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Chapter Text

115 AC

 A group of 15 to 20 children, lined up outside of the Great Sept. They were boy and girl alike– foundlings and orphans under the care of the Septons and Septas. They stood in two straight lines. The chatter was indistinguishable to nearby ears- as many conversations as there were children filled the morning air. Each of them were anxiously awaiting a portion of porridge. It was tasteless and cold by the time it reached the final hungry child. Still, it was reprieve from hunger pains. None of the supplicants dared to complain. They all knew that the alternative was an empty stomach. The ground was wet from a storm the night before, mingling the smell of mud and rain with the usual stench of blood and vomit and piss. The children in line around that had grown up in the slums and in the shadow of Red Keep ignored It.

The noise from the lines of children was interested by a loud screech coming from the air above them. All at once, all of their heads turned upward as if they had been given an order. Against the clouds and blue sky, a large figure with wings hovered in the morning mist above. A few of them audibly gasp. A few more began to shake. All of them however, were in awe of the silhouette of the creature flying high above them.

"Dragon!" Yelled a yellow haired girl of 5. The words had a slight whistle as she was missing her front teeth.

“It's Seasmone! "Cried a dark haired boy. His skin was so tanned that the Septas insisted he had some sort of Danish blood in him.

“It's Silverwing!" Argued another boy with red hair and so many freckles on his face, he

always seemed dirty.

"It ain't sliver," the Dornish boy argued. "It's green."

“It's Vhagar! " An older girl of ten and three chimed in. Her hair was a mousy brown. Her answer seemed to put a momentary stop to the arguing. The awe continued.

"He's the biggest dragon there is, " the red haired boy continued. "Now that the Black Dread is gone."

\

"Vhagar’s a girl, you idiot!" shouted a 10 year old foundling girl that the Septas called Illarya. She was of middling height with black hair and eyes most insisted were an unusual bright blue like lapis lazuli, others called them indigo.

"Illarya! " Septa scolded as she heard the girl's insult. Her plain, floor length gown fluttered in the air as she brought a wooden paddle and smashed it against the girl's knuckle. The girl did not protest or cry out. Indeed it was used so often on her that the punishment no longer seemed to have any effect on her at all.

"Well, She is." Illarya seemed to protest as if the Septa was punishing her for lying, "Vhagar is a girl, just like Visenya who rode her during the conquest."

"How is it that you know so much about dragons ? " The septa asked.

"The players came last spring. They had actors that could breathe fire, we saw Aegon’s conquest - but Visenya and Rhaenys were played by boys.

"If you could remember the 7-Pointed Star and your prayers as well as you remember plays, you would not need to be disciplined so often, girl"

"Yes, Septa Marlowe”

Almost a year had passed, but the young girl still remembered. She stood with the other children memorized. If She closed her eyes, she could still see the spectacle. One man held fine twirling it around in the air. Those closest to the stage could feel the heat during the already sweltering summer sun. When the play began another man, dressed like a high lord, came out and faced the gathered crowd. Most were standing. Those with extra coin sat on cushions or feasted on oranges sold by merchants. The smell of citrus lingered and covered the stench of the masses. Their chatter softened but did not disappear completely as the man on stage began to speak:

“Come, gentles all, come and see. See Aegon forge the conqueror's throne with the black dread flying from Dragonstone…

See Queen Rheanys: just, gentle and sweets with Meraxes at Dorne, the first to know defeat…

See Queen Visenya, the elder and the witch Warrior queen with Vhagar, Dark Sister, and poison she enters our scene…"

One man and two boys (who could not have been more than a few years older than Illarya herself) walked on stage as the speaker introduced them. The crowd roared loudly for Aegon and Rhaenys. The shouts were less for Visenya, even a hisser two among the masses. The girl watching with wide indigo eyes never understood why the cheers were lessened for her. She cheered for all three the same. All she knew or understood of time was that Black Dread and Meraxes were dead but Vhagar was not. She was alive and fierce and now, she’d flown right above the girl’s head.

“Septa Marlowe,” the young girl began again with pleading eyes. “If I’m good enough–if I read and memorize the 7-Pointed Star-could I ride a dragon someday? Just once?”

The wooden paddle collided with Illarya’s knuckles once again. This time, she let out a yelp-though more from surprise than pain-the Sepa’s ice blue eyes met hers.

“Foolish child, only those of pure Valryian blood claim and ride dragons. That’s why the conqueror married his sisters. Surely you learned that watching plays all of these years.”

The girl nodded. Of course, she knew-like she knew the name of the three dragons who conquered Westeros. Yet, the thought that the could not get close to one of those creatures that often flew overhead-never look down at King’s Landing from above as the lady that now rose Vhagar over her filled her with a sadness so profound that she hardly understood. It was a different kind of emptiness that she felt at the thought that she had no family-no one besides the ones that lived in the Great Sept to care for her. She knew that would not last long.

“Yes, Septa.” She muttered once again under her breath. It was just as well, she decided that day, to keep the empty feeling in her stomach that did not disappear with the porridge to herself. 

AC 121

The sun fell beneath Flea Bottom. Those fortunate enough to have any coin in their pocket ventured to the taverns on the brothers around the Street of Silk. Tradesman, sellswords and

sailors alike all watched about looking to satisfy one or more of their appetites. One of them walked into a particular tavern called The Boar’s Head. The place was dark, but lit with many candles. Loud chatter filled the room. It would get louder as time pressed and the drunkenness of the patrons grew. Willem Waters threw his hand up for a pint of small ale. A girl of ten and six with black hair and strange eyes bought him his drink. He put it aside and reached out for her slender body.

"Oi, Illarya, how about a turn, eh?"

The woman looked at him with upturned brows. "You can't afford it." She retorted as she quickly shifted away from his grip. A smirk crossed her face.

"She means it's extra for being ugly," another patron interjected that was sitting nearby. He had dark brown hair, green eyes, and had already had more than one pint of ale.

"Shut it!!"

"Your mum thought you was mutton and put your face to the fire.

"Don't talk about my dear, departed mother." Willem snapped, then exploded into pitiable laughter as he took a drink from his tankard. His mother could have been dead or down the road on the Street of Silk. Illarya could not tell.

"She was a whore."

"That She was"

The girl felt Willem's hands reach for her again, grabbing her arm and pulling her closer to him. His clothes smelled of stale ale, piss, and sweat. "My face wasn't always like this. Mind you, I was handsome once. It was a monster that done it. It's quite a story, if you want to hear."

"You want to tell me a story in exchange for my cunt?”

"It's called a trade, love - bartering. It's been done since the days of the First Men. Acceptable, legitimate way to do business. Even now."

"I don't need a story - some fantasy about Shadowcats and the like. I need to eat tomorrow and the day after, if I'm alive”

"The night is young" Willem slammed his empty pint down on the table. Illarya flinched, but the man’s grip tightened on her arm. "You have time enough to make your coin. What do you say, eh? humour an old man in love." 

The young woman finally met his eyes. For one brief moment, She thought about trying to pull away again. The smell of his breath and clothes was in her nostrils. The scarred flesh on his face did, in fact, look as if it had been in a fire and not a small small one at that. All of it was almost enough to turn her stomach. Every part of her body as well as her good sense told her to pull away. There were more men with looks more to her liking and with more coin to spend Yet, seconds passed and she did not make another attempt to escape his grasp, Perhaps it was pity - or sheer curiosity that kept her at Willem’s side. Before she could think better of it, Illarya sat down on the man's lap. She took the pint from the table to her own lips, drinking the last bit of ale and backwash in the tankard.

"Tell you what: You tell me the story and I'l decide what it's worth.”

"That's not -"

"It is. " She interrupted."It's business. Barter, as you said. Your tale, my– passage– they’re only ever worth what people are willing to pay for them." Willem gave her a pat on her thigh. A wet laugh escaped his throat.

“Allright. Allright. I can't say no to you, can I?” The man pulled her closer to his chest as she sat in his lap. Illarya struggled to adjust herself so that she didn't feel the growing bulge in his britches. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to breathe through her mouth. She fixed him with her indigo eyes - doing whatever she might to show the man in whose lap she sat that he had her ear.

"T’was about six years ago now. I found myself some honest work on a fishing boat. Hot, dirty, slimy work it was but it was coin in my pocket. Me and the rest of the crew would be at sea from dawn to dusk and bringing the catch back to sell to the fishmongers. One day the first mate says to the captain he's heard of a new place to cast our nets. It was off the coast of Dragonstone along the Eastern side. He swears on the seven he's heard tales of large catches, ‘huge fishes’ the bastard say– we won’t have to cast off again for an entire moon after a voyage there So, the captain agrees. It's more than a day’s sail- further than we usually venture out. I had watch in the crow’s nest when we arrived at dawn. Everyone on board is as jumpy as a maiden on her wedding day– eager to see if it was gonna be worth missing a day's work. I remember the mist was thick or the sea that morn’. The sky was still grey, but we'd come too far to wait any longer. We cast the nest at the spot we was told. When we we pulled up the first one, I had never seen a man so fucking pleased with himself without a women in sight. There was fishes the size of leviathans, lampreys wider ‘round than my cock -"

"Best throw ‘em back then and let the little buggers grow." A roar of laughter rose from the surrounding tables.

"Shut it or  I'll cut you off–the lot of ya!" Illarya shouted over the noise. She didn't know when or how she’d gotten so enthralled by the man and his old fish tale but the interruption had her eyes burning with annoyance.

“Go on.” She encouraged Willem. As she turned her attention back to the man whose lap she was uncomfortably sitting on.

"As they pulled up the third net, I looked up. I. could have sworn I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye- a shimmer beside a grey cloud. When I looked again, it was gone. I didn't yell out– by the fucking seven I should've. I told myself It was a trick of the light or my old eyes looking too long looking at the fish scales that I saw them in the sky. By the time we heard it, it was too late. It shot out of the clouds- faster than anything I've ever seen in my miserable life. It took its fill of the catch ,set the ship's upper deck on fire and disappeared back into the mist."

"What was it? She asked.Illarya met his gaze with her Indigo eyes wide. 

"Twas the Grey Ghost."

" The what?"

"The Grey Ghost" Willem repeated "A monster that lives at Dragonstone that the silver hairs don't ride - never been ridden so far as anyone knows. Elusive beast, it is. Those that live ‘round that part say it can go without being seen for years. Then, just when they think the cannibal has done made a meal of ‘em it turns up and haunts another fishing boat.”

The young woman stared at the man, pressing her lips together. "You mean to tell me a dragon - a grown dragon with enough five to torch a ship and kill hundreds of men - snuck up upon you and then disappeared without anyone on board seeing it?”

"Aye. That is why the folks around Dragonstone gave it the name. It's a beast the color of the sea's morning mist and the speed of the Stranger "

“The Grey Ghost" Illarya repeated quietly through nearly closed lips There was a pause, except for the chatter around them "I don't believe you."

"It's true. I swear it. On my honour, I Swear it."

The young woman scoffed. " You have honor."

Willem laughed once again. The sound was wet against her cheek. True to her word, the tavern wench pressed her lips against his. Visions of smoke and dragon scales on the open water filled her mind as she tasted mutton, rotten teeth, and ale filled her mouth.

127 AC

Dawn was fast approaching King's Landing. Very soon, the darkness would give way to the light of day. The last reprieve from the summer heat would soon give way to the unforgiving sun. It was a strange, liminal time of night. These that caroused, drank, and partook of the other offerings along the Street of Silk had come, drank, vomited, whored, finished, and were staggering or walking bow legged back to their homes. The honest people of the realm: the shoe makers of Cobbler’s square, the smiths of Street of Steel, the beatmen of fishmonger's square, and the Septas and Septon's near the great Sept had not yet risen from their beds. There was a silence around the capital city as if it had been agreed upon by some ancient treaty  between the merchants and rogues who lived in the shadow of the Red Keep. 

Illarya had not meant to be out that long. A night of serving ale at the same tavern she’d worked at for years had then turned into a night of serving some of those same clients in the back alleyway behind the tavern afterward. By the time all of the work was finished. She was covered in dirt, spilled ale, and seed. Most importantly, to her however, underneath her dress and the layer of filth was a purse that was heavier with coin than it had been when the sun was up. The rent could be paid. Food could be bought. A dress could be mended or replaced. For that extra weight, she could well endure the sticky, the thrusting, the grunting,  and the back and forth against the outer walls of the tavern. In those moments, she steadied herself by thinking of the roof over her head and the food that would be in her stomach. Those things made it well with the smell, the occasional pain, and indignation of it. For the right at least, it was over. She was free to leave and rest while the merchants opened shop.

"Leaving Illarya?" The owner of the tavern–a plump short man with grey and white hair and a beard covering most of his face asked.

"I am.” The woman replied from behind her as she continued taking steps toward the door.

"Best wait for one of the other wenches, eh? Gilly here is almost done with the tankards. I'll be fine." She continued to walk. The man shook his head.

"Have it your way." He conceded. Having known her for years, he knew that arguing with his employee was futile. If it wasn't something she was being paid for, she would do as she pleased. "Tonight. Gods willing."

“Tonight." There was more surety in her voice. Every night, he said the same thing - as if it were some sort of spell - like it was the only reason that the sun rose or that the tavern was still standing. The words were a talismen around them and if he failed to say it one of both of them would meet the Stranger or fail to be back to serve patrons that evening as the sun set. Ilarya didn't believe in such things, She said the words, looked back at the old man for a moment and then continued to walk out of the place that smelled like ale, wood, and piss. The open air outside filled her nose, giving way from the scent of the tavern to the usual fragrances of Flea Bottom.

Along the street, muddy with recent rain, the young woman walked along in the direction of the room she rented above a meager dress shop on the street. It was the same street, the same room, even the same dirt mixing with last night's rain as it had been for years. Things looked the same.They even smelled the same. That night, however, they did not sound the same. As she moved, Illarya could hear boots lightly stomping behind her. No talking. No other noises. Only the sounds of the night and the boots behind her. The more she tried to ignore it, the move it reverberated in her ear. The stomping, muddy sound remained behind her. It was likely someone staggering home from a tavern or some brothel. Illarya continued to tell herself this with each step... two, three, four, five. Was it her imagination or were they getting closer? Another Step. Six. Seven. By then, she was sure The boots were getting closer and closer. She tried to keep her pace steady as she continued walking.

The young woman led herself and the sound at her heels to a dark passage between two pot-shops . She stopped and reached into her left boot where she kept a small, but sharp knife. Her hand clenched it tightly before she straightened herself and turned to face the one who had been following her. Through the darkness prior to dawn and the shadows of the alley, she could scarcely make out any features.

"Put the toothpick away, girl." A man's voice commanded from the darkness.

"Fuck off." Illarya hissed.

"You don't want to talk like that to us."

"Us?"

Illarya had little time to contemplate the meaning of what he said . She heard him approach. Her arm, gripping the blade until her knuckle was white swung in the direction of the voice. The man in muddy boots caught her hand in the middle of the night air. Both of his hands gripped her arm with such force that was losing her footing. Just as she expected her knees to collide with the ground, She felt more hands grab her. A pair of hands grabbed each of her arms. Three men. An ambush. She hadn't even noticed the other two men when she'd been turned the other way. ‘Blind. Nieve. Stupid girl, falling for a trap laid by a group of cut throat thieves.’ She cursed herself. Then, Illarya cursed the seven. Her slender body-head, arms, and legs, moved wildly in the men's arms in hopes of breaking free. She struggled, even as she felt her own blade, carelessly dropped in the commotion of being grabbed, brought to her throat.

"I'll scream. The city watch -" She threatened.

"The gold cloaks ain't coming for you. Lord Flea Bottom hasn't been ‘round these parts to keep ‘em in line for years. Empty threats won't save you, girl. " The muddy boots come closer. She could feel the blade, making a shallow cut along the delicate skin of her neck.

He continued. "Now, make this easy on yourself: Open your pretty mouth and tell us where your wages are. If you don't tell us, we'll have to go looking. You won't like that. Think carefully. A few silver stags ain't worth dying over, are they girl?"

Illarya did not think. Her face contorted in anger, although she had stopped struggling when the knife pressed deeper . Their hands on her. wanting her coin - the food on her stomach and the clothes on her back. They wanted what she had earned. No. The man in the muddy boots was wrong. If they wanted what was hers, they would have to take it by force. Was she truly supposed to believe his offer to let her go unharmed if she gave them her purse? Illarya tilted her head back, feeling her blade follow along her shin, and then she spit. It was still dark. She could not see clearly enough to know for certain if she'd hit her target. The grunt that followed told her she had, at the very least, made contact with some part of him.

 "Big mistake, girl."

The final word, spat like an insult, left his mouth. Before she could begin to struggle again or make a sound, the young woman was on the ground. She was on her stomach and her own small blade moved from her neck to ripping through the back of her clothing. A gluttal scream sounded over the sound of ripping fabric. No one came. No gold cloaks stormed into the alley to save her. The man was right. Her scream earned her a kick from the boots. And another. And another. Rip. Kick. Jingle. The back of her dress ripped fully open. Her bare skin was suddenly exposed to the cool air before dawn. The purse tied to her left thigh was easy enough for them to find with the dress gone. She was right. They didn't stop once they had her coin. The kicking continued. The ripping of fabric continued. It all continued until She was naked, bloody, and muddy on the ground. She screamed. She moaned in pain. She made sounds that she had not known she was capable of making. The pain began dull and grew sharp. She didn't move. Humiliation. Pain. It all froze her in place. The leather collided with her shin. And then came the hands. Touching her. Groping her. Her arms. Her legs. Her muddied breasts.

Something- not hands and not a boot- hit Illarya hard on the head. The shapes and colours she could make out even in the darkness faded away. There was nothing before her eyes. No pain. She could no longer feel her body being beaten and violated. There was silence. How long it lasted she Could not tell. When something did come back into focus, it was not the alleyway where her body laid. Blinding light passed through her eyelids. Vision danced in the shadows across her mind's eye. A roar, so loud it threatened to split her head open. Grey- White scales. Green Scales. Intertwined under a great tree. A fire spreading across the open sea. Blood pairing out of a neck–trickling down to metal armor. Warm sticky. Silver hair- silky, and long draping itself over her chest. A head between her breasts she could see. Then herself: long black hair branded dressed in grey-bowed before the Iron Throne before a figure dressed in black wearing a ruby crown.

Dawn had broken in earnest by the time Illarya became aware of the world around her. Her head rose from the mud. Her Indigo eyes scanned around her. Rain came down in a hard mist on her head until she raised her eyes, and saw that it wasn't rain. She glared up at the man standing over her with his cock in his hands.

" Fuck off" She growled. It may have been intimidating had she not been covered in mud, blood, the seed of the men who had attached her with her dress on the ground in tatters.

“Oi! I've been pissing against this building every day for years! You fuck off."

The young woman growled.A  sound that quickly shifted to a moan when she tried to move. Her head ached. She felt as if her entire body was a giant, bruise-blue and sore. her arms. Her legs. Her ribs and between her thighs. As she rose from the mud, the dizziness hit. No sooner had She made it upright, she vomited amongst the mud and piss between the makeshift buildings. Once. And again as she reached for the largest piece of the muddy, bloodied fabric that she could find on the ground. She wrapped it around herself–not that it made a difference in her appearance. She looked like a wildling or something else out of the sorted tales that came from the North. One barefoot step. Then another. Again and again until she was out of the allaway. She could feel  the eyes of the merchants and traders all on her. The pain was enough of a distraction to keep away the humiliation. Each step brought a new jolt of pain, entering through her feet. The people stared. No one spoke - until someone blocked her way. A woman with long, straight black hair and a pure white dress that contrasted with the mud on her own body.

"You need help."

It took Illarya several seconds to realize she was speaking to her. Her head and the woman's accent made it almost impossible to understand.

“Fuck off.” She retorted.

"You need–"

"I said fuck off!" Illarya snarted, like a wolf defending its territory. There was no den, only her beaten and bruised, defiled body to protect. And she would protect it–rip out the woman's throat with her teeth if need be. She fixed her eyes on the woman-imagining drops of red on the white fabric until she took a step back and allowed the young woman to continue on her way down the streets of Flea Bottom.

Chapter Text

Item: 5 Silver Stags

Upon stepping her muddled feet into her rented room atop the dress shop, the first thing Illarya did was kneel beside her mattress. In a small hole hidden amongst the straw bedding there was another purse hidden. It was all she managed to save since she'd left the orphanage run by the Sept and made her own way. Eight years since she turned 14 and this was all that was left. She clutched the purse with her knuckles white from the force. The coin nestled inside began to jingle. It was mostly in copper coins, but she knew the amount by heart. They were groats and a few copper stars–one or two of which had been minted in the time of the old king Jaehaerys. Her hands were shaking. Her pounding head began to pulse with thoughts: Where was the man in the boots and the others? Had they thought she was dead? Had they followed her? What would they do to her if they saw her again? Her body winced in pain at the thought. Her ribs. Her head. Her Skin. Outside. Inside. Not a single part of her body had been spared.

With what little breath she could catch, the young woman drew herself a bath. Three buckets of water splashed into the wobbly wooden basin in the room. She did not bother to light a fire and warm them. It was early morning. The sun had not risen long enough ago to knock the chill of night off of the earth. The bath would be cold–tepid at best. Illarya peeled the tattered dress fabric from her body quickly and stepped inside. She barely noticed the  temperature of the water- which quickly turned from clear to the colors of mud and blood. The night began to wash away. Bright blue bruises became visible on her pale skin. The throbbing pain of the attack became replaced by the dull, raw feeling of scrubbing. With an old rag she kept around, what parts of her that weren't blue became bright red. The young woman was determined to wash it all away - the layer of skin they had touched, abused, and defiled gone.

Illarya leaned back against the wooden edge of the tub. For one brief moment, she closed her eyes. The water splashed as her body jolted. She expected to see the attack - the shadowy silhouette of the man in the muddy boots. What she saw instead were the visions that danced through her head as she layed on the ground. They were images she had almost forgotten about. She remembered the scales, the grey smoke mixing with morning fog. They were nothing more than fantasy, but it felt more real than any dreams she’d ever had-so real that she could feel the loud, earth  shattering roar and the weight of a head covered in long silver hair resting on her chest. She continued to scrub at her shin. Why those visions? Some believed that the gods sent visions to the dying - either to comfort them or to torment. Past victories. Past happiness. Past sins. Illarya never believed it and these flashes- these visions- were no memories of hers.

‘ What do I do now ?’ The young woman scrubbed while she asked the open air around her. That - not the fantasies that came to her while she lay in the mud helpless and unconscious- was what she should focus on now. If they ever saw her again- in the room she rented, at the tavern she worked, on the streets or at a merchant's stall…. The men had attacked in darkness. She hadn't been able to clearly see their faces. The voice of the man who had lured her into the corner with the muddy boots. " Big Mistake, girl ." That tone was something she could recognize. The punishment for what they'd done to her would be gelding or the wall- which was a kind of  gelding at the end of the word and a lifetime in the North. How far would they go to escape punishment and keep their cocks? Word they hunt her? Pursue her? Would they one day return to finish the job?

Illarya rose from the wooden basin quickly. Her head was still spinning. Water splashed on the floor. She barely made it to the pisspot by the bed before she vomited again. Bile poured from her stomach until she was crouched on the floor, gasping for breath through dry heaves. The thought of everything - her room, the tavern, the streets she had walked her entire life- made her sick. She realized that her hands were still shaking. The filth was washed away, but she still felt a ghost of it on her skin. She suddenly needed the sun. She needed the open air. She needed to leave.

Item: 1 Item: 1 cloth purse.

Item: 2 dress, one grey, one blue 

Item: 3 red apples 

Item: 1 loaf bread

Item: 1 white swaddling cloth 

Item: 1 Black Cloak

The young woman rose from the floor and dressed herself in her black damask dress. Her fingers moved quickly to tie the garment around her and worked her long, black hair into a long, single braid. Then, she gathered her coin and the rest of her belongings. Everything she owned fit into a makeshift cloth sack that she could throw over her shoulder. Twenty years of life and she could lift it with one hand, even as beaten and bruised as she was. Illarya then paused. She took one final look around the room that had been her home for years. She nodded to the bed, to the wooden floor, to the window that looked down upon the city -bidding it all a silent good-bye. No matter what happened - or where she went next -She knew that she would not return to Flea Bottom again. She did not bother to look back as she walked out the door.

Item: Rent 

Down the stairs. Through the corridor. Illarya did not stop until she came to an old woman with brown eyes and grey hair smartly pulled back. There was an apron over her faded blue dress. She owned the shop and the rooms above. When she saw the sack draped over the young woman's shoulders, she looked into her indigo eyes with unturned brows. 

"What's all this?" She asked.

Illarya dropped her sack on the floor long enough to reach for her purse. She counted the coin and outstretched her hand in the old woman's direction. 

“I'm leaving.” She replied Simply."Here. Take what's owed."

The elderly shop owner, whom she had thrown for years, looked at her hand In confusion. "Leaving"? She repeated. "What do you mean leaving, Illarya."

"I'm leaving here-leaving Flea Bottom."The young woman shrugged. It was painful. She tried to sound nonchalant- as if she wanted this - as if she had a choice.

“But - where will you go?"

“Maidenpool.”  The lie left her lips. It was the first place she could think of. “I got work there–At an inn. Better wages.”

“Hm.”  It was as  if the old woman was trying to decide if she believed it - or whether or not to press the matter if she didn't believe it. “You never even said you was looking.”

"I wasn't - sudden offer.” More lies, flowing like the water rising and falling from the tides at Blackwater Bay. The Septas that raised her would be disgusted. “No use in letting the mud dry up on your shoes, eh?”

There was a pause. The old woman looked back and forth from Illarya's hand to the wooden walls between. An uneasy silence. The young woman bit her bottom lip. She had worn the black dress because it was the one that covered the most of her body. She was standing far enough away. Were there still bruises visible? Could she see it in her eyes - what had happened? Was she going to ask more questions - ones that would require more lies? Then, it was over. She suppressed a sigh of relief as the coins left her hand.

"Best of luck in Maidenpool."

The younger woman blinked and nodded. "Thank you.”

Item: Waterskin 

The deal was done. Her debt was paid. She no longer lived in the little room. The tavern would find another wench to serve ale to all of the men who walked in with hungry gazes. She would never see them again - not the woman who ran the shop beneath her room - not the old man who ran the tavern who gave her work- not the patrons of the tavern whom she could not help but become accustomed to over the years. Would they notice? Would they care? If there was anything left of her, who would bury her or put it out to sea? She contemplated saying good-bye. Part of her knew that they would try to get her to stay. They would ask what was wrong– what happened. She would not tell the truth. Not aloud. It would only end  in more  lies. There was nothing more to say.

Illarya walked out of the shop and began walking in the opposite direction of the tavern that was her usual destination. The Red Keep, ever looming like a shadow over Flea Bottom, became smaller and smaller as she walked along the road. She walked, until she reached the great fork near the Guildhall of the Alchemists. The Sun Came up. It was beating down on the skin underneath her black dress. Down the muddy way, beads of sweat began to form and fall down from her brow as she walked. The journey was long. The streets were crowded. Unintelligible chatter came from all directions. Yet, the young woman remained silent. as she tried to ignore the tremor still in her hand. If not for all of the voices, she would have been able to hear hundreds of muddy boots stamp around her.

The sun passed its noontime high when the young woman stopped at a stall. A tanner–a young man with bright red hair and many missing teeth greeted her.

“Looking for something, love?” He asked with a half-formed smile.

"A waterskin" Illarya replied simply. She was in no mood for small talk.

“I've got those.”

"Full already ?"

"I Can manage that."

The red haired man moved around the stall. She noticed a slight limp in his gait as he moved about. The young woman's head tilted in mild interest. It was the first time all day that her attention was on something in front of her instead of the night before. Her eyes locked on the ginger hair blowing around in the direction of the wind. She silently watched until he returned  next to her with the full waterskin in hand.

“Here you are, love. That’s three coppers.”

Illarya nodded, handed him coins from her purse, and turned away from his smiling face. She continued walking, only stopping long enough to add the leather object to the sack over her shoulders. The sun was still high, bearing down stifling heat that only made the smells of bodies and rotting meat and fish all the more potent.

Item: Fishing net

Another long walk beneath the unforgiving heat. More steps. More sweat. More smells. Illarya continued to move her feet in the direction of the mud gate. She continued her journey- silent among the chatter. She passed the hook and the fork that led to the Street of Steel. The scents of coal, earth, and fire lingered in her nose as she passed on the wind until it was replaced by fish. It was

the first indication that she was approaching FishMonger Square. Soon, the merchant stalls were all filled with fish. Finned, scaly creatures with their bellies split open. The young woman glanced at the dots of blood still coming from their mouths. There were a few, more fresh than the others, still moving their tails in their final, flickering moments of life. She found that she had trouble looking away from them.

At one of the final stalls in the square, Illarya stopped for a final time. She approached the front, watched by hundreds of glossy eves. A muscular man with dark skin and hair as black as her own stood on the other side of the fish.

“Fresh fish for you today, ma'am ?” He asked with an accent that she could quite place.

“No." The woman answered.” I need a net. Small enough for one person to pull up. Strong.”

The fishmonger smiled, his white teeth in deep contract to his skin. He began to search around the stall. "I have just what you need."

She went back to gazing at the still moving. Small bodies until the man returned with braided rope in his hands.

“This one should serve, ma'am."

“How much?”

“10 coppers.”

There was no haggling. Not today. Illarya paid the man the price he asked. The net quickly replaced the coins in her hand. It  became the final addition to the sack. The weight began to take its toll. She shifted it from one shoulder to another before leaving the stall and continuing along the muddied streets of King’s Landing.

Item: Passage to Dragonstone.

Although the sun was still up and the heat was worsened by the closeness of bodies, the woman stopped once more to pull the black cloak from her belongings and drape it over herself as she approached the mud gate. She approached the docks with caution while trying to prevent her hands from starting to shake again. Among the masses were honest sailors and large boats- bring fish for the fish mangers, flesh for the tanners, steel for the smiths, and all manner of goods and people from as close as Driftmonth to as far away as Done or Essos. They were decent, hard working merchants merely trying to feed their families. It was unlikely (though not certain) that any of them would pose her any harm. Yet, she was not there for them. She had a need for a more discrete ship. Several deep steady breaths passed through her lips as she looked around - searching with her indigo eyes for one thing in particular.

On the other side of the docks were smaller vessels. Illarya made her away tentatively toward them. Those with good intentions who didn't mind being seen coming and going traveled by ship or booked passage on the merchant vessels bound for their destination. Others, who, wished to be invisible, bribed the cut throats and thieves that traveled in the boats under the cover of darkness. This was what the woman sought. She looked at the smaller wooden ships and those who stood beside them. There were more deep breaths. She knew the men that would agree to what she wanted to do were the same type as the men with the muddy boots and the others that held her down. Bile rose in her throat that she swallowed back down. Her hands threatened to start sharing. The night before came back to the forefront of her mind: Vivid flashes and pain parsed through her body like the blows that had landed the night before.

Time passed. Illarya stood by the docks trying to steady herself and summon the courage to approach one of the men. For a moment, She contemplated walking back up to the Street of Steel. The one small blade she'd kept beneath her clothing had been taken along with her body. It had not been enough to protect her or even intimidate the attackers. Nevertheless, she couldn't shake the feeling that she would feel safer with a weapon. She held her purse in her hands, feeling how light it was and how faint the sound of the jungle was when it jostled in her hands. A new blade was more than she could afford after getting the rent and buying the water shin and the net. Steel was expensive–even a middling one like she’d owned before.Given what else she intended to do, it was not possible. She would have to manage without it.

With one hand clenched into a fist and the other clutching the clasp that closed the cloak around her neck, she stepped onto the deck. She took several tentative steps towards a man. He was kneeling down near the vessel tying off a rope. When their eyes met, a smile that seemed more like a scowl came across his face.

“Is this yours?”  Illarya asked. Her tone was not nearly as confident as she intended.

“Who's asking?” The man continued to scowl.

“Me.” She watched as he eyed her, his green eyes moving up and down. Between her dress and the hooded cloak, there wasn't much he could see. Yet, it was still enough to make her flinch.

"You in some kind of trouble?" There was a long pause. Illarya’s heart began to pound against her ribs.

"I need to get to Dragonstone." The woman said simply, not answering his question. "Do you make port there ?"

"We do" but it will cost you to cross the Black Water.”

Illarya nodded. She placed the entire purse into his outstretched hand. He moved it around in his large, calloused hands, listening to the faint chatter of the coins. Then, he awkwardly untied the laces of the purse and looked inside. All the while, the unnerving scowl never left his face.

"We cost off at Sunset. Be back here at the docks then."

"Sunset." The woman repeated.

By the time that the sun fell, Illarya's life was completely changed from what it had been when it rose. The last of the money she earned over the years was gone. The room she rented and the tavern were far away and drifting further into the distance as the boat cast off. She sat below deck and imagined it all floating away instead of watching it. The ship moved back and forth and the choppy water of Black Water Bay. It was just as well there was nothing in her stomach as it seemed to sway along with the waves. She passed the night aboard silently, clinging to the woven sack that held all the belongings she laid claim to in the world. As the night passed, she still did not dare to close her eyes for fear of what would happen or what dreams or visions would come if she did.

Dawn had barely broken through the night's darkness when Illarya at last stepped foot on the port of Dragonstone. There were far fewer people at the docks than there had been in King's Landing. She saw very little grass when she looked up to take in the terrain. The entire Island seemed grey, rocky, and unforgiving. A hot, muggy heat filled the air. Thin, grey smoke lingered in the morning mist. All around, there were reminders of the creatures that resided there–somewhere high among the rocks. The young woman's blood began to pump harder. A strange feeling like a tingle just below her skin, began all over her body–like when she had washed herself too roughly. A longing to feel or touch something that was just out of reach filled her bones. If others felt it, they continued walking and talking without as much as pausing to ponder it.

As it was in King's Landing, the small folk walked and chattered among themselves. Few, if any, noticed a new face–a figure bathed in black - walking in the opposite direction of the rocks. Illarya watched the crowd dwindle and heard the talk lessen as she continued east. In the distance, she could see the castle- the original seat of the conquerors. Unyielding and formidable.  Of course, such a place was guarded- although not as heavily as it might have been in a time of war. She moved swiftly- but not too quickly. All the while, she tried to imagine herself as a grain of sand along the shore. Insignifiant. Invisible to the men atop the Castle walls with bows and arrows that she could not see. She somehow  knew they were there. While she walked, the young woman offered up a silent prayer to the Stranger - to spare her from being discovered at least until she reached her destination.

When she stopped again, Illarya was below the largest volcano. Rock and vents that bellowed grey pulls of smoke so far up that they appeared as only dots from the ground. The smell of the ocean was mingled with sulfur, ash, and a strange unfamiliar smell that she could not identify. Horses smelled. Pigs smelled. Was this what dragon smelled like? Until then, it had never occurred to her. It was worlds away from Flea Bottom. Save for the faint sound of the sea, the shore wes quiet. If she did not know better she would have sworn that nothing lived there. Within the high rocks above, there were many crevices- slits in the rock large enough for a man or for something much bigger. Her gaze fixed on one of the veins in the rock. She climbed up toward it with her sack of belongings tied to her ankle. She could only hope it was high enough to keep her hidden, but not high enough that a fall would kill her.

The cave was dark and the rocks were warm to the touch. Illarya pressed her back into the hot rock and waited once again. She allowed herself an apple from her sack and a careful sip from the waterskin. That was the first food that she managed to keep in her stomach since it had happened to her. The bites began to settle like a rock inside her, but the feeling passed eventually. She laid her head back and kept her eyes on the clear waves crashing gently along the rocks. The warmth and relative silence beckoned, but her eyes still did not close. She rested. She listened. She waited. not only to evade the men that guarded the castle, but the creatures that were hiding - lurking somewhere near.

When the sun disappeared and the waxing moon emerged, the young woman emerged. She climbed carefully down to the shore with the fishing net wrapped around her. Once her feet touched the ground again, she unlaced her boots and left them on the sand away from the rising tide. Still in her black dress, she waded into the water. The salty sea of Dragonstone stung her legs and everywhere else it touched. A pained hiss came from her lips as she exposed more of her body to the salt water. She stopped when she felt the sea reach her thighs. With the piece of braided rape attached the net wrapped around her wrists, Illarya cast out the net. Over the years, the young woman had met more sailors than she could count. She had been to the clocks and seen hundreds of fish gasping and flopping as they were held captive in a larger version of the net she awkwardly threw over her shoulder Yet, She had never seen how the nets were cast.

On the first and second attempts, the net doubled up and folded upon itself as it hit the water. In the faint light of the moon, she fumbled with her wet fingers to untangle it and cast it back out. The third time, it slipped out of her hand as she swung it. Too loud splashes sounded into the night air as she was caught in her own net. She offered up groans and curses to the moon and sea as she attempted to free herself. The tide continued its journey inward. Illarya continued to cost the net. There were more struggles, and more unknotting. Her arm and shoulder ached from effort. She grew tired. Her body began to tremble from the cold and a chill in the dark air. Every instinct still in her told her to retreat, but she did not. At last, she cast the net and could see it fan out through the light of the moon. As it sank, she waited patiently. For a long moment, she dared not move a single muscle in her body.  Even the gentle waves seemed to be silent.

When the time came to at last pull up the rope, it took all of Ilarya’s strength. Her aching shoulder tensed with the weight of the sea against the net. She held the rope taut and struggled until she was rewarded by the sounds of splashing and fins swimming wildly in protest of their confinement Shiny scales gratened against the light of the moon. Fish. A modest catch, but a catch nonetheless. A smirk replaced the pained  look across the young woman's face. She made her way back to the shore clutching the rope attached to the net so if it were the most precious thing in all of Westeros. When she reached the sand, she began to pull the fish out of the net one by one. Their sharp fins cut her hands as she arranged them on the shore like an offering to the gods. Before She was finished, the young woman scoured  around her in the almost darkness, for something sharp. Whether it was a shell or a tooth she did not know. When she found it, she picked it up. Her face twisted as she took a fish in one hand and the sharp in the other. The slick and slime of the animal mixed with blood as she slit the squirming, flopping thing of the belly.

Four more times. Four more open stomachs of half fileted fish. Blood covered her hands until she could not hold anything steady in her hands. She washed them clean in the sea. Yet they still seemed sticky as she climbed the distance back into the cavern worn in the rocks above the shore. The warmth gave off by the smoking vents above was a nuisance during the day, but welcome then to Illarya, wet and cold in the dark. She leaned once again against the warm rocks and turned her neck to look below at the shore and to the modest offering she had laid there. Everything was still -as it had been in the darkness. As the sun began to rise, a grey haze from the mingling of the cool night air and the smoking vents settled over the shore. That was when she heard it: scratching against the rocks. A vibration so strong that Illarya was afraid the cavern she hid in might collapse. Finally, She could see it. Large. The colour of the mist. Flapping Wings. Clawed legs dug into the Sand. A snout and teeth covered in the blood of fish. The Grey Ghost.

"Gods be good."

 Illarya muttered into the mist. She stared until her eyes grew dry and sore. When she blinked it was gone. After so long, she began to wonder if it had been real. She looked down at the shore and could make out a red spot on the sand where she'd laid the fish. Perhaps it had been real.

Eight days. For eight days, the routine remained. During the day, she remained hidden in her cavern among the rocks. She ate and drank little and rested. When night fell, She emerged with her net and waded into the ocean to collect her offering. By first light, she was back  in hiding and the beast emerged to gorge itself. It never lingered any longer when the fish were gone. The second day, She could not help but close her eyes. Some time later, she woke with the words ' big mistake, girl ’ ringing in her ears. The syllables were so loud that she looked around to make sure she was alone. On the fourth day, the apples were gone and bread was molded. What urine she could pass grew dark. She took a single fish from her catch and wrapped it in cloth from her spare dress. It warmed underneath the heated rock enough to eat it. On the seventh day, the waterskin was dry. She felt so dizzy that she fell back to the sand climbing back up to her cavern. A groan and a jolt of pain through her back and down her left leg. With great effort, she managed to rise again, but she knew that she would not return once she descended again.

At the first light of the sun on the eighth day, the Grey Ghost emerged from a smoking vent high above the shore again. Illarya was not above the beast, but on the ground in her black cloak just far away enough to be out of the beast's line of sight. She watched as it began to dine on her offering of fish. Slowly and ever tentatively,  she took a step forward. Then another. And another. She began to be able to see the dragon in greater detail. Its scales,  the pattern and the horns on its head. The talons on its legs, dug into the sand, like a  falcon’s. Eyes the colour of the clear sky with black slits for pupils like a serpent. It looked from the fish up to her. The young woman ceased her advance. A deep, low growl came from the beast's throat. A warning - like the rattle of a snake for daring to venture too close. She took a deep breath, settling herself before continuing to move forward toward the great creature.

The warning growl grew louder and fiercer. Each step Illarya took was painful from the fall. The lack of sleep and proper food made her faint and dizzy. What little capacity to think left to her, she wondered if she should be looking the dragon in the eye. Perhaps it was foolhardy, disrespectful. Perhaps she should be humble in her approach. But she could not bear to take her eyes off of the wonder before her- no matter how much it may protest. When she was close enough that she could reach out and touch it barely, she stopped. The beast raised its head toward the mist and let out a roar. so loud and so fierce she thought that it might split her in two. She could see its mouth and teeth, bigger - sharper than swords. The beast tilted its head back towards her with its mouth open. She could see two gullets on either side of its mouths, growing red-red with fire.

"No." Illarya muttered.

The dragon growled and roared loudly again. Her entire body began to shake from the crown of the head to the soles of her feet. Still, She did not move.

"No." She repeated, louder than before. The Irony was not lost on her: a starved, bruised dirty girl from Flea Bottom with more fish guts, sand, and firth visible than her own pale skin ordering a beast many times her size not to burn per where she stood inside the center  a file of fish blood and innards.

"No." One final time- at last with a sternness in her tone.

‘The Grey Ghost has every Night to disobey.’ Illarya thought. She had traveled and invaded its home. She was no Targaryen. No Valyrian blood to speak of. The whole idea that she could even stand in a dragon's presence was laughable. A farce, even. A fantasy brought about by hunger, desperation, and what madness she had brought upon her by what the men had done to not the week before. Yet, he did not burn her. The growing and rearing ceased. The fire in the gullets in its mouth never kindled. Its great head lowered, almost touching the young woman. One side of the beast's body tilted down, with the wing joint going into the sand like a third leg. The young woman stared into the blue, serpentine eyes before her in confusion.

“Do you want me to -” It barely occurred to her that she was speaking to a dragon. It was an animal who could not respond in the common tongue–but respond with a low grumble the beast did nonetheless.

Illarya had no experience with dragons - no way to know what the sounds-roars and screeches meant. She took the sound as the closest to consent as she would get. With what remaining strength that she had left, the young woman took two more steps and began to climb on the beast. She could feel the scales brush against her hands. A pained groan came from her as she swung her leg over its back. She nestled herself carefully on the Grey Ghost’s back between two spikes that came down its spine. Between her thighs, she could feel the twitch of muscles, the air going in and out of the creature's lungs. The strength - the power seemed to radiate with the heat from the dragon to the woman mounting it. For the first time in eight days. She felt control– as if she were larger than hunger, thirst, and all of the nightmares.

"Okay. Alright" She muttered under her breath.

The Grey Ghost rose and stood to its full height. Illarya took hold of the spine in front of her with both hands to steady herself. She felt the creature take a few steps before the sound of flapping wings filled her ears. Her dark hair blew wild with the wind they created. The sand. The shore. The cavern she took refuge in. Everything began to get smaller as the dragon took  to the air with her on top. She clenched her thighs tightly around the scaled flesh, her hands gripped the spike until she was sure that they would bleed. She didn't dare close her eyes. It was terrifying. It was thrilling. It was the closest thing she'd felt to freedom in all her years

Chapter Text

Every day since he was old enough to hold a sword in his hand, it was Aemond Targaryen’s custom to wake at first light. He would then dress, take a single ripe apple from the bowl laid out by servants the night before, and leave the tower in Maegor’'s Holdfast. The remainder of the morning, he spent in the tiltyard sparring with Sir Cristion Cole. This day was no different. It was one of the few things in life he could say without hesitation or pretense that he enjoyed. He and the white cloaked man weren't entirely alone- other knights, stable hands, and servants passed by as they went about their duties. Yet, it was solitude compared to the usual chatter and crowds of bodies in the Red Keep. The clanging of swords was loud as they fought. Some days, there was a ringing in his ears long after they ceased training for the day. Though loud, the familiar rhythm of swords clashing was the only thing that cleared his head most days besides riding Vhagar.

Blocking blows and swings from Sir Cristion was a welcome escape. There in the yard, he was at least free of Aegon's constant prodding and insults. He was free of Alicent’s speeches (on the rare occasions that she spoke to him) about duty, honor, and decency- as if he were the one spending most nights drunk and in the brothels on the Street of Silk - as if he were the one pinching every servant girl that was supposed to be attending them all. He was free of thinking of his father. Viserys- who even before his health declined - barely spared more than a nod and an acknowledgement on the name days of he, Aegon, Heleana, and Daeron. When he was able, he would sit above the yard and watch the boys train. In all those years, he had looked down at them in the yard,- He only ever spoke or praised Rheanerya's sons. If he looked up above him, sometimes he could still hear it: “Well fought, Jace" "Well done, Luke" Never a word for him or Aegon. Words, praise and affection–they were all for the dark haired bastards of Sir Harwin Strong. Time and time again, his half- sister's bastards favoured over his own white haired, true born sons. Now that his illness progressed and the thing spent most of his time confined to his chambers, abed, there was nothing for anyone. Only waiting.

Aemond had no intention of staying idol and simply waiting and counting down the moments until Viserys met the Stranger. Aegon could drown in his cups all day and night. Heleana could sit by the hearth and tend to their children while he drank and whored. He, in the meantime,  would prepare. He would train with Sir Cristion day after day and endure the cuts, bruises, and the aches in his muscles. He would get faster and stronger. At every opportunity, he would ride Vhagar to keep them both vigilant. If no one else in his family was willing to do what was necessary, he would. When the time came, he would do it all himself if need be. By now, he was accustomed to being alone - the feeling of being in a crowd of family, courtiers, and servants but still a kind of loneliness remained. He was a man now. We didn't need their flattery or praise anymore. Least of all, their pity.

“Well fought, my Prince"

The clanging of swords ceased. Aemond had at last succeeded in knocking the blade from Sir Criston's hands. There was one final clank as it hit the ground before him. The King's Guard seemed winded. His breath heaved. The dark waves of hair on his head were weighed down heavily with sweet. The Prince was silent  as he turned toward the goblets and the pitcher of water a servant had left as they passed. Deep down, he felt a small sense of pride at disarming his instructor. If it showed at all on his person- it was only in a slight upturn of his lips. He never acknowledged the praise in words. Sir Cristion was one of the few people in the Red Keep or anywhere else that understood his silence.

There was a faint, high pitched screech from high above them. Sir Cristion had the goblet out of his hand and his head turned upward toward the sky with reflexes faster than most men in the Seven Kingdoms.

“The Prince-your younger brother who is a squire in Old Town-what color is his dragon?" The knight ashed, his gaze still upturned.

"Tessarion? "She's blue"

"Then whose dragon is white-grey?"

The prince shook his head, at last looking up in the direction of Sir Cristion's gaze. 

“Noone’s,” He muttered.

It was difficult to see at first, but there it was: a dragon flying overhead - one  he had never seen for himself before. He'd read reports from the Maesters on Dragonstone. The information was so sparse - the sightings so few that he truly had doubts that such a creature existed. Yet, there it was before his eye.

The silhouette was visible against the overcast clouds. No wonder the people called it the Grey Ghost. The longer they watched, the lower the beast flew. He began to be able to just see a dark spot against the soft grey. Was it possible? Could the most elusive dragon in the kingdom who had been described as shy-have a rider? He blinked his single violet eye and the black speck remained.

Aemond's entire body grew tense as Sir Cristion reached for his sword on the ground. Every muscle posed to strike as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It  could be an attack– the first hostile and from his uncle and bitch half- sister. There was no sign of others that he could see- no red or yellow against the morning shy. The city was not on fire yet -or, they had not yet reached their target. His eye watched consciously as the figures faded away. They were flying in the direction of Rhaenys’ Hill. The Dragon Pit. Sunfyre. Dreamfyre. Tessaron. Morghul. Shrykos. Dreamfyre’s newly laid clutch of eggs. The place where all his family's dragons (except for his Vhagar) were kept. He did not know who was riding the Grey Ghost or what their intention was flying above the city, but he did know who occupied Dragonstone. That fact alone was enough.

“Get a horse,” The Prince ordered. “They're heading toward the Dragon Pit.”

“Do you think it's an attack? Vhagar-”

“Vhagar is outside the city walls at the Dragon Gate. Rhaenys’ Hill Could be on fire by then.”

Aemond did not wait for a response. He sheathed the blade still in his sword arm and began to move. The sound of Sir Cristion running in his armor followed swiftly. Both men ran the short distance from the tiltyard to the stables. The Prince's long legs bestrid a brown mare with the speed and grace that came with years of experience rindinghorse s and a dragon. As he took the reins in his hand and gave the horse a gentle kick behind its rubs. Faster and faster still. He commanded it until his long, silver hair was blowing wildly behind him. The King’s Guard was only paces away with hoofbeats pounding the ground in quick succession. Out of the stables and away from the Red Keep. The pace slowed as they rode through the middle of Flea Bottom. Men, women, and children. They were all twitching along quickly to get out of his way. The mare's swiftness caused them to all blend together. Their faces. The rags that they clothed themselves in. All of the mud and filth on them. Even the unpleasant smells. Through the sounds of the horses and their hoofs, he could already hear the panic in their chatter. They too had caught a glimpse of the danger almost invisible through the clouds. 

As the horse beneath him began to ascend Rhaenys’ Hill, Aemond caught another glimpse of the Grey Ghost out of the corner of his eye. The beast was flying even lower now- dangerously so. He began to be able to see it more clearly. Of course, It was much smaller than Vhagar. It was closer to the size of Sunfyre– perhaps a bit larger. He began to be able to see the spikes along the spine, so close he could have counted then if had wanted to. Grey Ghost’s body was longer than other young dragons his size. A worm. A serpent with wings. It continued its descent. It was only then that he noticed something that wasn't there. There was no saddle. Whoever was riding- a figure in black with long dark hair was bareback. They were holding on-still in the air by sheer force of will and holding on to one of the spikes on its back with their hands.

The hill that was topped with the Dragonpit commissioned by Maegor the Cruel after he destroyed the Sept that once stood there. Despite all of the building since the conqueror, there were still odd trees and caverns along the hillside. It was said some of the cover led to tunnels leading to a brothel north west on the Street of Silk. In another direction was Flea Bottom disappearing in the distance. The beast was still on that side of the hill when it finally began its descent in earnest after flying so low. When Grey Ghost was at tree level, Aemond pulled back the reins to stop the mare. The horse quickly came to a halt. He dismounted her and then the reins to a nearby tree with a low hanging branch. Further away, the Grey Ghost landed at last, perching itself atop one of the caves and digging its claws into the rock. He watched momentarily as the beast settled. It's long, slender body stilled. From behind the cover of the trees, he could see the rider enough to tell that she was a woman dressed in all black with hair almost the same colour. He continued to watch. She did not move in any effort to dismount the dragon, nor did she speak. No commands to her mount, no acknowledgement of his presence. He was almost sure she wasn't aware he was there at all just out of her sight.

The prince took one step away from the tree toward the Grey Ghost and its rider. His boot snapped a fallen branch when he moved. The beast’s head rose to attention in his direction. His violet eye met the blue ones of the dragon. A growl sounded from deep within its throat. Aemond stopped. The noise continued warning him of the danger if he came any closer. It rose up from its crouch on the rock, puffing up its body like a serpent showing its hood. The bit of movement was sudden, enough that the rider could no longer stay atop her mount without a saddle. Her grip on the spike along the dragon's spine gave way. The woman in black fell to the ground below the rock. There was a thud and the sound of claws in the ground as the beast took a tentative step toward its fallen rider. She didn't try to stand. All she died was grunt and mutter the word ‘gods' before there was silence again.

As Aemond prepared to take  another step, there was another sound—hoofs pounding against the ground. Sir Cristion at last caught up with him. The knight wasted little time looking at the scene before him. He only saw the danger to his Prince. He quickly dismounted his horse and took several steps to put himself in between the dragon and the violet-eyed boy. There was the sound of him drawing his sword followed quickly by the beast growling becoming a loud, territorial roar, almost as fierce as any Aemond had ever heard from Vhagar. He came up behind the man in front of him, placing his hand on his arm. The sound was still ringing in his ears.

“Sheath your sword, you fool.” The Prince scolded in a low voice.  “If the dragon thinks you are a threat to it-or its rider, it will burn both of us.”

“The Dragon Pit. Their Grace’s dragons–”

“This one isn't going anywhere. The rider has fallen off along those rocks. It is protecting her from us. Stow your blade. Slowly."

Sir Cristion at last did as he was ordered-slowly with deliberate movement- he placed his sword back in its sheath. The beast watched. Not once taking its eyes off of the knight. The growling lessened, but did not cease. It started and continued to puff up its slender body. He broke away from the dragon's gaze only when it noticed the Prince take another step forward. The movement caused his body to tense. Every instinct in his body as a knight and as a King's Guard told him to remain in between the young man and the strange creature. The fact that Aemond rode a dragon- much bigger and fiercer since the age of and had been doing so since the age of 10 mode little difference to his vows to protect the royal family and the urge to save him from danger.

"Lykiri"

If Almond was afeared at all of the hissing, growling beast in front of him, he didn't show it. He stood tall. His command was clear. The dragon's focus shifted from Sir Cristian to him. Their eyes met. The beast's head tilted slightly. As if it were taking in the word and trying to decide whether to obey. He, after all, was not the Grey Ghosts rider but possessed Valyian blood– likely more than the black haired woman that mounted it. Nevertheless, the growling continued.

"Dohearas, Gīs"

If he could  command Vhagar- the last of the dragons who had conquered Westeros as a child, then he would command the Grey Ghost as nearly a man grown. He ordered the beast again, more sure and forceful than before. The territorial noises quieted. He wasn't certain if it was the language or if it was beginning to sense the Valryian blood in his veins. Its body remained tense, tightly coiled like a snake preparing to strike. Aemond looked from the blue eyes of the dragon to the rocks below. The dark haired rider had not moved since her fall. He was too far away to see if she was breathing. It was possible that it was guarding a corpse. but if the woman was alive ... there were many questions, he and his family would need answers to: Why was she there? Who sent her? Why had she flown over King’s Landing in the direction of the Dragon Pit?

"Lykiri. Lykiri, Gīs."

The beast lowered his head, but remained alert. Its body remained in place, but some of the tension in its muscles were gone. The prince took a couple more cautious steps in the dragon's direction. This time, there was no hissing, no territorial growl warning him not to come further. He could feel the King's Guard watching, hovering and anticipating the moment he would have to put himself  between his prince and the strange dragon.

"Go behind me. Get to the rider" Aemond ordered.

Sir Criston took several steps from behind him. All the while, the younger man kept his eye on the beast- repeating the words in High Valayan to keep Grey Ghost's attention on him. Lykiri. Dohearas. Calm. Serve. The commands sounded over the branches breaking beneath the King’s Guard’s boots. Tension filled the air and the bones and muscles of the dragon and men alike. Another step. Another Command in the tongue of Old Valyria. The Prince watched the beast's head continue to tilt as he continued his commands. For one brief moment, he would have sworn he could see thought behind the blue eyes and slit pupils. Anger. Confusion. If he hadn't known better, he would almost swear to the 7 that the creature had never heard the language before. Its body was obeying, but it didn't understand why.  Yet, that wasn't possible. How could anyone regardless blood of claim a dragon

without speaking Valyrian? All of those lessons as a child while Aegen barely listened… The nights he'd practiced as a boy until the night of Leana Velaryon's funeral.

As Aemond took another step, a new sound filled the clearing. Footsteps and metal armor sounded, but Sir Cristion had not moved. Soon, he could see black armor in the distance. Keepers from the dragon pit surrounded them. The Grey Ghost resumed growling. The dragon helpers commanded him again, though it did not fully quiet itself. Long staff with blades of obsidian guided the beast away from the rock. Its eyes cast down nervously to its  rider. The beast gave a final screech while  it moved. When the knights and the dragon passed a nearby clearing of trees, Sir Cristion approached the rider. The Prince followed some distance behind the King’s Guard. Once again, he saw the woman-the soiled black dress and her hair wildly escaping her braid. There was a small sack tied to her waist by a thin rope. The proximity allowed him to see for the first time  how thin she was. Even her face seemed slightly sunken.

"Seven hells." The Prince muttered under his breath. "How did someone so small- So weak manage to stay on a wild dragon bareback?"

“Perhaps she's not a true dragon rider." Sir Cristion replied. "Perhaps She's something else- a witch." Aemond pressed his lips together as the Knight spoke.

Suddenly, as the final word passed from his lips. the girl's eyes flashed open. A pair of indigo eyes looked up at the men from the rocky earth beneath their feet.

By the time the afternoon sun rose above Kings Landing, the Red Keep was abuzz with movement. The usual gossip of court surrounding scandals of high born ladies and the King’s ever deteriorating condition were all replaced with new talk. The servants who had been bidden to silence did not stay quiet long. Tales of a small young woman with strange, bright eyes filled the fortress. Some said she was not a girl at all, but a witch who was centuries old who had the power to control dragons. Others said she spoke with a Flea Bottom accent and had nothing to her name. She had stolen a dragon and somehow managed to make it across to black water. Others still unsure what to make of

the new beast in the Dragon Pit and the girl that Sir Cristion Cole’s horse had brought out of the woods up Rheanys’ Hill. What was certain was one of the Maesters spent the better part of the day going in and out of the room she was brought into. As he stepped out, shutting the door behind him. he had muttered: 

“Gods be good. Aerea Targaryen has come again."

As the sun set. Otto Hightower made his way up the stairs to Maegor's Holdfast to his daughter’s– the Queen’s– Chambers. His visit did little to quiet the servant's chatter. A servant girl at his side opened the door.

“The Hand of the thing, your grace" She announced before leaving the room.

He stood straight and still ,looking around the room. It was one of the rooms that he had fought so hard and so long to secure for his children- and herm children after them. He looked at his daughter. She sat on the other end of the room at a desk. It was filled with scrolls, wax and seals. There were letters, drafts of proclamations, and histories. The candles flickered close by. She was leaning  over, so distracted that she ignored the Servant gut announcing his entrance. In certain lights- at particular times of day-he was still struck by how much she looked like her mother.

“Is the girl awake?" The Queen asked, looking up from the parchment on the table at her father.

"Yes." He replied. "The Masters are tending to her."

"What do they say?"

"She's thin, malnourished. The gods know the last time she ate. Her body, they say,is covered in enough cuts and bruises that she looks as though she's been to war… but nothing the Masters say won't heal in time."

"And the dragon?"

“In the dragon pit with Sunfyre, Dreamfyre. Tessaron, and the little ones. Though, it's temperamental. The keepers say it's almost as foul tempered as Caraxes."

"How is any of this possible"?" She looked down from her father to her hands laying flat on the table. The beds of her fingernail were almost red against the rest of her fair, pale skin. "A girl no one has heard of–never seen before rides above us on a dragon no one has ever ridden before? "

"Some ways of dragons are still a mystery, even to those heavy with chains at the Citadel, your Grace," Otto mused. "Rheaneya’s sons are bastards and they have dragons. Their only Valyrian blood comes from the mother. Your own children–”

"Baby dragons. Hatchlings are made to bond with them From Birth,” Alicent interrupted. There was a Sharpness to her tone. She needed no reminder of the 10 years of reassurance she'd given Aemond - her trueborn  son- before he claimed Vhagar as his own. "This a wild dragon grown large and the girl-"

“Only the gods know who the girl is,” the hand dismissed. “And Targaryen men-and even some women- have seldom been known for their virtue. Viserys, perhaps, has been loyal to Aemma and now to you. But the old King Jaehaerys. He even had a daughter banished for her lack of restraint. She opened a pleasure house in Volantis if the stories are to be believed. And Daemon has never shown discretion in his activities- particularly whilst he was married to Lady Royce."

"So you believe her to be a bastard from one of them?”

“It's possible, but unlikely we shall ever know." Otto took a step forward to his daughter and the desk she sat at. Her eyes-so like her lady mother's-looked at him large with concern. The closer he got, the closer he became, the more he could see. A quick glance down at the table at his daughter’s hands and he could see the raw skin on the beds of her fingernails. After all these years, she still persisted in that damned habit. It was enough to heat his blood. "It would better suit us now, my Queen, to consider the situation and how it may be used to our advantage."

"Advantage?" She asked. “Another bastard cannot be seen riding a dragon. We must kill her."

The Hand shook his head. “If the girl dies, the dragon will have no rider. Riderless, they may be claimed again. Daemon has a daughter who has not yet claimed a dragon. And as quickly as he and Rheanerya breed, they will soon have more children who could claim it. Killing her does not profit us. At worst it gives our enemies another weapon to use against us."

"My son's claim to the Iron Throne is to be supported by a bastard girl from Flea Bottom?"

“When the time comes, Aegon's Claim must be pressed by whatever means and allies we may find. We may not be entirely sure which lords will bend the knee to Rheanerya. But we may be sure she has a dragon- as does Daemon and all three of her bastards. They will grow every year as your own sons and grandsons. With the Sea Snake gone, these past years, we cannot know how Princess Rhaenys may side. Her Meleys is as battle-hardened as Caraxes. Their dragons together would ruin us even with Vhagar."

Queen Alicent shook her head. There was a part of her-perhaps kin to the young girl that sat under the Weirwood tree with Rheanerya- that wanted to believe that everything could be accomplished without bloodshed. If not, at the very least, without dragons–no men or entire towns brought to ash. "She fell from that dragon. She cannot ride. If she's as thin as the masters say, she cannot defend herself."

"She must be bought, then," Otto insisted. “And we must pray that the king's health lasts long enough to have a saddle made and to convince her to favour our cause."

"Who will teach the girl to handle a dragon or a sword?”

"Aemond."

"Aemond," Her son's name came out a half incredulous murmur.

“He trains with Sir Criston every morning. She will join them. It is the best option. Better him than Aegon. We both know he is no warrior… and with his cursed appetite for low-born girls…."

"He will never agree to it." Queen Alicent insisted. There were things about her sons- especially with Aegon and his whoring on the Street of Silk- that she preferred not to know. But she knew Aemond well enough to know what she’d said was true. As a child he'd been sweet, kind even before Aegon began cuffing him about. Once he'd claimed Vhagar, he'd changed. He grew more quiet. He began spending less and less time with her and Heleana. There was a silent anger in him- a rage that she’d at first hoped spending time in the tiltyard with Sir Cristian could quench. As much as she did not want to see it–to turn a blind eye to it, she could not at times. One of Rhaenerya’s bastard sons had cost him his eye. To train a dark- haired bastard girl to use a sword and ride a dragon. He would hate the idea more than She did. They could scold, plead, threaten him with dragon fire and it would make little difference. He would see it as a sacrilege- an insult to him, to the family, and to their Valryian blood. No, he would never agree to such a demand nor should be.

"I will speak with my grandson.” Otto said. There was a finality in his voice."You must speak with the girl.”  He watched his daughter's face turn in distaste, but continued unfazed. “We must take help as we find them if we are to see Aegon on the throne. Speak kindly to her. Offer her food, gold, land. Tell her that our side is the only one that will shelter her or accept her. Tell her plainly that Rhaenerya, should she fall into her hands, would see another dark- haired bastard riding a dragon as a threat to her sons. Her very existence challenges their position. They may no longer command loyalty if any sot or vagabond with a drop of Valyrian blood may lay claim to a dragon. Her choices are to remain with us and be treated fairly or be put to the sword by our enemies. Make her understand our enemies are hers."

Chapter Text

The next time that Illarya was able to open her eyes, she was surrounded. There was a woman above her, putting a cool rag to her forehead and another no older than a girl bandaging her left hand. Her touch was so gentle and so slight-like silk.  She barely felt it. A short distance away from her, she could hear the sound of a Maester's chains. He was looking in her direction with concern. She had never been examined by one before and the last time someone had dressed a wound for her, she was 10 and a Septa wiped the mud from her scraped knee after she’d fallen down the steps of the Sept. All of the bodies around her at once made her anxious. They were strangers. She started to struggle. The young girl was started by her sudden movements. She seemed almost as afraid as Illarya was herself. The thought was strange - laughable, even. Why would anyone be afraid of her– one who hadn't even managed to piss in the last day and a halt?

She tried to think. Her thoughts were distant and blurry as if she were drunk. She had a vague memory of being on Dragonstone. As the haze slowly began to lift, she remembered the Grey Ghost– hearing and touching it and finally mounting it. Then, they'd flown. Over the water - through a wood. The next thing she remembered was falling and someone– a man with dark hair- muttering the word ‘witch’ in her direction. Was he Dornish? Where in the 7 hells had he brought her? The women. The Maester. As she thrashed about ,she could feel she was laying on a feather bead. It couldn't be. She'd been brought back to King's Landing– where most of the Targaryens were. They were close and she’d just claimed one of their dragons.

Panic settled into Illarya's limbs. If they knew…if they saw her riding Grey Ghost as a threat, she and the dragon were as good as dead. She was suddenly not just anxious. She was terrified. Her struggling grew worse. She swatted at the woman putting a rag on her head. It was the closest target she thought she could hit. More arms came at her. She pawed at them like a kitten with a ball of string. Another arm. She didn't know who it belonged to, but she was able to grip it in her hand. When they tried to get away, she dug her nails into the smooth, pale flesh.

“Fuck off. Leave me alone. " Illarya at last managed to hiss.

“Stay calm, child,” the Maester attempted to soothe her. “We only wish to help.”

“Leave me alone.”

“We mean no harm.” He continued, more stern than before.

"Where is my dragon?" The young woman was growing more frantic. “Where is my dragon?”

“The Creature has not been harmed, but you are weak and must rest.”

“No. Leave me be.”

With what little strength she could manage, Illarya dug her nails further in the arm. In her grip. A short yelp came from above her side. More hands reached for her arms until she was at last forced to let go.

"Step away, Dyana," the Maester ordered. With that, the young blonde haired girl stepped away and quickly walked away holding her arm.

The young woman in bed continued to look around in confusion. She watched and heard the Maester move around the room. It was difficult for her to see. When he came close enough to be in her line of sight again, he was holding a goblet. He did not have to speak or give an order. The rest of the people in the room had their hands on her before she could react. She felt her heart begin to pound and her body become rigid. A scream formed in her throat- which she already knew would do her no good. It was stifled inside of her as the Maester put the goblet to her lips. She tried not to drink. She didn't want to. Yet, before she could close her mouth entirely, She drank some of the sweet, chalky liquid. It had been a long time since she'd tasted it, but in that moment she could have sworn the taste of honey was on her tongue.

Her heart continued to pound as the strange taste continued down her throat. Illarya did not know what it was. For all she knew, she could have drunk poison. With that thought, her entire body ran cold. It seemed to confirm her suspicion. Again, she wanted to rage and scream- to rip every single hand touching her from her body. As she tried to move, she realized that she could not. All that she could manage were some slow, sheepish flexing movements of her muscles. Her limbs felt heavy. When she opened her mouth again as the master pulled the goblet away, the only sound she could manage was a pained moan. Her eyelids felt as if they were being weighed down by anchors– heavy ones that held warships still. For a long moment, she fought it. She resisted closing her eyes for what she feared would be the last time. She wanted to live. She wanted to cry. She wanted to leave. Above everything else, she wanted to fly again. Of all the regrets and thoughts that flashed through her mind, the one that she would never be in the air above the clouds was the one that caused her heart to beat faster in protest.

Illarya could not guess how long her eyes were closed. The thick texture of the drink seemed to coat her throat. Then, a complete dull darkness enveloped the rest of her. It was an all-encompassing black. There was nothing else. There was no great council of the 7 to judge her- no 7 heavens and no 7 hells waiting to take her in or punish her. There were no dreams. The muddied boots did not return to rob, beat, and torment her again. The visions she had seen–the ones that led her to Grey Ghost- did not dance around in her mind in an encore. There was the drink and the servants hands on her and then there was nothing. For the first time since that night on the street in Flea Bottom, there was quiet in the dark. She could not remember such a time when the world was so silent.

When she woke again, the room was empty. She blinked twice and there were no Masters or servants around the bed. They were gone, but there were voices. She could hear them outside the door to the room.

“Have care, your grace. The girl was quite alarmed when she woke. I gave her a small pinch of Sweetsleep. More cannot be administered for some time without the risk of death, as you well know."

“But she is awake now?"A woman's voice asked.

“Oh yes, your grace. The effects should be worn off by now.”

"Thank you, Maester."

Illarya's indigo eyes grew wide as the door opened. She watched a woman gracefully enter the room. Not just any woman. Not a servant. Not a Septa. A woman with large brown eyes. Her red hair was perfectly curled in trusses framing her face. The green dress she wore was more elaborate- with needle and beadwork making a 7-pointed star on the front of her gown - and more expensive than anything she'd ever seen up close before. In the years before King Viserys' health began to fail, she was sure she had gotten a glimpse of her before, but nothing more than a fleeting glance between fellow spectators. The Queen was always said to be beautiful. Yet, that seemed an understatement in her presence. It served to remind the young woman in bed of how dirty and unkempt she must have looked. She looked down at her hands and realized the servants had tried to wash her before she'd started to hit them. It was a feeble attempt at scrubbing off days worth of salt and sand and a lifetime of filth. It was not her usual custom to feel shame about her looks in the company of other women- but this was not simply other women. This was the Queen. She pulled the fur blanket further up her body to hide as much of herself from view as possible.

“What is your name ?” 

Illarya blinked several times. Moments passed before it occurred to her that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was speaking to her. All of her-legs included- still felt weak and heavy from sleep. She wondered if she should stand up a bow or curtsy. She did not know how to do either properly. In Flea Bottom, there was little need to learn small courtesies. ‘ Gods, stop staring like an idiot. ’ 

“Illarya, your grace.”

Queen Alicent looked at her- with her gaze moving up and down. Perhaps she was measuring her for the stocks of wondering what she’d look like without a head. She looked down at the floor beneath them when the Queen spoke again.

“Who are you, Illarya ?”

The girl shook her head. “No one, your Grace.”

“No one,” she repeated through pressed lips. “No one who flew from Dragonstone to King's Landing on a stolen dragon.”

“I didn't steal Grey Ghost.” There was more venom in her voice than she intended. She had never been accused of stealing anything in her life. Yet, she was railing at someone who could end her life as easily as she could look at her. “My Queen.” She added hastily.

“Then how did you come to ride it, then?"

“I went to Dragonstone. Alone. I caught fish and left it on the shore to feed Grey Ghost. I hid in the caverns of the smoking vents during the day. On the last morning I came down and approached. I can't explain it. Ghost leaned over, like it wanted me to get on, so I did. We flew over the sea. I didn't know where we were going until-” The longer Illarya spoke, the further her voice drifted. She was recounting what had happened as she said it, some of it for the first time. It still felt like all of those things that occurred had happened to someone else.

“You did not order the dragon to come here to King's Landing ?”

‘ Order the dragon ,' she repeated in her mind. - it sounded so preposterous to her-barking demands to a creature that could kill her with so little effort, like a flap of its wing. 

“I don't know how to order a dragon where to go.”

“Then how did you know how to claim it?” The Queen asked.

“I didn't, your grace.”

“Who sent you to Dragonstone?”

“No one.”

Illarya saw the Queen's brown eyes narrow in her direction. She didn't believe her. Of course she didn't. She had little reason to.

"Then why go at all? What put the idea in your head after living in Flea Bottom your entire life to leave and go to Dragonstone?"

Illarya's lips pressed tightly together. Her eyes widened. She did not want to lie, but she couldn't say the truth.

"No one told me to go to Dragonstone, my Queen." she muttered.

“Do you know the penalty for lying to the crown?”

"Yes, I do,” she replied. The stocks. A public whipping The black cells….

“So, I ask again: Why did you go to Dragonstone at all?"

In truth, it was a question Illarya had not yet had occasion to ask herself. Her body shifted nervously in bed.

“I don't know, your grace. I-" she sighed. "I had nothing to lose."

There was a pause. Queen Alicent turned away from her and looked around the room. her brown eyes seemed to search. Illarya’s heart continued to struggle against the cage of rubs in her chest. She had nothing. No one and no means to make anyone believe what she said. She looked anxiously at the furs covering the bed, then to the bandages on her hand caused by holding on so long and so tightly to a spike on Grey Ghost’s spine. The hold caused long, bloody gashes to form in her hands. It was evidence in her mind  that it had been real. She had ridden a dragon. The young woman pressed her thumb to the bandages on her left hand, feeling the bit of pain it caused. This was real as well.

“Do you have children ?”

When she looked back up, the woman in bed saw that the Queen held the white blanket in her hands that she had carried in a sack all the way to Dragonstone and back again. Part of her wanted to snap and scream at her not to touch it, but she managed to hold her tongue.

"No, your grace," She managed."It's mine. The Septas who raised me -they gave it to me. They said the men who found me told them I'd been wrapped up in It."

“Where were you found?”

"At sea. I was always told it was likely mother gave birth to me on a ship crossing the Narrows Sea and the ship sank- perhaps a storm, an attack- or something else."

"You don't know who either of them are your mother or father? "

"No, my Queen."

Queen Alicent nodded, her red hair being tossed with the movement. She continued examining the white fabric in her hand carefully.

“It's quite the story."

"It is the truth. You must believe me, your grace.” Her eyes began to sting. She could not recall a time when she had fought against tears so vehemently. It would not happen. She would not cry before the Queen. She would not be so weak or give the man with the muddy boots the satisfaction of making a fool of her. The battle, she had no doubt, was as plain on her face as the cuts and bruises on the rest of her body. She silently wondered to herself if she were saying too much with her silence. The Queen continued to look at her expectantly.

“It is not what I believe, but others–."

“I will say the same thing to anyone who asks–”

“I'm sure you will, but I wonder…." Her green dress rustled about the floor as he approached the bed. "Do you know the King's eldest daughter ?"

"I've heard of Princess Rhaenerya, yes."

"She has three sons with hair like yours. They are bastards."

Illarya froze. A silence hung in the air. She pondered what she’d heard and wondered if she'd heard it at all. How was she meant to respond? She'd heard the rumors. Everyone had- even the lowest in Flea Bottom. The eldest Princess and the Lord Commander of the City Watch. Her husband at the time was said to prefer the company of men. She had thought little of it. The affairs of royals were a world away from the city's slums. No matter what the Princess did or did not do made little difference. She was still hungry, still thirsty, and needed clothes on her back and shoes on her feet. It was treason to deny the king's succession. To answer or to speak wrongly could cost her head.

“Your grace, I-”

“If her son's claim to the Iron Throne is challenged by another dragon rider with dark hair—”

“I don’t—I don’t mean to challenge anyone.”

"But you do," The Queen insisted."Now that you've claimed a dragon, your very existence challenges her and them."

"Please, my Queen. I don't want to challenge anyone." The air seemed to grow thicker. Illarya managed the words through gaping breaths. " If you grant me my life and my dragon, we will leave. We'll cross the Narrow Sea. You and your family will never hear of us again."

“There's no place in the Free Cities that you can hide with a grown dragon."

"Then what am I to do? I cannot give Ghost back." Illarya muttered. Her breath was still heavy in the air between them. She didn't want to ask. Her heart pounded in rebellion against it. It didn't want to know. It didn't want to stop beating. “Are you- Am I going to die?”

Queen Alicent was now so close that she could reach out and touch her. Illarya was surprised when she did. Her touch was warm and soft. It felt wrong. Wasn't she afraid that some filth would rub off of her and not wash off? Her and the hand that was not holding the blanket were so close to her face that she could see the beds of her fingernails were a dark, irritated pink against the pale colour of the rest of her skin. Her hand with soft shin and those fingernail beds- moved from her shoulder to low on her cheek.

"No," her brown eyes met the indigo of the woman in bed. Illarya could tell she was trying to be sincere. It almost succeeded. She even wanted to believe her. “No one is going to harm you now. But my husband the King is not well. I'm sure even you've heard.”

She nodded. "Yes, your grace."

"If his daughter, Rhaenerya succeeds him– if she is crowned queen, you won't be safe, nor will I or my sons and daughter. We will all be seen as challenges to her reign. All of us. All of our heads on spikes. The children. My grandchildren. The dragons.”

"Your grace– "

“The only way we're safe and we survive - any of us - is if my son Aegon becomes King after his father"

“It's - It's treason." She managed through pressed lips. Illarya could feel the quiver of her own lip and the Queen's hand grip her chin with some force.

“It's not. It's a precedent. Kings have been succeeded by their eldest true born son since the Targaryens conquered this land or their closest male relative, as was settled by the great council. That is now it's done. It's the way of the realm. Even if it were to change, the high born lords would not agree to changing it. They will not give up their position. They will not hand over their lands, their titles, their fortunes over to their daughters over their sons. They won't allow it. All that will be different is there won't be peace. There will be war. The years of peace we've had under my husband have been spoiled. You know who suffers when the realm is at war-the same people you've seen your entire life in Flea Bottom.

“What can I do?”

“You can help support my son Aegon's claim.”

“I'm no soldier. No warrior. I cannot even ride my dragon without falling off its back.”

“You can learn. A saddle can be made for the dragon and you can learn to ride. My son and Sir Cristion Cole will show you.”

Illarya's eyes widened. A knight and a Prince showing her how to fight and how to ride a dragon. It seemed as impossible to imagine as claiming or riding one had been a moon ago. 

“Why me?” It was as much a question to the gods as to the woman beside her clutching her chin. “I'm not-”

“You're not who you were before, Illlarya. You can never be again. You have a dragon now. Learn to ride. Accept my son's claim to the iron throne and no harm will come to you. You'll have everything you need.”

“I-"

“Betray us and not only will Rheanerya and her faction come after you, but so will my sons. One of them rides Vhagar. You know what she is, do you not? Several times the size of your dragon.”

“I've heard of Vhagar.”

“Good.” The Queen said. She gave the girl's chin a final squeeze before she finally let go of her. "I'll leave you to ponder what I've said.”

Illarya didn't speak. She couldn't move as the green embroidered dress with the 7-painted star seemed to float out of the room. Her breathing became even faster, heaving as her chest rose and fell. A few silent tears fell as she sat alone. Words reverberated in her head. Dragons. King. Queen. Treason. They were all words, titles, and things she'd barely given a second thought to living in Flea Bottom. Now, her life hung upon those words. What she suggested- what the Queen of the 7 Kingdoms suggested- was treason. It was punishable by death. She didn't know much about dragons and Targaryens outside what she'd seen in plays, but she did know about Vhagar. She was fierce and large. She was the last one left of the conqueror’s dragons. It would take little effort for her to destroy Grey Ghost and a thin, inexperienced rider. There would be nothing left of either of them. Treason was death by beheading. Not agreeing to treason was death by dragon fire.

Some time later, the door opened again. Illarya wiped her cheeks and looked up. She was relieved to see and hear the Maester's chains enter the room and close the door behind him. He was holding something in his hand on a platter. It didn't look like the cup he'd given her before. She stared at it silently as the old man moved closer to her.

“You must drink this child,”  he said softly. Must. It was an order, not a request.

“What is it?”

“Tea.” A single word was his only response.

“Tea. Like what you gave me before ?”

"No. Sweetsleep cannot be given again so soon."

“Poison, then?” The question was half- hearted, but she wondered nevertheless.

“No. It's something.” There was a pause. The Master seemed to be choosing his words carefully. A look flashed across his face. Was he ashamed or was he looking for the words to explain it to someone like her, so ignorant and uneducated? "It dislodges unwanted consequences-"

“Unwanted consequences?"

"From the womb."

"Oh." The sound, a small surprised murmur, came out. This was something she knew. She understood. There were no more sounds. No other words were spoken. The Maester poured the tea and she drank. It could have all been a lie. She did not truly know what was in the cup. A fatal dose of Sweetsleep. This wasn't chalky. There was a slight sweetness, but there was a bitterness that followed. She knew little of poison. There were too many to know by name or taste. As she finished the cup and the hot liquid reached her throat. Small cramps began- steadily below her waist. She knew that it was what he said it was.

“Have one of the servants fetch me if you experience other symptoms. The tea is known to disagree with the stomach."

“Where I come from, girls vomit and shit themselves for a day or two and it's done." Illarya mused.

Another Pause. It occurred to her all too late where she was- and that Masters that healed and brewed cures for royalty in the Red Keep weren't used to that kind language. It was a wonder straight from the gods that she managed to not curse while she spoke to the Queen. She bit down on her lip and gently handed the cup back to him.

“I’ll have some bread and broth sent up. So that you can continue to regain your strength without agitating the side effects.”

“Thank you,” she managed to say through the hesitation growing in her throat.

For the next day, Illarya tried to say as little as possible. Servants came and went bringing food and changing the bandages on her hands. The scene she’d made before assured that they would not speak to her unless prompted or deemed absolutely necessary. Once, the blonde girl she’d stuck her nails into returned. If she didn't know better, she would have sworn she saw fear in the girl’s eyes- as well as a bandage on her arm. Ilarya was ashamed. She thought of apologizing, but the words would not come. Her lips remained closed. She was afraid if she opened them, more would come out. She would say what the Queen had told her, the threats and the treason she’d spoken of. Her head would be off of her shoulders before she could plead for mercy- or perhaps she would be fed to the dragons. Since she could not be sure of what she might say, she remained silent.

 As the sign began to set, someone else knocked and then opened the door to her chamber. A King's Guard, not the Dornishman who called her a witch, entered. Illarya was sitting on the feather bed dozing when the noise roused her. She had done little more on her own than put on the blue chess she managed to find in the sack of few belongings she had to her name. The servant’s dresses fluttering in and out of the room and now the clean, white cloak made the fabric of her clothing seem more dirty and threadbare. She looked at him barely in the room and her heart began to pound again.

"My lady-" He began before she could begin to imagine what he was there to do and start to remember everything she’d heard about the black cells where men died of thirst.

Her lips turned up at the greeting."I'm no lady."

“Forgive me. You-you claim a dragon.” The man continued. “Her Grace the Queen has asked me to escort you to the Dragon Pit."

Illarya blinked. “Why?”

“So that you may see that dragon is safely housed there with their grace’s."

"I can see Grey Ghost?" There was no disguising the surprise in her voice. It was the last reason she would have expected when he knocked on the door.

"Yes, my lady. I am to see you there and back here to your chamber.”

‘ To make sure I don't try to leave ,’’ she added in her mind.

Yet it made little difference to Illarya. As soon as he spoke, she moved. Until he put the idea in head, she hadn’t realised just how much she wanted to see the dragon again, if only to assure herself that it was real. Her muscles still ached and even small movements took more effort than they should. It did not stop her from lacing her boots and standing. She was sore and light headed as she began to walk behind him. More than once, she felt like she might faint or ask the King’s Guard to carry her back where he found her. She willed her legs to move as she desperately tried to remind herself what it was flying on the dragon’s back.

More men in black armor came into view as she approached the Dragon Pit behind the King’s Guard. When they approached there was a strange smell. Illarya recognized it from Dragonstone. The scent was like a stable, strong but different than horses. Yet, it could not have looked more different. Dragons were near and not only one. The Knight took a deep breath as they reached the entrance.

"I'll wait here to see you back," The King’s Guard said.

She nodded in his direction before one of the black armored men greeted her.

“Good morrow.”

“Good morrow,” She repeated.

"If you'll follow me"

Wordlessly, Illarya watched him turn. This armor clinked as he moved. She followed behind. Inside of the large oak and iron door- big enough for a dragon to enter- there were tunnels. Torches lit them along the way. They cast shadows as she walked. Buildings made of brick were a novelty since she’d left the Sept. The smells were not something she could describe. Aside from their movement, there was silence. It felt strange to her, given the great noises she knew the creatures that she knew dwelled there were capable of.

"Grey Ghost - is alright?"

“Of course. He is a strong young dragon"

“He?” She asked. “He's a male?”

“It's difficult to ascertain the sex - even for Maesters " He explained "But once they reach maturity, they are assumed male until they lay a clutch of eggs. Dreamfyre- Princess Helena’s dragon lays often. Sunfyre- Prince Aegon’s dragon-is likely around the age of Grey Ghost- would be expected to have lain by now."

“I see,” she muttered.

It occurred to her anew how little she knew about the creature she'd claimed. She did not know how to ride him. She did not know how much or how often he truly needed to eat. She did know he’d never had a rider and had likely lived his entire life on Dragonstone. That was his home. Not even the man she followed behind, in his armor with scales fashioned down the spine, could save her if he decided to kill her for bringing him here. He'd been free to do as he liked before. As beautiful and elaborate as it was, the Dragon Pit was not his home. She couldn't blame him if he decided to burn her.

The dragons were housed under a great dome. There were no torches at the end of the tunnel. It was lit by the setting sun and the moon that would continue to shine bright as night fell. The first time it came into view, Illarya stood in awe. The light danced off of the different coloured scales. There were two different shades of blue. Next to them, a mass of golden bronze. Away from the other three, with his long body curled up upon itself, were the white and grey scales of Grey Ghost. Once she saw him, It was harder for Illarya to stand still.

“Why is he kept away from the other three?” Her eyes flickered away from the dragon back to the man.

“He is still growing accustomed to living closely among his own kind.” He replied. “He and Sunfyre showed signs of being aggressive to one another. It's best to keep them separated so they don't cause harm to one another."

She cast a long glance of the dragon with the golden scales shimmering under the dome. It was the only one she could imagine having the word sun in his name. “When can I try to ride him again?”

"Flying without a saddle is too reckless and dangerous. It isn't done. We've already contacted the best blacksmith and tanners in the Kingdom to commission a saddle. Once It is fitted, you will be able to ride him.”

“I flew across the sea without a saddle,” she said in a harsh voice.

“And your body has paid the price." The sound of armor sounded in the dome. He turned around to face her. Illarya followed his blue eyes. She realized he was staring at the bandages on her hands. Her brows furrowed, but as she started to speak, so did he, “The saddle will take time– around a moon to build and fit. You should continue to visit, let him grow used to you- your presence. 

"My presence "

"Yes.” 

“Tell me… what happens to a dragon when their rider dies?”

There was  silence. The black armored man seemed to be studying her. “It depends upon the dragon,” he answered at last. “They are like people who mourn in different ways. Many return to Dragonstone. They may be claimed again, but how long they remain alone– there’s no accounting for it. There are the mounts of King Jaehaerys and good Queen  Alysanne . They have not been claimed again since their deaths many years ago. Prince Aemond was able to claim Vhagar days after Laena Velaryon died.”

“But they mourn–they’re sad–”

“I believe so.”

In that moment, she needed no further urging. Illarya walked past him and into the dome. As she moved, the golden dragon- Sunfyre-raised his head. He watched her with mild interest, but the young woman did her best to ignore the beast's attention. A low, deep rumble of a growl sounded. Still, she tried to walk unimpeded. Sunfarve's sounds seemed to rouse Grey Ghost. His head shot upwards and he began making his own hissing noise. The two blue dragons remained curled up next to each other. No noise came from all of them. This was the aggression the man had spoken of. She continued walking and watching, but she did not understand it.

“Ghost” Illarya called in a loud voice.

The grey dragon's attention instantly shifted. His head and neck snapped in her direction. his light blue eyes fixed on her. The low, hiss ceased. He raised his head and huffed gently– more sounds and movements that she did not understand.

“Good morrow, Ghost,” She greeted him in response to the sounds. “It’s alright, boy.”

The young woman moved forward until she was close enough to see each white scale. She reached out a hand and the beast responded by moving his snout to touch her hand. She forgot everything else that had occurred in the past day. She forgot the Queen's visit and all the talk of war and bastards and treason. It  no longer mattered. She mattered. Her life mattered. Grey Ghost's life mattered. Her life. Her dragon’s life. Those were the only things real and of any consequence. There was nothing else. She felt herself sink to the floor and the straw at her feet. Grey Ghost's head followed her body's descent. She would return to the Red Keep covered in filth and the strange smell of dragon, and filth on her dress, but  she thought little of it.

“We're both stuck here, Ghost,” Illarya said quietly. The dragon's head tilted and his eyes looked into hers. She knew he couldn’t understand, but it felt to her as though he were listening. There was no one else one could speak to. Perhaps she was going mad. Perhaps she had been since that night. Still, she continued. "You in here, me in the Red Keep. We don't belong here, neither of us. If we try to leave, they'll kill us. There are knights-proper trained ones with swords and a dragon much bigger than you. I don't want anything to happen to you. But you brought us back here– or did I? I don't understand.”

Grey Ghost huffed. A breath from his nostrils blew her dark hair back from her face. She shook her head, the shadow of a smile on her face. “You foolish creature. You could have burned me there in the sand where I stood and saved yourself from all of this.”

Chapter Text

Days after he and Sir Criston Cole looked up at the sky and saw Grey Ghost and his bastard rider in the sky, Aemond Targaryen's mind was as far from thinking of it as King’s Landing was from Lys. He sat in his private chambers in the early evening. His day had been spent in the tiltyard and then in the air atop Vhagar. As the sun began to set, he'd washed and found himself sitting with a copy of a History of Westeros written by the Grand Maester who served under the old King. The room was warm. The occasional crack from the wood on the fire was the only sound. It was a familiar silence to him-one that was almost comforting. Undisturbed, he began reading again the tales of the Conquests of Aegon and the black dread, Rhaenys and Meraxes, and Visenya and Vhagar. .. which was now his.

His reading was interrupted by a gentle knock. The Prince cast an annoyed look at the door as a servant girl slowly, hesitantly opened It.

“The Hand of the King, my Prince." The girl announced in a low, mousy voice. The look on his face softened ever so slightly, he’d rather not have been disturbed at all, but at least wasn't Aegon. His violet eye watched as the girl left and his grandfather stepped into his chambers.

“I have read reports of fever in the Red Keep…” The older man began cooly. “You have not been unwell?”

“No.” The Prince answered in a short tone.

“I saw you and Vhogar fly over the Red Keep this afternoon. Her health is holding?"

"She's fine." Aemond replied gruffly."You didn't climb the stairs to inquire about my health- or Vhagar’s. "

"No," Otto admitted. Feigning interest had long ceased to appease this middle grandson. He would have to speak more bluntly with him. "The girl you and Cole found riding Grey Chest."

“What of her ?" The Prince asked dismissively.

"She must be trained."

The hand braced himself for a storm of ire - more distaste than Alicent had shown. Yet, none came. The bay remained still. His expression gave nothing away.

"What training is required for peasants to meet the axe?"

"You know well what I mean. She must be taught to ride and perhaps some defense with the sword so she may not be carved to pieces immediately when a battle breaks out."

" You would see your grandchildren's birthright defiled by putting another bastard on dragonback?"

“I would see my eldest grandson sit on the Iron Throne and remain there until I am dead and cold in my grave. I would see my other grandsons serve their house.”

"I serve my house " Aemonds tone was filled with incredulous anger. "I train each day with the sword. I claimed Vhagar. I have been serving since I was 10 years old while Aegon drinks and whores. Have you heard him speak High Valyrian?"

"I'm well aware of Aegon's shortcomings.” He granted steadily. "As I'm aware of yours.”

“Mine ?"

"You are not the only one in the realm-or in this room who has been cuffed about by an elder brother. No matter his actions or how unworthy we may think them to be, it is the eldest who inherits. We second born sons must make our own destinies. I did and now my daughter Is a Queen and my grandson is heir to the Iron Throne, and he has a son to succeed him. My blood will rule for generations. I surpassed my brother- and I had not half the advantage as you have. You not only have your youth and learning, you have the largest dragon yet living. You can continue to rise, but in order to do that you must set aside the slights of your childhood and put your mind to the future. You know as well as I that we are all lost unless Aegon Is your father's heir-"

“You suggest we defend ourselves from Rhaenyra’s bastards by taking in one of our own?“

"We cannot always choose our allies." Otto Countered.

"A bastard girl from Flea Bottom is no ally" The Prince's frustration was mounting. His calm bearing was steadily failing the longer he listened.

"Should a war between dragons break out, we will need all of the assistance the gods see fit to grant us. Aegon will be King and may not wish himself unnecessarily. Heleana’s dragon is our second largest, but she is so fragile and has the children. Daeron and his dragon are young…."

“I have Vhagar " Aemond said curtly. His grandfather quietly huffed. He was now trying not to let his anger get the better of him. If he allowed the conversation to devolve into raised voices, he would never agree to train the girl.

“Tell me, of all of  Rhaenyra’'s faction, who do you see as the one who poses the most danger to us?"

"My uncle Daemon" he answered as if he were answering the most simple of questions asked to a child.

“You expect to defeat a seasoned warrior twice your age and Caraxes on your own?” Aemond’s eye met his. His lips curled upward.” After all the histories you've read you must understand there are times in battle when soldiers must be sacrificed to ensure victory. Training the girl will give us opportunities and advantages we would not have otherwise."

The Prince did not move. He sat silently with the same look on his face. A sacrifice. He did not want this. He wanted nothing to do with seeing a dark- haired bastard girl riding a dragon. All of the years he'd spent without one of his own. All of the ridicule he'd endured both from Aegon and Sir Harwin Strong's bastards. The time that they had brought a pig to the dragon pit. For some peasant girl from Flea Bottom, to be able to do as he and without the trials and without the countless hours with the Septa learning High Valyrian in preparation for the day. It was all an insult to his blood and to his family. Moreover, it was an insult to him personally. In the silence, his rancor only grew. It made little difference to him whether or not his grandfather could feel it or not. He would face any wrath -even Daemon's - before he consented to this farce.

"I have ordered that the girl will dine with us this evening." The tone of Otto's voice left no room for argument.

"I'll take my supper here then"

"You will not.” He did not raise his voice but there was an unmistakable authority in his tone." You will walk down the stairs to supper as you do every evening. You will greet the girl as you've been taught and once you sit down, if you have nothing useful to say, you will be silent. You will not tease or curse at her. You will not call her bastard to her face. You will do as I say because your life may depend on it–and not only your life but your brother's life, your sister’s life, the lives of your niece and nephews as well as your mother's and mine. The fate of our entire house may come down to tonight and this bastard girl."

As the sun continued to set, Illarya was being sewn into a dress. She stood straight and as still as she could. The fabric was soft and unfamiliar. Too soft. She'd never work silk. She was not the first to wear this one. A pair of soft, deft hands were taking the green garment in. It would still not fit perfectly, but it would not be as large on her as it was when she put it on.

"Whose gown is this?" She asked quietly, trying not to move unnecessarily as the needle moved in and out of the fabric.

"Her grace Princess Heleana's" Dyana answered. "You're smaller than she is."

"If I had grown up here in the Red Keep I would not be so thin.” Illarya said. " Will she be angry that I'm wearing her old dress?”

"No" There was a hint of amusement in the blonde girl's voice. "She has more and they don't wear their clothing until it's threadbare."

The young woman bit her lip as the sewing continued. It seemed so wasteful to her. "What are they all like?"

"I dress the Princess and the children. She is kind. The babes- they're sweet. Prince Aegon is hardly in their company at all. Some say he leaves the Red Keep at night and frequents the Street of Silk. Forgive me. We do not speak of it—“

“And the other Prince?" Illarya could sense Dyana’s hesitation. She did not press her further about the heir and what the servants said he did. She was trapped there. It made no difference if the rumors were true. Even if they were, she was more interested in the Prince that was supposed to teach her how to fight and ride a dragon - the one who rode Vhagar.

"Prince Aemond - he keeps to himself" She muttered, still moving the needle back and forth into the silk fabric. " He's particular even about the servants who go in and out of his chambers. The ladies at court don't pay him much attention because of the eye.”

"He's still a Prince isn't he?" There was confusion and amusement in her voice. She had spent a lifetime in Flea Bottom where it was rare to pass a day without seeing someone like him: men and women missing fingers, arms, legs. There was Willem with burns across the side of his face. " How did he lose the eye?"

"I wasn't here when it happened. The others say it happened the same night he claimed a dragon.”

"Vhagar might have done that?"

"I don't know. No one here speaks of it and I know little of dragons."

"As do I-"

Then there was silence. There was nothing for Illarya to do save for feel the fabric grow tighter on her skin and try not to move more than necessary. Everything in the Red Keep seemed fragile and soft, breathable and easily destroyed. Like the silk of the gown or the feather bed, everything was too soft. With the exception of the rest she’d gotten when the Maester had given her Sweetsleep days before, sleep had not come easy. An entire life of sleeping on the ground, the wooden floor, or at best a bed filled with straw made her used to rough touches against her shin. The silk was soft and slick. It felt too much like being touched by hands and as if it would slide off of her body and leave her naked. Like everything else since she woke up in King's Landing it felt wrong.

“There. Done.” Dyana's voice broke through the silence. "Move to the glass and see."

The dark haired woman took several steps toward the corner of the room where there was a looking glass on the wall. Illarya looked into it. She did not recognize herself. The bruises on her body left from the attack and her trip to Dragonstone were slowly fading to blue and yellow. Her face was still slightly sunken from nearly starving while she wanted to claim Grey Ghost. The dress was beautiful. It was green with beadwork around the neck and hem - It was finer by far than anything She'd ever dared to imagine wearing. Fine Sleeves that were just too long. The hem was too short. It was still slightly loose around her waist, Her long, dark hair was braided and pinned to her head. Another woman who'd brought hot water for her bath had done that. To the people she knew in Flea Bottom, she would have passed for a high born lady. Yet, she knew to those in The Red Keep she knew she'd appear to be nothing more than a low born girl play- acting in an ill-fitting dress. She continued to look, but not to recognize her own body reflected back at her.

"I'm sorry-again-about your arm," she said to Dyaha, who was standing next to her looking at the glass as well.

"It's alright." The blonde haired girl Said softly. "You were frightened."

“That's no excuse. I'm- I'm frightened now." She turned toward the young girl, a frown upon her face.

"Why?” Illarya hesitated. She turned around to face the girl. "I don't want to do it. I don't want to go down there with them-"

“They won't hurt you. You have a dragon. You're kin to them, aren't you?"

The dark haired woman shook her head. "I don't Know - and Ghost is locked in the dragon pit. He can't help me. No one can if they - "

"They won't poison you over supper." Dyana’s voice seemed sure. It almost made the other woman feel ashamed.

“But I don't know how to - what to do in front of them. "

"Just watch first. Try to do as they do. Mind what you say."

"It's that last one I'm afraid of," she muttered.

“Then just speak when you're spoken to. Answer when they ask you something."

Illarya nodded. "Thank you." She said softly.

"It's nothing." The blonde girl replied. She took one final look at the other woman's reflection inspecting her work. After a moment, she seemed satisfied. 

"You should go. They'll all be waiting."

The green silk rippled as she turned around away from the glass. The image was burned into her mind. She had not intended to, but as she faced Dyana, she gently put her arm around the blonde girl and embraced her. It did not last long- only a few pounding beats of her anxious, pounding heart. Nevertheless, she hoped that the gesture conveyed her gratitude for her efforts and her regret at having hurt her in the confusion of waking up in a strange place. In the darkest part of her mind, which sounded like an echo in spite of her best efforts, she wondered if she would see her again. Once she left the chamber, anything was possible. To her, the possibilities of the evening ending with her returning to the room for another fitful night of sleep on the feather bed or ending with her head on a spike on the walls that guarded the Red Keep seemed equally likely. She did not say anything else as she took her first steps toward the chamber door. She had already said too much-talked too much of her fear of the Queen and the rest of the royal family. Dyana was right; She did not want to go but since there was no refusing them - it would be better to speak as little as she could.

Five people were already seated when Illarya entered where she was to dine. The room itself was larger than the whole of the tavern in Flea Bottom she had spent evenings serving ale. Despite serving six people with herself included, the table still seemed large. There was not only room for people. plates, and cups. It was for banquets. There would be enough food for everyone she'd ever known. A feast. All for Six. She could feel the eyes of everyone already seated watching her as she silently looked around in a haze of wonder and confusion. She could only imagine what they must have been thinking as they gazed at her while she stared back - that she was not like them. She did not look like them. She would not sound like them. She was like an actor- playing at belonging at the table.

When she pulled out a chair, the sound of its creaking filled the room. Illarya flinched at the sudden sound before sitting down. From her place at the table, she could see them all even more clearly than before. At the head of the table, there was the Hand of the King. She had never seen him, but the color of his beard and the proud expression matched the Queen's. She was seated by her father. To the other side of the red curls was the only other woman at the table. She must have heard Princess Heleana. A blush almost came across her face as she remembered it was her dress she was wearing. Did She notice or even remember? On the other side of the table were the two Princes. She only knew them a part because of the eye patch. All of them- all nine eyes were looking at her.

Each of them sitting at the table looked at her with different expressions on their faces. There were varying countenances. Some were curious. Others were aloof. Illarya could feel the single violet eye of Prince Aemond on her most of all. In the past, people had disliked her. Men had looked at her with interest and desire. The man with the muddy boots, on the night he and the others attacked her had a look like he was a cat that had caught a mouse. Never had she felt such a look of contempt- of utter hatred- as what came in her direction from that single eye. She tried to ignore it, but even the memory of the look sent a chill down her spine. The fires that were carefully tended to by the servants were suddenly not enough to warm her bones. Their suspicion. Their indifference. I'm that moment, nothing was stronger than his hate.

Except beauty. Just under the chill of the Prince’s look, shame again began to rise in her cheeks-line the smoking vents on Dragonstone. The Queen was said to be beautiful. When Illarya  saw her the first time, she knew the ward was inadequate. Looking at her Targaryen children, there were no words. The Princess. the Princes. All three of them. Their silver hair. Their eyes were all varying shades of purple. Their faces– all angular like the gods had taken care carving them. It was a stark reminder of her dark hair, the yellowing bruises on her arms barely covered by the gown that was made for someone else. Every detail she noticed about them was a reminder that she did not belong there at the table. She pressed her lips together and looked down at her hands on her lap. Dyana's words echoed in her head among the sound of her own voice screaming. She would not speak first.

More noise filled the room again. Illarya looked up. A servant girl-one she had not seen before - entered the room. The room was silent, but gentle noises of movement sounded. Brown hair and a plain dress. The others seated at the table barely acknowledged it. She held a pitcher in her hand. Slowly and silently, she made her way around the table. A goblet of wine was soon next to her. It was something else to stare at beside the faces looking at her. She did not reach for it.

"So you're the one who claimed Grey Ghost?”

Illarya was startled when one of the silver haired men at last spoke to her. Prince Aegon fixed her in his purple eyes as he waited for a response.

"Yes, your grace," She replied. His face turned as she began to speak. Only the Queen had heard her speak. A new flush ran across her face. Her accent.

“And you're from Flea Bottom?"

"Yes."

“Where did you learn to speak High Valyrian ?"

"I don't speak it, my Prince." A frown flashed across his face.

“Then how do you expect to command your dragon?”

The flush on the young woman's face darkened. "I would gladly put my efforts into learning if anyone were kind enough to teach me."

There was a deep, gluttal chuckle. "Learn? Can you even read? "

The Hand of the King shot his eldest grandson with what she could only describe as a warning. Shame was quickly moving from the heat in her cheeks to settle into the pit of her Stomach.

"A little." She admitted quietly. "I was raised in the Sept. They wanted us to be able to read passages of the Seven- Pointed Star."

"So what do you know about dragons?"

Illarya looked back down at her hands, still cupped on her lap. "Not much, I'm afraid. "

"How did you manage to claim one?"

"She dreamed it."

The dark haired girl’s mouth was open, poised to speak when Princess Heleana answered. She turned and her indigo eyes rose to look at her. She was staring again. It was not only because of her beauty this time. The distant quality of her voice as if she were speaking from across the Narrow Sea. The words. They made Illarya wonder. What could the possibly know? She couldn't. How would she? The thought frightened her more than the Prince's questions. More than that, if unnerved her. The Princess never met her indigo gaze. There was nothing on her face that seemed to show how dangerously close she'd come to telling them. She may as well have been stating the weather outside was fair.

“How-“

As Illarya began to try and speak again, another noise interrupted her. Footsteps. Doors opening. A procession of servants entered. Each of them were carrying silver platters. Meat. Pastry. Vegetables. More food than She saw in a year, even at the tavern. Their movements as they entered the room and painstakingly placed the food on the table was as if she was watching a dance. She remained perfectly still, but could not take her eyes off of the plates. The smells hit her nose as if she had been struck. It was a far cry from the scents of rotting fish, piss and ale in Flea Bottom. She no longer thought of the other seated at the table. She did not want to see how the highborns reacted to her looking at the sheer amount of food before them.

The dark haired woman continued silently watching. More servants came and went. Finally, a woman with muddy brown hair peppered with grey came forward. She began filling the goblets before them. Once he was served. Prince Aegon wasted no time pressing the cup to his lips.

"Have you ever tasted Arbor Red?" He asked. Ilarya shook her head.

"No, your grace."

“Then try It.”

For a moment, she continued staring at the burgundy liquid inside of the goblet. Illarya suddenly remembered the Sweetsleep and the tea. Dyana had tried to assure her but she still could not help but be weary. She could once again feel every other eyes in the room fixed upon her. They had all been served from the pewter pitcher. It could not be poisoned. She attempted to reason with herself. The eldest Prince had already begun to drink. She tentatively picked up the goblet next to her on the table. Movement made her even more conscious of all of the eyes on her. The cold metal touched her lips. She repeated once again that it was not poisoned. The liquid at last passed her throat. In the past, she tasted ale. She had never liked the taste. It was cheap. There were times that she drank it out of necessity, but never enjoyed it. The Arbor Red was surprisingly sweet in her mouth and unlike anything she'd ever tasted. Grapes but not grapes. This she liked. The cup was drained before she could remember to sip slowly and try to act as though she'd tasted wine before.

"You like it?" The oldest Prince asked. Illarya didn't know why he bothered. Even she could guess that the child-like delight-like a babe finding their feet for the first time- was written across her face.

"Yes," She answered. The humiliation was present in her tone.

One of the Servants quickly came up Behind her and refilled the goblet. She tilted her head quickly and met the woman's eyes.

“Thank you," Illarya said. Another dark chuckle filled the room.

"You don't have to do that."

"I'm sorry, your grace," She muttered, turning back and staring at her plate. "Habit. I suppose."

No one spoke. The silence once again filled the room. It was difficult for her to reason if she found the quiet or the eldest Prince's questions more unnerving. She was sure that was grateful that  the others' attention turned to the banquet of food before them. Illarya had never tried most of It. The Smells come in waves. Fish. Pigeon. Stew with meat in it, and not like the bowls of brown. Each of them assaulted her senses. She wanted to try It all. There was too much on the table for her to comprehend. She settled on trying the pigeon pie first. It was something she only threw from word of mouth in the taverns. Highborn people ate it on special occasions. Royalty, she suspected, could eat it whenever they pleased.

As soon as she tasted it, Illarya felt a shift. She was suddenly reminded of all of the nights she'd spent in the slums starving. She remembered the night on Dragonstone that she discovered her food and most of the contents of her waterskin were gone. She remembered as a child and had misbehaved only for the Septon to send her to bed without supper. For all of those times, she ate. As hard as she tried to slow herself, and keep pace with the others at the table, she could not. Then, she remembered all of the men and women she knew that were still in the mud. How many of them were starving while she sat at a table with enough to feed them all? The guilt began to overwhelm her. She stopped. What she'd eaten settled like a rock inside her.

 "One of our Kingsguard Ser Criston Cole believes you're a witch."

"Aegon" Otto Hightower scolded his grandson.

“Are you?" The prince persisted.

Illarya's eyes widened. She looked helplessly around the table. The sudden question took her by surprise. She couldn't tell if she had flinched.

"I'm no witch, my Prince" The dark haired woman at last changed to choke out the words

 "A witch would say the same thing. Are you sure?"

“I'm no witch." She insisted. "I don't believe in magic."

Prince Aegon's purple eyes widened. Illarya hadn't expected to shock him. It was the truth. After what she’d seen, there were days when she wasn't sure if she even believed in the gods.

"You've seen a dragon. You've claimed one and you don't believe in magic?"

"Dragons aren't magic." She found herself muttering before she could think better of it. "They're animals- like dogs or cats. Living creatures. Perhaps the bond is just what happens when you feed and care for any animal."

More silence. It was not like before. The indifference turned to rage. First, from the eyes of the Prince that had spoken to her .Then, from the single violet eye of his younger brother. The enmity shot down her back and chilled the air.

"You know nothing of magic or of dragons, witch. And what you say is treason"

"Be silent," the Hand of the King growled, louder than before.

"What?"Aegon returned in a heated tone "She comes from nowhere with one of our dragons. She stays here, eating our food. She drinks our wine. And now she mocks us and our heritage as dragon riders–as Targaryens. She should not be here. It's an insult. It- "

The shriek of a chair moving against the floor sounded against the starting. He continued. Illarya did not continue to listen. She moved away from the table. Out of The room. Up the stairs. Through the door to the chamber she'd been in. Faster and faster. She could not remember the last time she’d moved so quickly. She said nothing as she moved across the Red Keep. The words reverberated in her ears. 'She shouldn't be here!" She knew that. Of course she knew. She hadn't been given a choice. The Queen's visit. The talk of treason. All she wanted was her life and Grey Ghost’s life. She did not want to be there any more than Prince Aegon wanted her at their table.

Illarya rushed back into the room she’d woken up in days ago. The door remained wide open. The dark haired woman was too distracted to notice. She went straight into the room. Everything all at once. The dinner. The rich food she was not accustomed to. The wine she drank too fast. The acrimony  from Prince Aemond's single violet eye The sharp words from his elder brother. It was too much for her to stomach. She reached for the piss pot by the bed, On her knees  knelt on the floor, she began vomiting. The wine and the pigeon pie slid back up her throat,.Gagging. then, heaving, Followed at least by a quiet sob.

“The ways of the house of the dragon are mysterious." A voice came from behind her. Illarya's body jolted with a start. She hadn't heard anyone approach. Some of the hair closest to her face had escaped from the braids pinned to the back of her head . Her eyes shot down to the front of gown, which was now soiled. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, groaning slightly before turning her head. "Especially for those of us who were not born among them."

Her indigo eyes peered up ward as she turned. At her side was a strange man. His hair was dark, though lighter than hers and his eyes were a piercing blue. The longer she looked at him, the more uneasy she began to feel. He stood silently with one hand gripping a cane. She noticed that something about his stance was not quite right. The longer one crouched over her own vomit, the more unease she felt.

"Who are you ?" The dark headed woman at last composed herself enough to ask.

"Forgive me, " he responded softly. “Larys Strong, my lady."

"I'm no lady" She insisted as she rubbed her chin again.

“Apologies. That is the usual title for one that lives in the Red Keep.”

"Not me." She tilted her head, taking in more of the man in front of her.

"It must be difficult …” He mused. “Have you heard of a plant called ghost grass?" \

Illarya shook her head. Her brows raised. "No"

"It's a plant that grows east of Essos. Pale as milk grass. It is said that once it begins to grow- it grows taller than men- it takes over all of the other grass where it’s found."

Hearing him speak in riddles made her head begin to pound. The young woman felt more bile rise from her stomach. She could no longer hold her tongue as she had at the table.

"What do you want ?"

Illarya watched as the man's face changed. His lips upturned. They almost curled. Another gesture from a stranger that she did not understand. Her head was still feeling as he opened his mouth to speak again.

Chapter Text

Once the girl stormed off and supper was over, Aemond walked Heleana. They ascended the stairs to Meagor's Holdfast. Aegon remained behind. The younger Prince had no doubt that Otto had kept him behind to scold him soundly for making the dark haired bastard girl run from the hall. At least he would not be the only one berated on her behalf. It would fall on deaf ears, as every lecture on family, duty, and honour had on him since they were children. He followed behind his sister.

“Is Maelor well ?” He avoided asking about the girl. It had been days since he'd seen his niece and nephews. The youngest had a touch of fever the last he had heard. Once one person in the castle was ill, it spread to everyone else like dragon fire– royal and servants alike. According to the servants, which were quick to chatter when Maesters were sent for, he wasn't in any danger.

“He is restless. He wants to walk as his brother and sister do.” Her voice seemed to drift as she spoke as if she were moving further and further away. “He will not outlive me.”

Aemond froze on the step. His violet eye peered into her back. He wondered if he'd been misinformed - if his youngest nephew was in more serious condition than he’d been led to believe- or if this was something else? Was it something else she'd seen in a vision of the distant future? Was it constant her worry as a mother? He decided not to ask. Instead, he reached gently for her arm. Heleana pulled away before he could barely grip the fabric on the sleeve of her dress.

“Don't say such things.” He insisted while his voice remained low. “He's nearly a year old. His infant years will be half behind him. He'll only get stronger.”

“He will not cross the Mander…”

The Prince began climbing the stairs again. He didn't understand. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know. ' He'll have to close an eye .' years passed and he still remembered those words before he'd claimed Vhagar ... before he lost his eye .... before he knew to believe everything she said. His little nephew–barely older than a babe. He didn't want to imagine It. Another step. He could only distract himself by asking what had been avoiding.

“Heleana, the girl ....”

“Illarya-”

Aemond's lips pressed together. He didn't want to hear her name.”The bastard girl. When you said she dreamed It, what did you mean?”

“She saw it. Scales of green. Scales of grey -”

"You're saying the girl is a dreamer- like Daenys who saw the doom of old Valryia?”

He turned around and looked over his shoulder. Heleana fixed him in her gaze. They were standing on the upper steps, Close together. Heleana’s eyes, however, seemed to be looking far off, staring at something that he could not see. It was the same look she got when– Then, her voice came again.

“You'll be with her when the rats come. It'll save you …”

More words and visions that made no sense to him. The more he listened and tried to heed her, the more she seemed to speak in riddles. There were rats in the Red Keep. Everyone knew it. Even he saw them on occasion. That was why there were rat catchers in the castle. He had a feeling that those were not the rats she meant. Rats were coming…. Someone was going to come for them. Whether it was his bitch sister or Daemon or someone in the name, perhaps not even Heleana knew. There was no way for them to be sure. He would be with the bastard girl. She would save his life. The mere thought of it was enough to turn his stomach. A familiar, haughty tinge of anger he felt when his grandfather visited his chambers early bolted through his body.

“I don't need to be protected by some bastard girl that perverts our birthright. I—”

As they reached the top of the stairs, the sound of small footsteps came toward them. Jaehaera came toward them. She pitter pattered straight into her mother's waiting arms. Heleana raised her to her hip. The little girl began cooling and speaking quickly - small words they could barely understand in a high-pitched voice. Jachaerys came galloping up behind his sister. He was always a step or two behind from occasionally tripping. The little boy came directly to his uncle and wrapped himself around his leg. Aemond's eye cost down to meet him. The young boy looked up at him and smiled slyly.

"Ride." He pulled the hem of his uncle's pants, pleading gently. His bouncing caused his silver hair to begin to come down over his eyes. The colour of them was just like Aegon’s.

"Not tonight, Jaehaerys," Aemond said softly.

He watched as his nephew's face dropped down, feigning sadness. The little boy did not let go of his leg. Though he was so young, he was determined. Aegon, when he was around his children, favored his heir. His niece has learned quickly to turn to her mother or grandmother for attention. Over time, the boy grew accustomed to it. He was nearly constantly indulged. Aemond had seen it for himself. His brother would order servants as they cleaned the floors or delivered messages to stop in the middle of their duties and ride Jaeharrys on their backs around their chambers. Some of them had been scolded or even threatened with flogging for wanting to stop or for going about their duties.

"Ride," his small voice repeated.

"Don't pout." Aemond said. His tone grew more stern.

His nephew looked back up at him. This time, he grinned. His smile looked nothing like Aegon’s, who always sneered as he mocked him as well as anyone else who crossed his path. It was all Heleana. Although she rarely smiled as they grew older, he remembered as children how she was one of the only people whose looks he could endure after he lost his eye. While Aegon pushed and scratched him as they played, she had never joined in on the tormenting. Hers was the only gaze that never pitied him. It was the same that he saw in his sister– the same look that made it almost impossible to refuse his little nephew.

With a barely audible sigh, Aemond knelt down next to the boy. His smile grew across his small, thin lips. He knew that he had succeeded in getting what he wanted. Jaehaera made a gleeful sound from her mother's arms beside him.

"Shall we go bid your grandmother good night?”

"Ride" Jaehaerys said again happily.

The Prince gingerly took his nephew's hand and helped him as he stepped up on his back. He made sure he safely straddled his shoulders before he finally stood upright again. Jaehaerys’ legs around his neck tugged at his long, silver hair. It stung. He ignored it even when his nephew took more strands of his hair in his little hands like horse’s reins. Since he'd been old enough to speak his first words, he loved being up on the backs of Aegon and everyone else he could get to comply– servants and even dragons. He'd taken him up to the top of the trees on Vhagar once while his mother had looked on worriedly. Jaehaerys had giggled as the wind blew through his hair despite his mount’s low grumble. His smile-copied from Heleana's- was the reason he indulged him even when he knew he should not. With his sister holding his niece in her arms, he began walking to Alicent's chambers.

The next morning, Illarya woke early. Her head was still aching- both from the wine and all the voices in her head from the night before. Sleep eluded her- just as it had every other night since the evening it happened. That previous night in particular- her nightmares continued to evolve. ‘Big mistake, girl,’ in the voice of the man with muddy boots was quickly followed by, ‘She should not be here’ in Prince Aegon’s voice. There were times she heard the heir’s tone. Others, she could feel the ghost of the boots kicking the side of her stomach and her ribs. When she woke, she could still taste bile in her mouth. Part of her expected to find new bruises on her body. She lifted her nightgown and saw that they were still yellow and fading. Yet, she had the feeling that it would not stay that way for long. Today was the day she'd been ordered to join Prince Aemond and Sir Criston training with the sword. She would rather do anything else, except forfeit her own life which seemed to her to be the choices presented. She had no choice if she and her dragon wanted to live.

More clothes had been laid out for her. Not a dress-like the fine old one of Princess Heleana’s that she'd soiled the night before. It was a tunic and a pair of britches, both a slightly faded black. She eyed them curiously. They were more practical for fighting, she supposed. She could not help but see it as one more thing that would give servants and the high born ladies that they attended to more fodder to add to the whispers. First, a low born girl shows up with a dragon and then starts spending days in men’s clothing. For a moment, she wondered what it would be like not wearing a dress. Then, she dressed herself quickly. It did not take long at all for her to discover that she didn't mind them. The longer she stood with the britches on, the less awkward and more natural they felt. They could talk and whisper in corridors as they liked. She would somehow learn to ignore it as she’d done all her life in the taverns of Flea Bottom.

Illarya laced her boots over top of the britches and left her chamber. She made her way down the stairs and out of the doors and to the tiltyard. At that moment, she was grateful that it was so early. There was not yet a vast amount of servants moving about tending horses and mucking the stables. Outside the Red Keep was eerily quiet as she walked. Those that were walking she did not so much as pause. They kept their eyes downcast and paid her no mind. She felt more like a ghost haunting the grounds rather than a living, breathing woman who had been living and sleeping there for days

The sky was still grey as she looked up at the sky, feeling the bracing morning mist. It was cold, even for a summer morning. The weather would have been perfect. At the right height, with the right clothes and perhaps a hood over her head, she and Ghost would have been invisible. She could barely look at the horizon without wanting to fly again. The keepers of the Dragon Pit still refused to let her on the dragon's back again. Frustratingly little progress had been made on forging a saddle. The move she urged, the more they watched her even when she sat in the straw absurdly talking to the creature as If he were a person or could understand what she said. He twitched his wings and grumbled back as if the sky beckoned to him too.

When she arrived, Illarya expected to be early. She had dressed and moved quickly. She hadn't even eaten. Yet, when the tiltyard came into view, the younger Prince and King's Guard were standing on the dirt. As she approached, she could see the looks on their faces. She was an intruder– trespassing on territory and time that belonged to them alone and not her. It was clear she was not welcome and she hadn't been asked to do this at their behest. The enmity that had been burning in the Prince's eye the night before seemed even brighter in the morning sun. He stood tall - there was not a slouch or bend in his posture. The word unmovable came to mind. His Violet eye followed her as she approached them. She started to feel sick again.If there had been anything in her stomach, it would have come back up.  The sudden urge to run in the opposite direction came on her once again. It was strong. If she thought there was anywhere to go or –or that she could free Ghost before anyone could stop her– she would have run. If there were any way she could see that it would not make things worse….

“Good morrow your grace, Sir Criston.” She at last managed to greet them as she stopped in on the dirt and grass before them.

The two men looked at one another. They exchanged a glance that was part of a language that she did not understand. She did not move. While the Prince hated her, the Knight looked at her as if she were dangerous–like a serpent to be beheaded without a thought if found in the wrong place. The dark haired woman stood awkwardly, waiting to be told what to do. One of the horses in the stables began whinnying. The silence was so she could have sworn she could hear it breathing. She would have done anything to break the deafening silence–anything except speak and risk more mocking. 

“Don't just stand there.” The silver-haired Prince said at last. “Pick up a sword.”

Illarya took a few conscious steps toward the men and did what the Prince asked. She took a sword in her hand and glanced at it as the blade caught the few sparse rays of light from the morning sun. It was a world away from the small blade she had carried in her boot in Flea Bottom. Until that night, she carried it to make herself feel better, safer. She knew from experience it could cut. She had never had the chance to see if it could truly kill. If stuck in the right place, it might have been possible. There was no question if the sword she held now could. It was heavier than she imagined it would be. She ran a finger down the side. It sliced the flesh of her finger easily. Not dull in the slightest, not even for training. One attack, one calculated move and she would lose a limb or die there in the tiltyard.

“That isn't how you hold it.” The Prince insisted, like he was scolding a child. “Which hand do you use to write ... you can write, can't you?”

“Yes, your grace.” Despite her efforts, there was some venom still in her voice. “The right one.”

“Your hand goes right below the pommel - the top of the grip. The left hand goes below it. You use certain fingers on that hand to grip. The last three fingers should have the tightest hold, but not too tight. The tighter your grip, the easier it is to disarm. You need both hands to balance and keep a grip when you're attacked.”

Illarya took a deep breath. She rearranged her hands and fingers the way he instructed. It still did not feel right. The urge to grip the handle until her knuckles turned white was growing harder to ignore. If it was going to be the only thing standing between her and trained knights determined to kill her, then she did want to risk it falling out of her hand. They would need to pry it out of the hands of her dead body. Nevertheless, she tried to do as she was told.

“Like this?” She asked. The Prince took a couple of steps in her direction until he was directly behind her.

“It's better.”  He said dismissively.

“A sword like this has three parts,” the King's Guard explained. “The point, the edge, and the shoulder between the edge and the cross guard. When you attack, you want the point to come in contact with your opponent.”

The dark headed woman listened as he spoke. The longer she held the blade in her hand, the heavier it was. How soldiers held them in battle for hours or days, she did not know. The urge to grip - tighter was growing ever stronger, but she remembered what Prince Aemond had said about keeping a light touch on the handle. She focused her indigo eyes on the tip of the blade. She couldn't help but imagine it covered in blood- glistening red on top of the silver. Could she do it? Bring the blade down on someone even if they were trying to kill her?

“When you parry-block- the tip of your opponent's blade should touch the largest part of the sword as near the shoulder as possible. Keep the sword above your head and your wrist up. It puts you in the best position to counter attack and doesn't do as much damage to your blade. Counterattack by bringing straight down. Watch.”

The King's Guard picked up another sword from behind them. Illarya watched the movements. In his hands, it looked right. She may not have been certain if she could use a sword, but there was no doubt he could. Blood on his sword was much easier to imagine. Prince Aemond approached him. When he raised his arm, with a blade drawn it looked as though it had always been there. From hilt to tip, it was just as much a part of his arm as the flesh. A loud clang sounded. Their swords touched.

Illarya took a step back. Her boots dug into the earth below. She watched. Sir Criston brought down his sword right down his center as he instructed her. The Prince held his weapon up, steadily. When they collided, he didn't falter. There wasn't even as much as a flinch. They collided. Again. And again. At first, they were slow, deliberately exaggerating the movements. Prince Aemond blocked the blow. He lunged his body forward in attack, but it did not land on the Knight. His counter attack was equally futile, not landing on his target. As the seconds passed, their movements quickened. She was almost sure by that time, both men had forgotten she was there.

Illarya had seen fights-the ones that broke out in Flea Bottom. Fist fights. Conflicts with blades, cheap steel from black smiths who were ill trained or apprentices: When the tip of a blade would go into a man's body and break off. Inelegant, wild swings. No one cared how they held a sword or the proper way to parry there. Watching the two men in the tiltyard was more like watching a dance. The footwork. The rhythmic sound of clashing swords. They responded to each other's movements with a speed that made it almost invisible. A dance that would take years to learn. Illarya felt the sword in her hand. It would take a lifetime to learn to do what they were doing- even as slow as the men began.

There was one final clang. It was followed by a thud- the sound of the sword, hitting the ground. Illarya blinked and could barely see it. One single move. Sir Criston attacked. The Prince blocked the blow. He lowered himself- bending his knees until if they had been standing side-by- side, he and Illarya would have been at similar heights. A crouch and a single step. Then, a quick move of his arm. his sword was on the King's Guard's neck. If It had been a true fight the Dornishman's head would have been severed from his neck. Blood in the tiltyard. On the sword. Everywhere. The dark headed woman could only watch. Even if it were real, She wouldn't have been able to react in time.

“Now you,” Prince Aemond said, glancing his eye in her direction.  “Over here, bastard.”

Illarya shot him a flash of anger from her own indigo glance. It did no good. She did not expect to intimidate him, but he gave no reaction at all. She knew before the Prince engaged her that this was not going to be like the dance she saw between him and Sir Cristion. This was going to be reckless, haphazard. There was much more of a possibility that she was going to get hurt crossing blades with a Prince who had been trained by a King’s Guard. She blinked. In that instant, she thought about staying where she was and not moving at all. He may have been a Prince, but if that was the way he was going to command her–Then, he tapped his boots with his sword still in his hand. If she didn't move, he would come to her. Somehow, she was certain of that without another word. She stepped toward the tall, silver haired man. Her stance was tentative. Enraged. Cautious. She wanted to make him pay for what he had, but suspected that she would never be skillful enough to land a blow on him.

“Put up your sword like Sir Criston told you.” He commanded “Try to parry.”

The Prince swung his sword. Illarya tried to keep her wrists up and straight. He attacked and the metal sounded– this time too close to her ears. Prince Aemond was young and his body was long and slender. She thought that there was to possible way he weighed as much as Sir Crison. Yet, when the force of his blade came down upon hers, she thought that the strength of it would bring her to her knees. She tried to plant her feet further into the dirt and gritted her teeth. Somehow, she managed to stay on her feet. The Pressure finally ceased. She took a deep breath that she hadn't realized she was holding in. Her eyes glanced at the Prince. The rancor from the night before had returned ten- fold. He wanted to hurt her. Like the man in the muddy boots, she had no doubt that he could. She would end up worse that she had then–

“Try to fight back, bastard,” he hissed.

There it was again. That word. Bastard. She bore down, her teeth grinding. She was sure her lips would bleed. Anger washed over her like a bucket of boiling hot water. Insults rose on her tongue. She swallowed them down. One more thing to fight back. His blow. His words. They both bore down on her like strength straight from the Warrior. It felt as if she would not be able to withstand both for much longer. She couldn’t speak the treason that formed in her mind. Strength was not the only power that he had over her. He could kill her or have her killed if he did not want to do it himself. If she died, then Ghost-

The silver-haired Prince attacked again. He launched his blade in her direction. Illarya braced herself. The second attack was not weaker than the first. If anything, it was stronger. Their swords collided. All of the anger she felt went into blocking his sword. When the force gave way she lunged. A quick, single step in his direction. She brought her sword down, diagonal toward the center of her body as she'd been told. Her strength was entirely behind the strike. Yet, the Prince was able to block it with ease as it was nothing more than the annoyance of a flea on his shoulder.

Illarya tightened her hold on her sword. Prince Aemond took another step. He attacked again. The young woman's grip gave. The blade hit the ground with a thud. A grunt escaped her lips. The rest came to pass so suddenly, she did not know herself exactly how it happened. She was standing upright. Then, in the blink of an eye she wasn't. Her back hit the ground before the sword. She laid there confused and dazed. When the haze wore off, the pain began. She groaned.

“Pick up the sword and get up, bastard.”

Chapter Text

For weeks, it was the same. Every day, Illarya would rise early, dress, and was expected in the tiltyard before the sun rose above the Red Keep. Everyday she would pick up a sword and watch, while listening to the sounds of clanging metal. Clashing Swords. The movements were so quick it was difficult at times to keep up. Each time she so much as blinked, she could sense movement had happened. Everyday, Prince Aemond’s attention would shift to her once he and Sir Criston were finished. Heat would move from her chest, then to her neck and cheeks. It could hardly be called fighting, even sparring. There were agile, daft movements. Most of the time, she never knew where she had faltered. Everyday, somehow she would end up in almost the same place on the ground. It was slowly going from inconvenient to humiliating. She was learning nothing. Her back and rear ached. Even warm baths were not helping cease the pain any longer.

Every day, the Prince taunted her the same way. ‘Bastard' he'd say. That one word and his lips twisted into a sneer as she looked up. Over and over. The fall. That word. His look. There were times when Illarya found herself biting the inside of her cheek. She locked her jaw. She imagined her tongue turning to stone. Anything to help her stay silent. ‘ Ignore him, ’ she would tell herself. ‘ He is goading you on. After all he's barely more than a boy. ’ Every day, she repeated the words in her mind like a silent prayer to the Mother for patience. Yet, it did not sate her anger entirely. A spark of it remained, even among the embers of her indignance.

The day began like all of the others. A thrust of Prince Aemond's sword, like a strike of lightning, landed the dark haired woman on the ground. She groaned as pain struck up her back and traveled up her spine.

“Again.” He practically spat the word from above her. “Get up, bastard.”

That word again. The blood began to rise in her cheeks. As before, she began to muse. ‘ Barely more than a boy- ’ This time, it did nothing. She was tired; She was tired of lying in the dirt. She was tired of the prince's tone and the look of seeming approval on Sir Criston Cole's face as it all happened. Above all, she was tired of the word bastard.

As she rose up from the ground beneath her, for a brief moment,  Illarya forgot all of the things that frightened her. It no longer mattered that he was a Prince with the power to take her life. Nor did she recall that his dragon was the largest living and could consume her as well as Grey Ghost. All of it left her mind entirely. Once she was back on  her feet, only the rage remained. Illarya acted. her mind did not know how. It must have been the Warrior’s strength. There was no other explanation. Somehow, she managed to knock the sword from his hands. Then he, momentarily dumbstruck, stood while she took a step forward. Her fist collided with the Prince’s nose.

It was not a pretty, proper punch. She knew that her hand likely hurt more than his face. Prince Aemond did not fall back in response. There was not even a flinch or a pained groan. Slowly, Illarya began to realize just what she had done– that She'd struck one in line for the Iron Throne. By then, the surprise had worn off of the Prince. He picked up his sword and began stalking toward her. It did not occur to her to gather her own blade. The look in his violet eye told her that this was not training. There was violence in his look. He was going to hurt her. No one was going to intervene. She took several steps back, but stopped when her back hit against something solid–the outermost wall of the stable. The sword’s tip rested and the center of her throat.

“I could kill you for that, bastard!” The silver haired Prince growled. There was blood dripping from his nose. If he felt it at all, he did not show it.

“Then do it, your grace” The ire in Illarya's tone matched his. “But first, grant me the final boon of seeing the look on the high born lord's faces when you tell them my offense–a low born bastard girl like me somehow managed to land a blow on your royal face.”

There was a growl. She met his gaze as the tip of the blade pierced her skin ever-so-slightly.

“You—”

“I am not your enemy” She interrupted. All of the enmity- every word that she had swallowed back down as she bit her tongue for weeks rose back up like bile. “Do you Imagine I claimed a dragon to insult you personally? I only wanted to - I would have been content to fly away from Westeros across the Narrow Sea and never come back. It is your family that keeps me here– Your family who has ordered me to stay and be trained. All of this is their doing. And now I've taken food and board from them. There would be no convincing anyone I had not aligned myself with your house. Should war break out tomorrow, the same ones that would come after you would seek me out as well. Your enemies are now mine whether you would have it that way or no. Do you not see that ? we are the same-”

“We are nothing alike, bastard.”

“My name is Illarya.” She somehow resisted the urge to shout. “If you want to go into battle with one less dragen at your family's command, then kill me and Grey Ghost will go back to Dragonstone and play no part in the war. The fault doesn't lie with him.”

The dark haired woman felt the Prince's sword plunge deeper. The skin on the crook of her neck sliced open. She hissed. Pressure then pain began to jolt through the wound.

“Strike me again or betray my house and the last thing you'll see before you meet the Stranger is Vhagar tearing apart your little beast.” 

She blinked and looked straight into his violet eye.

“Yes, your grace.”

As the words left her lips, the pressure lifted. The Prince lifted his blade away. A surge of relief passed through her body. She was not going to die, at least not at that moment. There was nothing else she could manage to say. She took several long, deep breaths. then put a hand to her neck. when she took it away, her hand was stained with blood.

“Pick up the sword again. Plant your feet. Don't move around so much. Learn to hold your ground.”

“Your grace–”

The two words were all she could manage. That was all that was said. There was no apology (not that she truly expected it) not so much as an acknowledgement of the blood that was running from her neck between her breasts. Illarya did not bother to wipe it away. She stepped away at last from the outer wall of the stable. As the Prince ordered, she picked up her sword and followed behind the silver hair. She put both hands on the grip below the pommel. The blade rose above her head. They fought again. Before they were done, she hit the ground again. Like the times before, it was painful. Unlike those times, however, the word bastard did not ring out to torment her as she laid on the ground. No apology, but no 'bastard’ either. She paused, waiting for the word to come. It never did. The look on his violet eye was something she now could not read. The loathing was still there, under the surface, but there was something else.

Illarya wondered momentarily, but did not ask for fear of hearing the word again. When the lesson was over, she returned the sword to its proper place. Without so much as a word, she bowed her head in the Prince's direction. Then, turned and began to walk away. She left the Courtyard but not in the direction of the Red Keep. All the while the sharp words she'd said reverberated in her ears.

Aemond sheathed his sword, all the while watching the bastard girl walk away haughtily. His lips pressed together in thought.

“That witch,” Sir Cristion broke the silence. “She must be reminded of her place.”

The Prince met his gaze as the knight took a drink from a goblet of water that had been brought out to them. The look on his face told him that he was more angry than he was.Yet, he was the one who had been struck. Cole had always looked after him, more than Viserys. Most days Aemond was indifferent to it. The others, he was indignant. He hummed in agreement.

“How's your nose?” The King's Guard asked.

“Fine.” He replied shortly. In the rush of wars and the heated urge to plunge his sword fully into the bastard girl's throat, he’d almost forgotten the blood dripping from his nose. He'd barely felt it. Pain, especially a poor punch from someone so small, had little effect on him.

Sir Criston put down the goblet and handed him a handkerchief from underneath the metal sleeve of his armour. 

“You should wipe your face before your mother sees or his grace your brother.”

Aemond took the cloth and wiped at the drying crimson from his face. He didn't want to admit it, but the knight was right. If word that a bastard girl from Flea Bottom managed to hit him and bloody his rose, Aegon would never relent. He could already see the mocking grin on his face. He could hear the jeers and mocking being hunted in his direction over supper. ‘You let that witch land a blow on you? And you train every day with Cole. What exactly is it the two of you do all that time in the tiltyard?’ Otto would look on at him indifferently. Alicent would do nothing, as she had always done since they were children. He had endured enough slights to see it clearly in his mind's eye. He would not endure this one.

“Where did the girl go? She didn't go back to the Red Keep ….” The Prince suddenly asked.

“The Dragon Pit, I suspect.”

‘ Visiting that little grey worm ’ Aemond thought. He wiped his nose again, discarding the cloth. He needed stiffly, curtly in Cole's direction.

Then, he began walking. He walked in the same direction as the bastard girl had gone. His pace was slower than his usual gait. She would not know he was following behind. He did not fully understand it himself. The dragon she had was elusive. Few people had ever caught so much as a glimpse until the day she'd flown him over King’s Landing. He'd seen It. To him, It was just another smallish dragon. It was nothing- nowhere the size of Dreamfyre or Vhagar. He had no will or interest to see the beast even less to see the dark haired girl. Everything about her-especially those strange eyes of hers was an affront to his Valryian blood. He wanted to see them together–to see how the dragon obeyed his rider and how she could possibly command it without speaking a word of High Valryian.

The Prince approached and stopped short of the Dragon Pit. He stood out of view and watched. The girl and the dragon were standing outside of the structure. The great, grey worm lowered its head down next to her chest. He seemed to be carefully examining the blood on her neck and chest.

“It's okay, boy,” he could hear the girl say, consoleing the beast. "I'm okay. It doesn't hurt."

The beast huffed and growled softly in response. Aemond looked on. His violet eye glared down at the scene. The girl continued to speak and coo to the beast, her tone was as if she were speaking to a child or a dog- certainly not an ancient animal with the power to burn her- disintegrate her into ashes-at any moment. Grey Ghost continued to move restlessly. He made grumbles in his throat and flapped his wings, like short twitches were running down his spine. It was obvious that he wanted to fly-even the girl must have been able to sense it. He noticed that there was still no saddle on the dragon's back. The keepers of the Dragon Pit had already commissioned one on his grandfather's orders, but it would take some time. The sky called to him, but he was nevertheless obedient enough to remain on the ground.

Aemond continued to watch. He remained out of the sight of the girl and the dragon. She placated the beast by feeding him fish from a bucket at her side. The girl tossed the fish, their scales reflecting in the midday sun, into the eager mouth of Grey Ghost. A cloud of grey smoke like morning fog rose up from his mouth.

Once he had watched for some time, the Prince slowly began to step out of the cover of nearby trees. with small, sure steps he began to approach the Dragon Pit. The bastard girl's braided dark hair remained in his sight. She did not look behind her or notice his approach. As he came closer. However, his movement caught the blue eyes of Grey Ghost. The playful, communicative growls he directed at his rider became a loud, territorial roar. He could sense the anger, the pure rage accompanying the sound and the look in the dragon's eyes. It wasn't just protection. It was hatred. Grey Ghost hated him. The thought made a small chuckle escape his lips For a dragon, that enmity could only come from one source. The little dark haired bastard girl hated him.

“No! Ghost no!” Aemond heard the girl shout once she turned and realized the source of the dragon's outrage.

Her pleas did nothing, but the Prince was not afraid. The small dragon's fury was nothing compared to Vhagar’s. He took another step and another deep roar came from the dragon's throat.

“No! Stop!” She seemed louder, and more frantic. “You can't- you mustn't harm his grace.”

“If you want him to obey you, speak in High Valyrian.” The prince called back to the girl.

“I don't know the words to say.” She admitted.

“Lykiri is calm.”

“Li-kir-i”

Grey Ghost roared again. The prince scoffed -both at the poor pronunciation and the Flea Bottom accent as she struggled with the language. It was like hearing a lute that was out of tune. Not musical- more grating on his ears than the dragon's noises.

“No,” the Prince scolded. “Lykiri.”

“Lyriri?” The girl repeated, still unsure of the emphasis.

“No. Stand aside. Watch.”

Illarya took a step away to the side of the dragon, as he approached. Aemond took more steps toward them. The fire- breathing beast didn't cease its growl. Her eyes widened as she stood, watching. If Ghost attacked him, there would be nothing she could do. She wouldn't be fast enough If he attached and if he breathed fire upon them-

“Lyriri.” Aemond’s voice sounded above, in the beast's growls. “Daor angōs!”

One more small hiss, like a warning, and Grey Ghost was silent. The dragon’s blue eyes locked on the silver haired Prince. Yet, he did not give ground. He stood still looking back. Not only was he unafraid of the danger, as if the possibility did not occur to him, but he seemed to understand the growls and twitches that may as well have been another language, like High Valryian was to her. The young woman couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy like stinging nettles.

“What did you say to him?” Illarya asked, her indigo gaze passing between her mount and the Prince.

“I ordered him not to attack.”

“Ordered him?”

His single, violet eye locked in her direction as though she were the one speaking a tongue that he did not understand.

“You are his rider. You command him.”

Illarya’s brows raised as she matched his gaze. This was indeed the tongue– the custom that w as foreign to her. “Is it not strange to order a beast that could kill us?”

“If he wasn't going to obey you, he would have burned you before you claimed him.” He fixed her with another gaze- one that made her feel like a child and wanted to run at the same time. It seemed to her that he was waiting to make sure she noticed before he continued to speak. 

“Dragons are intuitive creatures. They can sense the emotions of their riders. If you command him and you're unsure, he won't know whether or not to obey you.”

Illarya glanced at the silver haired man before her. “So Ghost expects me to command him-”

“Ghost– The Prince repeated the word as if it were a taste he did not care for. “You are the first to claim him- you could call him anything. There are words in High Valyrian, the names of the gods of Old Valyria- Vhagar is named after one.”

“I don't mind Ghost,” the dark haired woman mused, “I think it makes him sound elusive. mysterious.” 

Aemond scoffed.  “A name given to him by sailors and low born men in taverns.”

“I don't mind,” she repeated. Her voice was sharper than before. “I don't believe he does either. Do you, boy?”

Gray Ghost responded with a low, soft grumble in response. His wings twitched against his will again. His blue eyes fixed on her.

“He wants to fly,” she muttered.

“You cannot ride him bareback. You won't be able to stay on him without a saddle.”

“I rode him across the blackwater without one.” The young woman insisted “You've never flown without a saddle?”

“Dragon's aren't horses.” The Prince's tone became more condescending, “And Vhagar is many times the size of—Ghost. It would be impossible to ride her without a saddle.” 

Illarya made a haughty noise in her throat.  “Will I ever get to see Vhagar, your grace?”

Almond huffed. Illarya’s frustration began to redden her cheeks.

“If we are to be allies, shouldn't our dragons be - familiar with one another”

“You'll have to learn some high Valyrian- and learn to keep that grey worm under control. Vhagar does not suffer fools.”

The dark haired woman took a step toward her mount. “We aren't fools.” She hissed. “Just because we didn't grow up in a castle learning foreign tongues."

“Know your place, bastard.” The silver haired prince growled.

This time she did not cower or step back for fear of what he may do. “I know well what you believe my place is, my prince. bowing and groveling before you.”

Aemond reaches his sword arm from his long, slender body. He moved swiftly to take her left arm. His grip was tight like a hawk’s talons or the claws of a dragon. We could feel her struggle to escape his grasp, but his fingers only tightened in response. Illarya glared up at his eye as she tried to pull her arm away. There was no kindness, no mercy to be found.

“Do not speak of what you do not understand,” his voice low and dangerous yet barely above a whisper.

“You're right, your grace,” She returned I couldn't possibly imagine to have what you have: a mother and father and servants to tend to you, to go to bed as a child with a full stomach, and to expect everyone with less than you to still take pity of you because you lost your eye– because you aren’t the heir, because- ah !”

The pained sound passed through her lips as he grabbed her arm ever tighter. Grey Ghost hissed in response, turning his eyes to the prince.

“You know nothing, bastard,” Aemond snarled. “About me or my house”

The hissing once again became a high-pitched screech. his long, white teeth glistened with his grey scales in the midday Sun. Although the Prince did not do much as glance his violet eye in her mount's direction, Illarya could almost sense the rancor in the sound. She jerked her arm, again trying to break free from his grip. When she failed once more, she turned her attention to the dragon making angered roses in response to her pain.

“Lykiri, Ghost.”

Illarya knew as the sound left her lips that her pronunciation was off, her Flea Bottom accent distorting the command. Yet, the dragon ceased mid roar. Despite her upbringing, her voice, and the lack of Valyrian blood he had obeyed her. She had given a dragon a command and he'd listened to her. For a moment, she forgot the danger- that she had angered a prince second in line to the Iron Throne after his father.

“Better,” The Prince's Voice sounded through her thoughts. “That is the start of how you command a dragon.”

Grey Ghost growled quietly as Aemond released the bastard girl from his grip. He walked away, turning his back on her and the noisy grey worm. He left the Dragon Pit in the direction of the Red Keep without another word.

Illarya stood in place, quiet and dumbfounded as he left. The thought- how many times she had put herself in danger of the axe since the sun came up washed over her. She suddenly remembered the dried blood had dripped down between her breasts. He was selfish. He was spoiled and emboldened to belittle and condescend to anyone he met by his proximity to the throne and his dragon, inherited from the Conqueror's sister, even to others that claimed dragons. Nonetheless, he was a Prince. with a single word or gesture, he could have her killed. The thought made her feel worthless while at the same time made her blood boil like the smoking vents on top of DragonStone.

Ghost made a low, grumbling nose. He fixed his rider in his gaze as the man disappeared from his view. His long, slender body from his talons to the tips of his wings twitched again. 

“No, boy.” Illarya said gently. “We can't.”

The dark haired woman watched as the beast huffed again - Seemingly in frustration. She watched him flap his wings, The wind they made blew through the strands of hair that had escaped her braid training with the Prince and Sir Cristion.

“No,” she repeated.

Ghost produced another discontented sound this time, he lowered his body to one side as he had on Dragon Stone She could feel his restlessness - like an itch  could not be scratched. He belonged in the sky blending in with clouds above them. Her lips opened to say ‘no’ again, but the words would not come out. She could no longer deny she wanted to fly along with him. The keepers of the Dragon Pit with their black scaled armor had ordered her no to. Prince Aemond had advised against it saying she would fall to her death. Perhaps they were right. The longer she stood in place with the dragon beckoning her, the less reason she could find to obey. They could find a reason to kill her. She could be dead by the time the sun fell. And if she was bound to die–she at least wanted one last ride in the sky before she met the Stranger.

Before anyone that might have been watching could protest, Illarya approached the waiting dragon. She put one leg over, mounting him between the spikes on his back. She took one of the sharp, rough edges of the spine in front of her.

“Okay. Go, boy.”

She said the words and Grey Ghost once again began to flap his wings. The dark haired woman settled, tightening her thighs around the dragon's body. Soon, they left the ground, leaving the Dragon Pit and the surrounding trees the ground to disappear below them.

Chapter Text

“Again, " Prince Aemond ordered.

Grey Ghost raised his head. He listened with his head perfectly erect between the two of them. His eyes with their slit pupils watched intently. Illarya began to repeat the words she’d been trying to learn for weeks.

“Lykiri is calm."

“Yes. "

"Angōs is attack”

"Yes," he said again. "Go on."

There was a silence that settled over the clearing near the Dragon Pit. The dark-haired woman’s brows furrowed in thought.

“The word for fly is- I for—“

"Sōvēs."

“Sōvēs," She repeated.

The dragon began to flap his wings A rush of wind blew through her braid and the prince’s silver hair. Illarya looked at him and frowned.

"Perhaps we should not say that particular command, your grace. It torments him."

“Then do not indulge him by riding until his saddle is fitted.”

The young woman's tongue seemed to catch in het threat.

“I—“"He is a dragon" he continued in the tone she'd grown accustomed to but never ceased to sting her pride. "He's not a babe or a dog."

“He is not a sword either" She countered. " He is a living creature."

Illarya watched her mount huff in discontentment when he saw that she was  not drawing closer to get upon his back. She lost count of how many men had been waiting on the ground, scolding her and Ghost the last time she'd flown with him. The keepers of the Dragon Pit watched her even more closely now. Each time she visited her mount, she felt their eyes on her and each time- She bit her tongue to keep from cursing at them to leave her and her dragon in peace. In all her years. She had never had anyone show such concern for her, not even the Septas that had raised her. The Idea felt as strange as the borrowed garments on her back.

"I can learn as well in the Red Keep from the Maester. Your grace need not trouble yourself.”

"You're not learning High Valyrian to write poetry." Aemond scolded. “You are learning to command a dragon who has never been claimed. He must learn as you do if you ever hope to survive a battle."

Illarya took a step in the direction of Grey Ghost. She absentmindedly ran one of her hands down his scales on his side. A battle. In the past months, she had heard the word more times than in the rest of her life combined. She knew the possibility of war between the King's heirs was the only reason her head wasn't sitting on a spike that very moment. To risk it-- to imagine riding Ghost into battle like the days of the conquest she'd seen as a child like Visenya or Rhaenys. It was yet unthinkable to her.

“May the Warrior grant us strength." She muttered, still moving her hand along the silver scales. The prince made a sound from between his pressed lips.

“The gods won't protect you." He said, watching her strange eyes widen at his blasphemy. “Strength and skill are the only protection afforded anyone."

“You do not believe in the Seven, my Prince"? She suddenly remembered every crack on the

knuckles the Septas in the orphanage had ever given her as a child.

If they exist, we are no more to them than a mouse is to a cat.”

Illarya stood silently, listening. She could not say what possessed her to ask such a thing. Perhaps it was all her early years as an orphan in the shadow of the great sept. She had asked and yet she could not understand why he had answered her at all. The most she expected was ‘none of your Concern, bastard.’ The insult did not come. They had grown fewer-the hate slightly lessened since the day she'd struck him. Still, the prince barely opened his sneering lips to give her another chide her for not knowing something he'd known since he was a child. The longer she stood in silence next to her mount, the more she reasoned. Perhaps men like him- princes-did not need the gods. The people of Flea Bottom prayed for food and protection. The people of the Red Keep already had that. What did they have to pray to the gods for?

"Step away from him. There's another Command you need to learn."

“What is it?"

"Move first."

The young woman took several steps to the side away from her mount. She moved away until she no longer would have been able to reach her arm out and touch him. All the while, she could feel the prince's eye watching her until she did as he commanded.

“Now. Listen and repeat: dracarys."

"Dracarys." She slowly, carefully repeated the word in a tongue she still did not understand more than a few words of.

Illarya’s hesitation did not deter the dragon. Grey Ghost opened his mouth wide. There was a loud screech, unlike the ones she had heard from her mount before. What followed was fire. A cloud of grey smoke with hints of blue filled the clearing. She could feel the heat in the midday summer air. A smell like ash, filled her nostrils. She stood still, watching the fire turn to smoke and disappear, leaving only colored air behind. Within moments, it was as if she imagined it. She looked down of her boots and saw the glass near Ghost had blackened from the bright green around it. The smell of ash and dead grass. These were the remains of dragon fire. Although Ghost was small compared to Dreamfyre and Vhagar, it was the same fire that burned swords and forged the iron throne.

“I can bid him to breath fire." Somewhere in her mind, Illarya knew that dragon riders could control their mounts and command them to do almost anything. Knowing it as a fact- like the grass was green in summer- was not seeing it for herself. It was a new feeling bubbling under the surface of her skin that she could not describe with words she knew in the common tongue.

"He'll do it- every time I ask.” She muttered. It was not a question, but a statement of truth as it occurred to her.

“He will" Prince Aemond. “He will burn ships, villages, armies of men- or just one if you command It."

“He can't protest? He will go against his own will—for me?"

"Your wills are one and the same. That is part of the bond between dragons and their riders. They obey your orders. Your will becomes theirs. He will protect you and those that you care for Your enemies are his- he feels your affections, your hate, your rage."

Illarya turned her head and looked in Gray Ghosts direction. Instead of blackened grass beneath him, she imagined men dead and turned to ash with only bits of clothing or a suit of armor left.

"I don't know if I could force him to burn men alive."

The prince fixed her in his gaze, his violet eye peering at her. His lips turned up. The look on His face was as if her words insulted him personally. She had almost grown accustomed to it in the past weeks.

“Would you rather watch this little grey warm die?" He asked, not bothering to disguise the venom in his voice.

"No, your grace" 

"Or be killed yourself? Ran through with a sword by soldiers- or perhaps a traitor’s death- some executioners take more than one swing of the axe to take a head of. "

"I've seen It." She muttered. The calm had been peaceful with the occasional threat from the step stones. Yet, that did not mean there were not executions. Some were public. Lowborn men and women were hanged. When the noose was not tied or placed correctly, they dangled alive for house strangling. She could remember legs swingling aimlessly searching for ground to rest beneath. Those of higher birth were given the axe. As the prince had said, they were still at the mercy of the skill and sharpness of the blade. Sometimes the eyes blinked on the severed heads as they were held up before the gathered crowds. In the days of the old king, she’d heard tales of executions from dragon fire. King Viserys had no dragon since the death of the Black Dread, and no taste for such a show.  

The silence settled and the air cleared from the smoke. She silently wondered if she would feel remorse when she had to do it. Could she order Grey Ghost to burn men alive— men who were fighting for their liege lord, who they thought the best fit for the throne— men who had no hope of sitting on it themselves however they made their choice- oaths, their own sense of right or wrong or prescient, or simply whichever promised them more land or coin.

Her indigo eyes met Grey Ghost’s blue ones. She cursed herself. She knew so little of dragons that she could not tell. The prince had said her enemies were his. He would kill for her- this creature many times her size and descended from the dragons who conquered Westeros. Her desire to kill would be his. In that moment, there was only one person that she could Imagine commanding her mount to burn.

Footsteps. Loud and sure against the dirt interrupted her thoughts. Grey Ghost lifted his great head straight in the air. His eyes flickered in every direction, alert. On the other side of her mount Prince Aemond was as well. She had not thought it was possible for him to stand taller, but somehow, he had. There was no clanking accompanying the boots. No armor. Not a King’s guard and not Sir Criston, and not keepers from the dragon pit. She did not want to imagine who else was approaching a prince, and a riding size dragon.

The sound of the footsteps was overwhelmed by music. Illarya knew the song. She had heard it almost every night for years. It was a song sung in the taverns of Flea Bottom as men and women sunk deeper and deeper into their cups. She listened as her dragon's head tilted in the direction of the noise. A low, soft growl came from his throat accompanying the song with a hum. She knew the words. She could have recreated it as a Septon does verses of the 7- Painted Star. Then, she would have thought nothing of it. Now, in the presence of a prince and a dragon It seemed far away and out of place - like the distance to Winterfell of her own presence in the Red Keep.

Footsteps. Grey Ghost’s growl. The words to a drinking song punctuated by the snap of fallen branches on the ground. Prince Aegon stepped into view, flanked by men on either side. His younger brother neither moved nor relaxed his posture on the other side of the scales. The growl suddenly become a warning roar. Illarya watched, tense and silent. Like Prince Aemond, his elder brother Paid Grey Ghost’s hiss no mind. He did not falter a step approaching them. The dragon lunged his great head forward, huffing and sounding his displeasure to the air above them.

"Lykiri, Ghost." The young women called. It was to no avail. Your wills are one and the same, he had told her. She was not calm, so neither was he.

“Aegon" the youger Prince said, not a greeting and not quite a scold. The word was quickly by another roar.

"Gods. Can neither of silence that noisy beast?"

"Dohaerās, Ghost." She tried again. More forceful than before "Lykiri."

The dragon ceased his roaring, but Illarya watch his blue eyes fix on the heir. He was a serpent posed to strike. One word. A single commend. And she somehow knew that he would obey.

The sound of Grey Ghost's warning was replaced by light, drunken laughter.

“A foul- tempered little creature, isn't he?” Prince Aegon managed through his Chuckle. He took another step. Illarya’s dragon did not react, nor did he turn his gaze away. He huffed as if he knew he was being spoken of. "Cannot even be trusted to be with his own kind, so the keepers of the Dragon Pit say."

"Perhaps his own kind is hostile to him," She offered. Your enemies are his: "Or Perhaps he is simply male and fighting for the attention of ladies, as men do.”

More laughter sounded from the afternoon air. "That skinny, grey thing over Sunfyre? He has a better chance of rutting Vhagar.”

“What are you doing out here?” The younger brother asked over another great puffs of air from the dragon’s nostrils.

"Looking for you, little brother. We've been looking for you since noontide. When you weren't training in the Tiltyard with Cole and Vhagar’s shadow was nowhere to be seen I thought I might find you somewhere with the witch and her dragon.

“I am not -"

“I was not speaking to you, witch. Your Prince was not speaking to you."

“Your grace—”

"Hold your tongue.”

Grey Ghost's gaze did not move, but Prince Aegon’s attention shifted from her to his younger brother.

"Have you forgotten what day It is? Is your head so far up the witch's arse that you've forgotten your own name day?"

"Nameday?" Illarya repeated the word, muttering to more in particular. "Should not there be a feast, or tourneys or Something of the sort?" Her own was nothing to her. She did not even In new the exact day. but the name day of a Prince even though he was not the heir was cause for celebration. Yet, they had spent the day as they had since the day she'd been ordered to the Tiltyard. Training with the Sword under the eye of Sir Criston. Then, to the dragon pit and further into the woods where the prince would teach her command In High Valryian and chastise her Flea Bottom accent. He did not accompany her every day-there was no way of knowing from one day to the next. She never asked and knew he would not answer if she did. She could not understand why of all days- he would be in the woods with her on such a day.

“Aemond has no taste for such things." Prince Aegon replied on his brother's behalf, not bothering to look at her as he spoke. " Without a sword in his hand or his ass upon Vhagar's back, he's as lively as an old dog. But as the elder brother- It is my duty to make sure the occasion is marked in some way. No great feast but I can make sure my younger brother gets it wet and remembers where to put it. "

"That is enough-" the younger prince interjected, his tone now scolding. 

"Get wha-" Illarya stopped. The pieces come together in her mind. She came feel a slight blush rise to her cheeks. It was more surprise than her own shame. She was from Flea Bottom. There were times she could tell from the looks on the faces of those around her, that people in the Red Keep expected her to say bawdy things. Hearing them from one that would one day sit the Iron Throne never ceased to shock her. She expected them to be courtly and proper, just as they expected her to be ill mannered, ignorant, and vulgar.

"Although -" The elder prince took another single step in her direction. A low grumble once again began in Grey Ghost's throat. "We could save ourselves the journey to the Street of Silk and toss you a coin, witch."

Her lips closed even tighter. Living elsewhere, she had rarely found herself at a loss for words. In the Red Keep, she could not help but think there would be times she would be better off mute. She could not tell if he was in jest or if it was a question at all. If she refused, would that be end of it? Blood began to sing behind her ears. It became harder and harder to keep her breathing low and even. In the taverns she’d grown accustomed to being teased and flirting and When they were refused, in small numbers, they weren't likely to kill. The wounded pride of a common man was one thing, the wounded pride of two princes, quite another.

“With respect your grace, I would not expect you to lower yourself on my behalf."

"Not so low, you ride a dragon, after all.” Prince Aegon’s words were beginning to slur at the end of a phrase, like a wagon suddenly going downhill. "And once you've sated my brother, you could ride a true dragon. What do you say to that, witch?"

Another deep breath. Illarya did not dare meet the eyes of any of the men before her. She had refused the company of two princes. Even Grey Ghost's fire might not be sufficient to save her.

“I fear your graces must find sport of that sort elsewhere. "Her ears rang so loudly that she could barely hear the words out of her own mouth. She had refused the company of princes. Twice. She stood silently, wanting to be seized or worse. Her eyes remained downcast in the direction of her boots. She still did not care to look up at them. In her minds aye, she could already see and feel hands on her. The roar in Grey Ghost’s throat deepened. She began to simpler if he would breathe fire even if she didn't bid him to.

“Have it your way, witch." Illarya let out a breath that she had not realized she’d been holding in. It was difficult to believe that was the end of it. Even the men in Flea Bottom would have at least protested in some way- asked again, insulting her, grabbed her arm or the tail of her dress. Perhaps it was just the fear that any woman would feel given the circumstances or perhaps, as princes, they would degrade themselves by imploring a low born when she was- already beneath them. whatever the reason, she was grateful. "Come along, Aemond, before all of the comely whores are spoken for. "

The younger Prince took a step away from the dragon. he fixed her in the gaze of his single, violet eye. When she gathered the fortitude to look up, she could sense that something had shifted. From the moment she'd sensed him staring at her from across the vast table at the first supper the attended, his looks in her direction were cold and stronger than Valyrian Steel. Through the humiliation of being knocked on her ass and the rage at being called "bastard', It had not changed. A low, constant enmity. Not a blind rage. Never fear. As Vhagar’s rider, she had a difficult time imagining what would frighten him. The look he gave her was not fear, but there was something that she had not seen before in his eye. It was just under the surface, almost invisible to many. It would have been to her only months ago. She didn't speak, did not put it into words.

“Take Grey Ghost back to the dragon pit. Do not try flying with him again without a saddle or the keepers will not let you in his presence at all until it’s finished.”

"Yes, your grace." She replied.

"And keep the little beast away from Sunfyre," the elder prince added. “If he attacks him, It will be your head, witch.”

“Yes, my prince."

Illarya said nothing else. One by one, all of the men turned away from her and began to walk away. They soon disappeared into the trees in the direction of the Street of Silk. She was alone again with only her dragon. Grey Ghost’s grows ceased. He lowered his head and gently nudged her shoulder with tip of his snout. He let out one final hiss as he continued to fix his gaze in the direction of the woods where the princess and their escorts had gone.

"Lykiri, boy." She said quietly. "It’s alright. They're all gone. It's just two now."

As her mount silenced himself, the young woman was almost sure she could hear the sound of boots stomping through mud. I had not rained in King’s Landing in days.

As the sun set over the Red Keep, Illarya was back in her chambers after returning Ghost back to the dragon pit. It was passed time for supper, but she remained in place. The events of the day had deprived her of her appetite. She sipped water from a goblet and glanced at books the Grand Maester had left on the table in the corner in her room. It was about Aegon’s conquest and written in High Valyrian. There were some words which she could understand thanks to hours of lessons. There were also long phrases and passages that she did not understand. She could not help but feel lost—adrift in letters, words, and accent marks that were as foreign and unfamiliar to her as Dorne. When she did not feel lost, she felt behind. she had claimed a dragon, although it had not been natural nor easy. Something inside scolded her that she should know the words already, as the princes did. She stared at the pieces of stretched skin, waiting for understanding to come as suddenly as her bond with Ghost.

"Mi’lady.”

A soft voice and a knock at her chamber door brought her back to the present moment. A woman, years older than she, entered the room. she held a tray in both hands, keeping the door open with her hip as stepped through the threshold. On the tray, there was bread cheese, and a cluster of grapes. She sent the food down on the table in front of her.

"What's all this?" Illarya asked, only glancing down with mild interest.

"Well, you missed supper up her pondering over those old books.” The older woman explained. "The Queen's grace ordered that something be brought up to you mi’lady."

“I'm no lady.” She repeated the words for what she was sure must be the hundredth time this moon alone. “You need not trouble yourself in the future. I've missed supper plenty, and will again, I suspect, before all is said and done."

"You should still try to put some meat on your bones, training every day with the sword like a man."

"And yet I do not have a man's appetite."

The older woman bit her up. It seemed as if she were holding back from chiding her. In taverns, people spoke what was on their minds. Until that moment, she could not recall anyone being afraid to speak to her or choosing their words carefully for fear of displeasing her.

"Her grace bid me ask if you were unwell or needed a Maester -"

Illarya shook her head. "I'm well. just was not particularly hungry tonight."

A stormy look now came across the older woman’s face. There was a flush across her cheeks that she was sure had not been there before. The younger woman wondered what had embarrassed her- her own words or something she, had done refusing supper and refusing to hold her tongue.

"What is it?” Illarya finally asked.

"Forgive me, mi’lady, but you said you weren't ill. In which case, her grace bid me ask you if you have bled yet this moon.”

She sighed indignantly before answering with a short, flat, “Yes."

A look of relief washed over the older woman's face as if the relief was her own that had been washed away. The insult did not leave Illarya’s countenance.

"You can hardly blame her grace. After all, you spend quite a lot of time with her middle son."

"I do so on her grace's own orders." The young woman retorted. She shut her mouth and paused as she tried to remind herself that the one before her was following orders and was at the mercy of the crown as she was. "It is his grace Prince Aemond’s name day. Do you know how old he is?"

The older woman seemed surprised by the question but began to answer, nonetheless. "I've been here in the Red Keep since before the King and Queen were married. I've seen all the children born. The middle Prince- he came in the year 110. That would him-“

"17” Illarya finished, the incredulity rising in her voice. " You can inform her grace, my lord hand, and anyone else you see fit that I've no taste for boys.”

“The prince is hardly a boy. He rides the largest dragon living and handles a sword better than many knights I've seen in tournaments.”

"That doesn't add years.”

"As you say, milady."

She turned to step away and leave her chamber before Illarya’s voice stopped her.

"Were the princes at supper?" The Inquiry would do nothing to quiet the Queen's suspicions, but she could not help but ask. The memory of the subtle look in Prince Aemond’s eye urged her.

"No, mi’lady.” She answered, looking back at Illarya’s indigo eyes over her shoulder. "Once Prince Aegon leaves the castle, he does not return until morning or later.”

“Thank you,” the young woman muttered. Then, she was alone again with her books and the tray of food, and silence. She ate small bites of the bread and cheese, but there was still enough for a meager meal left when she was done for fear of vomiting it all up.

Night fell. Illarya Slept fitfully. The sound of muddy boots and Prince Aegon's voice saying ‘witch' haunted her slumber. Rest eluded her. She laid with eyes open, examining all the shapes the moon's light cost across the room. Light danced and landed across the wall and shone on her white blanket the Septa's had long ago told her she'd been swaddled in when she'd been found. The fabric was white- almost silver in the light. She blinked and tried to imagine waves. What it must have been like as a babe—to be lost and rocked by the sea. Adrift. Alone. Even after all these years, the feeling persisted. She still felt adrift and alone. A dragon rider who was: a bastard who did not speak High Valyrian. Not a lady. Not royal.

The young woman was awake at dawn. She roused herself even earlier than the mornings before. The Red Keep was silent, and the air was cool. She dressed quickly and descended the great staircase of Maegor's holdfast. Not even the servants were moving about yet. Even the tables were silent as she approached the tiltyard. There was not yet the sound of supply leaving their sheaths or even the clank of Sir Criston Coles armor. She was alone in the morning chill until at last, she heard the sound of Prince Aemand’s boots approached.

"Good morrow, my Prince."

He did not speak, only fixed her in his gaze with the enmity and indifference she was now accustomed to. Whatever she had seen in his eye the day before it had disappeared as quickly as she had noticed it.

"Are you well?" She tried again.

" What concern is it of yours, bastard?”

She cringed at the word, faltering momentarily before able to summon the strength to speak.

"Your grace, yesterday when your brother—"

A warning now flashed in his eye. He did not move to touch her, but the loch enough to chill her to her bones, for colder than winter air ever had.

"You will never speak of such things again."

“Your grace, I—"

“Are you deaf, bastard?" Illarya heard a sword unsheathe as he spoke. She imagined it pointed at her throat again.

"No, my Prince.

"Then do as you are told and stay silent, or I'll have your tongue. "Is that clear?”

She suddenly understood that it would do no good to speak. There would be no way to make him see that she knew that she understood. Nothing short of revealing her own mind would convince him and still it may cost her life. It was something that she would not—could not do.

“As your grace commands,” she muttered at last under her breath. The cold wind Carried away her words and she herself for what was to come.