailed of the costs involved at the time, but already the factory-shipyards were proving well worth their weight in gold. Once the Gold Fleet had been raised, Sea Dragon Point had instead transitioned into mass producing cheap civilian ships. Business was booming, merchants investing great sums into the shipbuilding industry.

In another decade, it was estimated that Sea Dragon Point would have recouped it's price tag ten times over.

"Ah but a week is long enough for either to make their displeasure known." The businesswoman warned. "And not even I can shield you from their reprisal."

"I'm not scared of the Red Priests." Daena scoffed. "I've tussled with Rhaenyra herself. And unlike her, those fire-obsessed fanatics can't level entire city blocks when pissed."

"You're a fool if you don't fear the Red Priests." The other woman scoffed back. "However, in this case it's the Old Blood you should be more wary about."

"The Old Blood are fairly toothless. Puppet rulers of the companies." Daena pointed out. "It's well known that it's the Cartels, Guilds and Merchants that truly run Volantis. Anyone that is anyone in the city is owned by them. Sometimes even literally."

How else could the Old Blood run their hedonistic lifestyles behind the Black Wall of Volantis? Doing nothing but eat, drink and sleep every day? Partying and revelling like there was no tomorrow. The money that funded their lavish lifestyles all came from the corporations that ran the city. Bribes in exchange for favourable laws and exemptions.

"I would think that you of all people should know that, Aunt Saera." The Dragonseed said, turning around to face her grand-aunt.

Princess Saera Targaryen was in truth neither a Princess nor a Targaryen any more, but she was one of the most successful businesswomen in Volantis. Her foremost paramour was a Triarch, her firstborn was wed to the daughter of another, and her descendants had subsumed half the guilds in the city.

"That is true." Saera Targaryen conceded, taking a long sip of her tea. "But that is outside the city. Here, in Volantis, is their seat of power. A rat on its own is weak and easily killed, but when a cat enters a den of rats, it is the cat whom should be afraid."

"Tell that to Caraxes." Daena grunted. "I'm not afraid to torch a few manses to prove my point."

The Wayward Princess closed her eyes and visibly counted to ten in her head before speaking again.

"If you are so insistent on digging your own grave, I shall not stop you." Saera Targaryen finally said, before beckoning her cupbearer to attend her.

"Yes mother?" The young boy asked, approaching the two of them. "More tea?"

Saera said something to her young son in a Valyrian dialect Daena didn't understand, save for two words—'Chartreuse' and 'Idiot'—before leaning back in her armchair, eyes closed as she rubbed her forehead in apparent pain.

It was only when he returned with a small glass of green liquor that Shaera stirred, downing the entire glass of Volantene Chartreuse in a single gulp.

"Now, onto happier topics." The Wayward Princess said in a tone that was half an order. "I notice that your mutt outside is quite the warrior."

"Gapeth is indeed." Daena agreed. "Did you know he once tried to win rulership of the Iron Islands with his sword at the Kingsmoot?"

"He failed, of course." Saera stated without even a speck of doubt. "Brutes the pirates might be, but even they know better than to follow a swaggering thug."

"True."

"I assume he's your escort to the Founding Day Ball at the Spire."

"Alas." Daena grumbled. "It's not like I have any other option. Lord Jonas Blacktyde has brought his wife with him, and to attend beside another lord of lesser status may convey the wrong message."

Alicent Hightower, back when she was neither a queen nor a foe, had taught the Dragonseeds etiquette. And many of those lessons had stayed with Daena over the years.

When a guest, an unmarried and unbetrothed lady ought to attend any social functions with either her host—In this case Lord Jonas Blacktyde, as Daena was technically his guest in the Gold Fleet— or her host's son as her escort. Should either be married or otherwise betrothed, she was to attend by the side of the highest-ranking member of her own retinue. To instead ask another person—such as a bannerman of her host—to attend as her escort was a slight against the host family.

It went double for a dragonrider.

Whispers might spread should she overtly favour any one man in the Gold Fleet. Lord Jonas Blacktyde was still fresh to the position, and already had a hard enough time corralling the captains in his fleet. Daena could not ever do anything that might even cast the slightest shadow of a doubt over his rule.

Hence Gapeth Eelskin was the least bad of the worst options. As Daena's assigned bodyguard, he was clearly her subordinate, and theoretically the highest-ranking member of her 'retinue'. He was also the only member of her retinue, but that wasn't the point. Which was that he served her, and not the other way around.

"Alas indeed." Saera sighed. "But I may have a better option for you instead of taking that mangy mutt."

"And that is?" Daena asked.

———

In the heart of Old Volantis stood a grand and sprawling garden in a great rectangle. A startling splash of green, that stood out starkly from the many stone buildings that surrounded it.

The gardens were a work of art, with small streams, ponds, beautiful hedgerows and artfully arranged trees. They had once been a landing field for the Dragonlords of Valyria, boasting a series of elevated platforms in rows on either side of a grand triumphal parade square. To allow for easy landing and takeoff while Legions mustered in between. A purpose that it had retained even after the Doom and subsequent decimation of all dragons save those under House Targaryen.

It was only after Aegon the Conqueror ended the Century of Blood that the gardens took on it's current form. The Elephants had displaced the Tigers as the ruling party of Volantis, and had ordered the platforms torn down and the grounds converted into the current gardens as they stood today. It was symbolic of the end of an era, where the Eldest Daughter fancied herself head of the house after their Mother's death.

That being said, a few of the dragon landing platforms still stood. Most had been buried by earth and soil, converted into small hills. But there were a few whom remained untouched. A reminder of power, and it's frailty.

It was atop one of those that Caraxes landed on. The first dragon to grace Volantis since the Doom.

Daena and her companions had been swiftly mounted onto a hathay, pulled by a bone-white dwarf elephant, and escorted through the gardens. Legionaries—The last survivors of the original Legions of Valyria—formed a shield wall, behind which what must have been the entirety of the Old Blood had gathered to witness a dragon.

The Spire of the Triarchs was the largest and tallest building within the Black Walls of Volantis. Surrounded by the gardens, the grand construction of steel and fused stone towered above the rest of Old Volantis,

Three sloping legs rose up from the ground, supporting a circular platform that was no less than five acres in area, like the legs of a stool. On the platform itself, another three legs rose up from it, rising up until they converged like a tripod, the three of them twisting and merging into one solitary tower, rising high above the city.

Strict zoning laws dictated that no building within the Black Walls was to rise above the walls themselves, but the Spire was the sole exception to those rules. First built as a watchtower when Volantis was a Valyrian outpost, it was but a dwarf compared to the topless towers that once dominated the Valyrian skyline. But this dwarf had the last laugh, for after the Doom, it was now the sole survivor of Valyria's legendary towers.

Daena and her companions had been swiftly brought to one of the legs of the Spire, and took an elevator up. Though unlike the one used by the Night's Watch at Castle Black, this one ascended diagonally instead of vertically upwards, climbing up the side of the building to reach the private gardens of the Triarchs.

The oldest Dragonseed had once thought the rooftop gardens of High Tide were the most impressive set of gardens she'd ever seen, but the sight before her had made abundantly clear that Lord Corlys had only ever managed to capture the barest fraction of the majesty that she now stood in.

The circular platform halfway to the top of the tower was of height with the Black Walls themselves, and bloomed with exotic and beautiful plants. Fyrewood trees rose out of the earth, trunks red as blood and leaves black as night. Hundreds of flowers in every shade of the rainbow. Elegantly sculpted topiaries mingled with statues carved from onyx, marble, chalcedony and dragonglass.

Not that Daena had much time to enjoy the sights, as the Triarchs insisted on having her greet every single one of the guests present. Thankfully, the Spire was invitation only so numbers were limited. Though that was cold comfort, given number of attendees of the Triarchs' private celebration still numbered in the hundreds.

It felt like an eternity, but finally the Dragonseed was done with the meet-and-greet, and found herself a quiet corner to rest in. Without prompting, her escort for the night showed up with a plate of food and a flagon of water. Daena smiled, and sat down at a stone picnic table, letting her escort pour her a cup of water. As she dug into her food with relish.

Pork chops, seared in spices and served alongside a rich and cheesy soup of onions, olives and carrots. Bread baked with garlic and olive oil to add to it.

Once fed and watered, Daena let her escort lead her to the center of the gardens, where minstrels had gathered around a fountain and were playing their instruments. Serenading the dancing couples.

It was a smart design, Daena thought. Centering the ensemble in the middle of the dancers meant that all of them could hear the music equally, while the edges of the garden, where people were more likely to be sitting down and chatting, would have fainter music.

The oldest Dragonseed danced three songs with her escort, then two more with the Blacktydes and the last with Aunt Saera, before retreating to the picnic table to rest.

"So how was the celebration, milady?" Jaehaerys Junior asked.

"Wonderful. Thank you once again for accompanying me, Jaehaerys." Daena smiled.

"I live to serve." Daena's escort bowed.

Say what you would about the last daughter of the Old King, but Saera Targaryen could tell with a glance just what kind of person a girl liked.

Jaehaerys Junior was well-versed in history and clearly enjoyed telling the Dragonseed what he knew about Volantis as they strolled the gardens. He wasn't like the other scholars that Rhaegar and Daenys typically hung around with. Being neither condescendingly smug over his superior knowledge or oblivious to his partner's boredom as he regurgitated non-stop the history like so many other academics Daena knew.

It helped that he was not only exceptionally handsome, but right in the middle of Daena's strike zone.

Daena's sisters all had their preferences for romantic partners. Bell preferred women, though she kept that quiet. Daenys loved Rhaegar. Baela liked cute boys. Rhaena preferred handsome knights. Shaera liked rich and powerful men. Daella and Maegelle had a weird thing going on with Haegon that Daena wasn't touching without a ten-foot-long pole. Viserra liked grizzled and scarred warriors.

In Daena's own case, her preference trended towards older gentlemen.

She had a thing for handsome beards, steady baritones, impeccable manners and a somewhat fatherly/big brotherly demeanour. It probably stemmed from the fact that Daena was the eldest Dragonseed, and so was responsible for herding all twenty-one of her younger siblings. She'd never been the younger in any relationship, which made her relish having an older man as her partner this night. Daena didn't have to act all mature and serious, didn't need to constantly set a good example for her younger siblings to follow.

For the first time that she could ever recall, Daena could be what she truly was; a fourteen-year-old girl whom wanted to be spoiled.

And Jaehaerys Junior was more than willing to oblige her.

Saera's son was twenty-three, near a decade older than Daena, and was dashingly handsome in that ineffable way only older guys could be. His purple eyes seemed to bore into her soul. His hair was worn down to his shoulders, coming down in a handsome wave of light gold. The man was mature, well-learned, and an ace with the sword.

As Jaehaerys Junior was both a foreigner and a kinsman, there were none of the complications involved in attending with either a Westerosi scion or a Volantene nobleman as her escort.

Gapeth had been jealous that he'd been passed over as her escort to the ball, and had pulled a blade on Jaehaerys Junior, but the man whom looked so much like the Old King had easily withstood Eelskin's furious barrage of blows, turtling calmly behind a shield until the pirate had tired, and then swiftly disarmed and defeated him with his sword.

And then a second time, with his fists, for Gapeth Eelskin was a sore loser.

It wasn't that he was a better warrior than Daena's mangy bodyguard. In a melee, Daena would prefer Gapeth at her side, but Junior was an exceptionally skilled duellist, capable of savaging anyone in single combat.

"I'm surprised that none of the lordlings came to try propose again. Was having you by my side truly that effective?" Daena asked, eyeing out of the corner of her eye some of the boys whom had previously attempted to court her rather aggressively. They all kept a respectable distance, deliberately not looking her way.

"My mother has blackmail on near every lord and lady of import within the Black Walls, but that is not the reason why none of your many suitors have approached you in this celebration." Jaehaerys shrugged. "As tradition dictates, an attempt to steal you out of my arms could be taken as an attack on my family."

"You exaggerate."

"I do not. Valyrians are many things, but a people prone to civil wars, we are not." Jaehaerys gravely said. "Wars between dragon riders are a ruinous thing. Hence by both law and tradition, all disputes between families were settled by the High Assembly. But even before that, we have many strict societal rules in place, designed to avert and abort any conflicts before they surface. You do not need to know them all, but by attending by my side, you convey the message that you are spoken for. Mayhaps not for life, but most certainly for tonight. To breach this would be seen as a great disgrace to the breachers and his family."

Daena hummed noncommittally. They were close enough to the edge that Daena could see over the stone parapet. Gazing down at the traditional Valyrian architecture of Old Volantis. Daena's gaze lingered on the Black Wall in particular.

Six chariots had raced atop it when the sun was still high in the sky. It was a dangerous sport, and rare was a year without any deaths, as the crumpled remnants of a chariot that lay abandoned on a rooftop beneath her showed. The bloody corpses of the riders and horses had been cleared away, but the chariot was still there.

But it wasn't the chariot that drew her attention, but the raucous celebration down in the streets beyond the Black Wall that could only be faintly heard from the Spire.

"You do not want to be here." Jaehaerys Junior noted, looking at her up and down.

Daena sighed, and smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress of red and gold.

"Unfortunately." Daena grumbled. "But Rhaenyra wants me to make nice with the Old Blood."

"You dislike balls?"

"No. I'm not my sister Bell. I can appreciate a nice fancy formal party." Daena sighed longingly. "But one of the biggest pleasures in life for me is exploring and discovering new cultures and people. Immersing myself in their way of life. Celebrating their celebrations and trying out their traditions."

"I understand perfectly." Jaehaerys quietly replied. "There were many new things to learn in all sorts of unexpected places."

"My point exact." Daena enthusiastically concurred. "Being up here instead of down there dilutes the experience. It's not truly the same as if I walked the streets of Volantis myself."

"To truly appreciate and understand a culture. One shouldn't walk among the highest of the people, but with the common folk." Jaehaerys Junior agreed, and Daena could feel the sincerity in his voice. "To say that one could understand a culture based solely on what was on top is tantamount to saying that one could master a sword by reading a book about swordplay."

"Indeed. Why, in Westeros, the highborn are near a completely different culture than the lowborn." Daena nodded. "A simple street festival, with hawker food and a handful of local companions. Now that, is what I think is the better educator than a hundred formal events."

"So then why are you up here instead of down there?" Jaehaerys asked. "You've been rather aggressive to the Old Blood ever since you arrived. Nobody would fault you for not attending."

"The aggressiveness is somewhat deliberate." Daena shrugged. "Lady Sayan Blacktyde is supposed to do all the smiling and sweet talking."

"Ah. One hand hurts, while another helps. I like the way you think." Jaehaerys smiled appreciatively. "But what of tonight? I mean no offence, but you've been most well behaved."

"I don't know." Daena waved away. "Rhae ordered me to attend, and to make a good impression on people."

Which was the only reason why Daena put up with being unable to walk the streets of Volantis during their most beloved celebration. Instead allowing herself to be forced to put on a stuffy dress, smile and pretend to care about what the prancing lordlings had to say in a stiflingly formal party.

"Your Prince is wise." The man whom so resembled the Old King replied. "It is only during Founding Day, that the Black Walls are open to all. Some of the Old Blood are notoriously reclusive. If one wanted to make connections, this is the single best time of the year."

"I don't have the diplomatic chops to be able to pull that off." Daena waved away immediately. "Rhaenyra's the one whom does most of the negotiating."

"So you do not have any idea why you're here?" The son of the last daughter of the Old King curiously asked.

"Not really, no."

"Ah." Jaehaerys chuckled. "So that's your Prince's game. How she stays abreast of events so far away from King's Landing I have no idea, but she is cunning."

"I don't suppose you can tell me why." Daena curiously asked.

"All three of the current Triarchs advocate for closer ties with Rhaenyra's Westeros, but their support is fragile. It is well believed that they'll be ousted within a decade." Jaehaerys Junior informed Daena. "My mother is partially to blame. They don't like that she's slowly making the Triarchs her puppets."

"I can see that, but what does that have to do with me?"

"You're the first dragonrider to attend the Founding Day as a guest since the Doom." Jaehaerys informed her. "Your attendance today was a major boon for the Triarchs. There is great prestige in having your august presence in attendance."

"So Rhaenyra is using me to help prop up the positions of her allies." Daena mused, putting the dots together. "The same allies whose political positions are the most favourable for herself. Whom will not forget that Rhaenyra helped them consolidate their power bases."

"Quid pro quo." Jaehaerys Junior nodded.

The two of them spent a few comfortable moments in silence together, gazing down at the gardens. A great crowd of people had gathered to gaze at Caraxes, whom was indolently devouring entire goats, legionaries maintaining a perimeter and preventing the crowd from coming too close.

"So what next?" Jaehaerys suddenly asked, Daena turning around to look at him.

"Hmm?" Daena hummed inquisitively.

"I mean, after this journey. The Gold Fleet shall be returning to Westeros, but you are still exiled, no?"

"Mmm. I'm not sure." Daena replied. "Haven't really thought much about it. There's just so many places I want to go to. Yi Ti. Asshai. The Summer Islands. Sothoryos. Ulthos. Kaesong, at the eastern edge of Essos."

She paused for a bit.

"Mayhaps I'll fly west. Lord Corlys is preparing a grand expedition to cross the Sunset Sea. Our ancestor Rhaenys Targaryen wanted to fly Meraxes across to find it's western shores. Might do that. Fulfil the dream she never got to." Daena mused.

"That sounds nice. Exploring the world on dragonback. If I had a dragon as well, I'd probably do that as well." Jaehaerys sighed. "Pity I don't. The best I can do is with a ship."

"Then why don't you?" Daena asked.

Jaehaerys Junior paused, looking at her.

"There's space on Caraxes' saddle." Daena shyly offered. Feeling heat pool in her cheeks.

"Are you sure milady?"

"It would be boring to go by myself. And Gapeth isn't one for intelligent conversation, if you know what I mean."

"Hmm. That sounds nice." Daena's date muttered. "Might actually take you up on that offer."

Where their conversation might have gone to next, Daena did not know, for a wave of power rippled through the air, every single member of the Old Blood going still in response. The source of the sound was over two miles away from the spire, but none of the scions of Old Valyria did not hear it.

Bind. The dragonblood in their veins told them.

Almost immediately, a wave of pain assaulted Daena, the oldest Dragonseed falling to her knees in response. Gasping, Daena felt the tie, that invisible bond between Caraxes and herself, from which she commanded her dragon and drew mana from to power her spells, narrow.

Caraxes was roaring in anger, straining against the great chains that shackled him to the ground. Swiping at the men surrounding him and unleashing crimson flames.

But the men, nearly invisible from Daena's location on the Spire, blew the dragon horn once more. And twice. And thrice.

Bind. Weaken. Rest.

Caraxes shuddered as though struck by a great hammer blow, reeling back. The Blood Wyrm immediately fought back with twice the ferocity, but Daena could tell her mount was weakening.

"Milady, are you alright?" Jaehaerys concernedly asked, helping the Dragonseed to her feet, but she didn't hear him.

Rage suffused through Daena. Her own, Caraxes'. The dragonrider didn't know where one began and the other ended. Burning through her veins like molten magma, pounding furiously with every heartbeat and pulsing with every breath she took.

They were trying to steal her dragon.

They were trying to steal her dragon!

They were trying to steal HER dragon!

"Not over my cold dead body!" Daena snarled viciously, dashing straight for the elevators. The massive Fyrewood box that lifted people up the spire was at the bottom, the great pulleys and gear works that raised and lowered the elevator chugging away, slowly but surely.

Another wave of power rippled through the air, and the Dragonseed decided that the time for subtlety was over. She needed a swifter way down. Spinning on her heel, Daena found the nearest buffet table and beelined for the suckling pig. Boosting her strength with magic, Daena snatched up the massive golden plate that it rested on, sending the giant pig with an apple in it's mouth tumbling to the ground in a rain of herbs, spices and sauce.

Immediately, Daena dashed for the lifts, magic pounding in her legs. Her footsteps searing scorch marks onto the floor as she ran. And with a great shout, the Dragonseed leapt straight over the elevator guardrail, putting the plate under her and using the side of the leg as a slide.

It was hardly a smooth ride. The plate was slippery with sauce, but Daena had stuck herself to it with sorcery. Magic spiralled around her, the power coming easily—Almost eagerly, in fact—to her hands, begging to be used. Daena obliged, immediately converting the raw power into kinetic force, speeding up her descent down while spinning up spells to kill friction and air resistance. Sparks trailed in her wake like so many fireflies, hanging in the air before they faded out of existence, Daena sped down the two-hundred-foot tall ramp.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, as Daena resisted the urge to wince and grasp her head. Her vision began to blur from the exertion of maintaining so many spells at once. But even so, she could still see the world clearly enough. Clear enough to see that the elevator was rising. A great box made from Fyrewood and pulled up by an elaborate system of gears and pulleys. Within a few seconds, she'd smash straight into it's roof.

Gritting her teeth as spikes of pain rammed themselves through her forehead, Daena redirected her acceleration spell to the side, hastily changing direction and boosting herself to the edge of the leg. She flew off the side, dodging the rising elevator, and for a moment the Dragonseed hung sixty feet in the air.

The moment passed, and gravity's ruthless grip began tugging her to the ground.

That was the bad news. The good news was that Daena's descent had endowed her with a great amount of horizontal velocity. Which meant that she could…

Releasing her grip on all spells save the sticking charm, Daena shivered as coolness slithered through her aching mind. Though her relief was short lived, for she immediately diverted her already overtaxed brain into crafting yet another spell.

Shaping a shielding spell into a ramp a mere ten feet before she splattered into the ground, Daena managed to angle her fall such that much of her vertical velocity was converted into the far less deadly horizontal velocity. Plate sliding across the grass, Daena came to a halt right beside the stables.

———

Legionaries corralled the crowd away from the rampaging dragon. Shields locked as they pushed back the press of people. Others among them used bags of sand and water to try to extinguish the flames.

Daena's initial anger that they had not tried to stop the thieves guttered out when she felt the sorcery hanging in the air. A ward. One that physically hurt to even look at, forcefully diverting the attentions of all whom gazed upon it away.

The horse she rode began to buck, refusing to continue approaching the ward, forcing Daena to dismount, the legionaries parting smoothly to allow her in.

Their captain began to speak, but Daena ignored him in favour of contemplating the ward before her.

Daenys could have probably torn open a hole in it by now. Rhaegar would have slipped through it with his skinchanging. Shaera could probably counteract it's effects and Rhaenyra would have contemptuously smashed it to pieces three minutes ago. Unfortunately, Daena was none of them. While she was no slouch in sorcery, her talents trended more towards… direct applications.

The horns sounded once more, attempts by the sorcerers within to enslave her dragon, and Prince Daemon's firstborn decided that there was no more time to waste. Brute force would have to do.

Daena closed her eyes and dashed straight at the ward, clods of earth being thrown with her every magic-enhanced footstep. She felt the ground shift beneath her, telling her that she needed to adjust course, that she was veering off in the wrong direction.

Or so the ward wanted her to think, for Daena could feel Caraxes. Her mount, her partner, her other half. His very presence shone like the morning star peeking over the horizon. An unerring compass for the Dragonseed to navigate by.

The disorientation faded like a candle blown out, and Daena felt the air whistling.

She jumped immediately, her magic enhanced legs allowing her to leap twelve feet into the air, eyes snapping open to see the slave-soldier whom had tried to impale her watch, stunned as she sailed over his head.

As soon as Daena's feet touched the ground, the slave-soldier jabbed his pike once more at her, but the Dragonseed danced aside, a cutting spell gathering in her fingers. A single chop severed the top two feet of the pike, cleaving straight through wood like it was paper. Daena didn't even bother to finish him off, snatching up the pike segment before it could drop and turning on her heel.

The platform was shaped like two trapeziums stacked together, with enough space between them to form a step that ran around the stone ziggurat. It was made completely out of steel-reinforced stone, for nothing less could support a dragon's weight. Especially since this particular platform had been built to host a beast the size of Balerion.

It wasn't particularly tall, two stories high at most, which proved most fortuitous, for Daena was able to leap halfway up in a single bound. The step that led up to the flat surface of the platform were crawling with soldiers. Household slave-soldiers from the looks of it. Hundreds of them. And they were all looking at her.

Daena didn't waste time fighting them, another magic-enhanced leap propelling her up to the summit of the platform.

Rising to her feet, Daena got her first glimpse of the people whom thought to enslave her dragon.

A dozen or so sorcerers, all clad in flowing black robes and wearing masks of bronze. From the looks of it, the sorcerers had managed to trap Caraxes in another ward, one that was siphoning off his own strength to power it, and were slowly attempting to use the dragon horns to subdue him.

"Oi." Daena grunted, levelling her stolen spear at them, mana welling up and pooling in her every muscle, nerve and bone. "Hands off my partner."

Sorcery flared, and Daena had to throw herself to the side to avoid the curses that were flung at her, only to run headfirst into a shielding spell that she barely managed to kick off to evade the severing curse another mage flung at her.

Six of the sorcerers were not attacking her, focused as they were on containing her dragon, but the other seven were unleashing spell after spell at her.

These guys were good. Daena begrudgingly conceded. They moved as one, methodically attempting to corner her before she could close the distance.

But for all their power—Power leeched from her mount!— it was clear that they weren't used to handling such a volume of power. Their spells were clumsy. Overcharged with power but ill-suited for a sorcerous duel for all that they skilfully used them.

It was like watching a master fistfighter swinging about a greatsword.

Daena sidestepped streaks of light, ducked under a hex, rising up to throw her spear. It caught one of the sorcerers straight in the chest, punching through his body. He fell, as three of the others hurled fireballs at Daena.

The Dragonseed jumped straight over the fireballs, spun up a shielding spell in midair to tank the follow-up curses, and with a vicious grin, landed shoe-first onto one of the masked mages.

She leapt to her feet immediately, pulling the dagger she'd strapped to her thigh out from under her dress and ramming it into another wizard's throat.

A third sorcerer flung a searing fireball at her, not caring that he'd catch his allies in the blast.

Daena dropped the dagger and the convulsing corpse it was stuck in and called magic to herself, summoning a shielding spell around herself as she ducked and rolled with the explosion, using it to propel herself towards the offending mage. As she spun, Daena quickly pulled out a second dagger, got her feet under and in one swift move, stabbed it straight into the wizard's center mass.

The Dragonseed rose to her feet, and promptly fell back to her knees, wincing as a crushing force descended onto her. Two of the mages holding off Caraxes had disengaged, and were the ones responsible for catching the Fyre in a ward.

Dimly, Daena realised that they'd been faking the entire time. Pretending that six of the thirteen were required to hold down the dragon. All to trap Daena in this one moment.

"Who… who are you?" Daena rasped, spitting out blood. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the four fallen sorcerers rise to their feet, pale flesh reknitting and burnt skin flaking off.

"We are the Warlocks of Qarth. Servants of the Undying Ones." The thirteen of them spoke in unison, voices ringing with power. "Tremble in awe, child, for we are your death."

The Dragonseed screamed as the pressure mounted, all thirteen joining hands to crush her into paste.

"Your death shall bind your dragon to us." The Warlocks' voices echoed in her head. "Rejoice, for he shall power our magicks for eternity."

Daena was flattened to the ground, feeling herself being crushed by sorcery she couldn't match. Her own magic was all that prevented her from dying, but it was losing ground against the Warlocks. Slowly but surely, Daena was being killed.

Already she thought she could see the afterlife approaching. A shining glow like the sun, silhouetting a tall and beautiful woman, whom reached her arms out to Daena.

There was a grand crack of thunder. A flash of light. A wave of heat. And then, the pressure vanished.

Daena rolled over onto her back, gasping and coughing as she gazed up into the starry sky.

It was snowing. No. Those were ashes.

Daena felt a scaly snout nuzzle against her. Caraxes was exhausted. Weakened and injured. But still he offered her his magic. Daena took what little was left into herself. Feeling her pain vanish as her injuries healed.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, Daena saw her saviour. Standing alone by a scorched circle in the ground. All that was left of the thirteen warlocks, apart from the ashes.

"Did… did you do this?" Daena rasped.

"Yes." Melisandre of Asshai softly said, not even turning to face Daena.

"Who are the Undying Ones?" The Dragonrider asked.

"A band of immortal mages. Vicious and craven heretics whom seek to devour this world whole." The Red Priestess replied.

"Immortal, you say." The fourteen-year-old girl mused. "Do you know where they are?"

"There is a place, in Qarth." The two-hundred-year-old woman informed her. "That is the seat of their power."

"And if I break this seat, they will die?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful." Daena paused. "Want to help me exterminate a band of vicious and craven heretics?"

"…I think you and I are going to get along very well."