Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ever since her father put his mind to her betrothal, all discussion turned back to King’s Landing.
How large it was, how beautiful it was, how it housed the last blood of Old Valyria.

The last dragonriders.

Dragonriders without dragons.

The sailing from Asshai was unusually generous. They stopped no more than necessary, with even fewer repairs; perhaps it was faithful prayer, perhaps the journey was already of provenance.

Five months.

Six was typical, although any travel directly from Asshai to Westeros was quite atypical to begin with. It was only the rare scholar, one backed by crown gold that made the exhaustive journey.

The only ships Ocythe had ever seen came and went from the same direction. Different ships, different people, different faces, so shiny and bright, so burning and bare, Ocythe could hardly bring herself to look at the men as they came to trade.

Her father was a trader, a most prolific one at that. His red robes and open demeanor for an Asshai’i were his most effective technique. If not that, then it must’ve been his eyes. In his eyes he held a conviction for an unnamed something so bright, the beholder would forget how nameless that something was.

Even now, as they were yanked along the cobbled streets of King’s Landing in a gilded wheelhouse, half a year away from home. The clip-clopping of black horses bringing them closer and closer to the Dragon’s den, she still wasn’t sure what that something was either.

Kings Landing, for all its renown, seemed too small to be the same King’s Landing every sailor west of the Jade Sea had babbled on about. From the wagonhouse, she swore she blinked and the lower city was already behind her. She noticed how the further they traveled west, the smaller the cities became. She could’ve sworn this was some outcropping of a major House if it wasn’t for the glittering white stone spires acting as the sailor’s star to guide their path.

Her first glimpse of the prince came as their wheelhouse approached the steps of the castle, despite the angle being glancing at best, an advantage that she saw him first. Even the scant seconds before they came face to face was invaluable leverage.

That was what she came for, afterall.

A prince.

Or at least that was what her father told her.

She’d tried her best to learn as much as she could about the Targaryens as she made her way west, shadowbinders traded in knowledge and information, it was in her best interest to know her opponent before engaging. She’d heard tales of their madness first and foremost, it seemed synonymous with their name itself, within the same breath as the word royalty.

Breakspear was the prince’s epithet, renowned for his bravery in the rebellion. She’d heard tell of his bravery in battle of Redgrass Field, that he was one of the greatest warriors on a battlefield littered with men who’d be sung about for ages to come. She knew with certainty that this was indeed Baelor Breakspear when she glanced the dark shade of his hair, the olive cast of his skin, as that was another detail she’d gathered about him. Dornish, people said it as if it meant anything to her, like it should be a disqualification from his lineage.

Their arrival was heralded simply as Envoys from Asshai, as they had no name or title to call. Despite this, they were welcomed with more fanfare than Ocythe had imagined, all the noise and attention setting her teeth on edge.

Her father guided her by the hand out of the carriage, thrusting her out of the relative comfort of the dark, enclosed space, into the searing Westerosi sun. The heat was something she was learning to endure, the light harsh on her eyes. It seemed as if the skies of Kings Landing never knew a cloud, much to her chagrin. Her clothes were thick and rigid, dark and ornately designed, not meant to wick away moisture or sweat.

In a few short steps, she was announced again, and placed like a fine jewel to be appraised before the Crown Prince, the Hand of the King, one eye brown and one eye blue, salt beginning to pepper his dark brown hair and beard. She curtseyed as she met his gaze, with a small nod given in return.

His gaze, his attention, was a physical presence, like a weight on her chest. The weight was not unpleasant, but it was impossible to ignore, like that cat on the ship from the Jade Sea, the one that always managed to slink into her cabin in the dead of night to sleep on her chest. The prince managed to find her eyes despite the obscuring mail of her veil and headpiece, between the glittering jewels that could have bought a handsome company, and a fleet to bring with them if they so chose. His gaze pierced straight through it all, to find her eyes and hold them as if there were nothing between them at all.

As she rose, she kept her stare fixed, not in challenge, but in unchecked and unpolished curiosity. In Asshai, a meeting of gazes could be a death sentence, but in Westeros it seemed a requirement, or a disrespect. It was a delicate dance, one where the usually lithe and svelte Ocythe found herself stumbling over her feet.

The prince held her look in kind, not flinching, as that would be a concession in a game they had only just set up, nary a piece moved yet. His lips tightened at the edge, not quite a smile, but a simple acknowledgment before he nodded again. I see you, it seemed to say.

As a sign of grace, Ocythe let her eyes slide away, that edge of a smile on his lips a brand in her memory, as she realized that no one had ever smiled at her before.

Curious.

For five months she’d spent beneath the deck of a ship, in the seat of a carriage, being pulled from one side of the globe to the other, with nothing but vague shapes of the man her father meant to marry her off to. Now, as he stood in front of her, exchanging pleasantries about travel with her father, she could hardly keep her gaze off of him, no detail too small to ignore. His shoulders were drawn taught, as if there were a lance resting atop them. His brows furrowed as he listened to her father’s easy and entrancing speech, nodding intently, actively.

Still, she didn’t miss how his mismatched eyes darted to her, meeting her own stare briefly, an exhale from his nose like a horse. Faces and eyes gave away too much, one of the many reasons a shadowbinder hid theirs away. She could see the strain at his temples to keep his gaze forward, to not make the same mistake twice.

Their early arrival should have been advantageous, as they were not lost in the masses of Great Houses and lesser lordlings of small houses who would all be received in a month’s time for prince Valarr’s eighteenth name day. Instead, she felt as if she were a bug beneath the gaze of a curious, if not malicious child.

“The King is quite eager to meet with you over dinner tonight,” the prince began as the servants hurriedly began to unpack their belongings. “As is our maestar, he was quite eager to begin reading those scrolls you’ve brought.”

“I am most willing to assist in the translation should he need it.” Her father hummed in that easy way of his.

Her father was never meant for the shadows of Asshai, a brilliant star in an otherwise starless night, a spark that had escaped the darkness, as if touched by R’Hllor Himself. His natural charm was their most valuable asset, not their jewels, not their faith, nor their magic, not even her dowry. Her childhood was singularly privileged in Asshai, wanting for nothing, never leaving the black halls of their manor until she was old enough to endure the corrosive darkness that was laced within the very air of Asshai. As they traveled from the depths of the east, to the brighter shores of any other land, did it slowly dawn on her how wealthy her father was.

Asshai was a land of shadows, of rot and death, a cursed womb that tainted all borne of it. Ocythe was more Asshai’s daughter than she ever was her father’s. Her voice was not sweet, pleasantries turned to ash on her tongue, her presence was not a refuge in the dark, but the shiver of cold one felt upon stepping into a shadow. Just as no food could grow in the shadow of the mountain, no charm could blossom, as it was a useless trait in Asshai, as useless as teats on a tomcat.

Useless to anyone beside her father.

Her senses, usually so attuned, sharpened like a blade, buzzed and thrummed uselessly in the strange new land. City ports had been the same from Yi Ti to Lys, a constant bustle of people who had no time to stop and stare, but now it seemed the entirety of the Red Keep had the leisure to stop and stare. She could feel it, not the affirming weight of Prince’s gaze, but rather each set of eyes were a needle through a pin cushion. Her clothes suddenly felt too thick, ill equipped for the heavy and unshaded sun.

The heat did not subside once within the Red Keep, it wasn’t until they were deep within the stone walls to shelter her from the blistering sun. She listened absentmindedly, the journey’s exhaustion catching up with her, the strange new weight of sudden and crushing self awareness strangling any semblance of wherewithal to even try and translate the common Westerosi tongue.

“We apologize for any inconvenience caused by our early arrival, Your Highness.” She managed to catch her father’s entreaties. “Favorable winds can be the difference of a month at that distance, it seems.”

“No inconvenience at all,” Baelor said, though she could hear him catch on her father’s lack of title, a stunted but graceful response. “We’re eager to read all you’ve brought, my King Father is the true testament to the belief that knowledge is power. A private audience is much preferred when discussing such matters.”

Suddenly, they were approached by two young women, one blonde, one of raven hair, neither more than seven-and-ten by the looks of it, lower noblewomen on the cusp of marital age she was sure. They wore their hair in dramatically high braids, their dresses pastel and wrapped. The fashion was distantly Valyrian, muted by centuries and continents apart from their origin.

“Your handmaidens,” the prince gestured to the young woman, who looked as if they could hardly stand to look at her, let alone serve her, sallow with fear. “They will attend to your every need.”

Ocythe, still stricken by the heat, barely remembered herself to curtsey.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” She said, her voice like wind over sand, her eastern accent marked on her vowels, and rough from disuse.

Her father hummed in delight.

“How considerate, Your Highness. Her sisters usually fill that position at home, I hope this experience does not spoil her.” He chuckled, with that awful charm of his, eliciting a chuckle from the prince as well.

“A daughter as lovely as your own is easy to spoil,” Baelor said, fixing his mismatched gaze upon her once more. “I imagine.”

Her father laughed again, and the two men continued down the hallway, leaving her alone with the handmaidens.

“This way to your chambers, my-“ the dark haired girl paused. “Right this way.”

Already, her presence seemed challenging. The two handmaidens led her to a nearby chamber.

Smaller than her bedroom at home, but not by much, the room was entirely pale stone, with grand arches that let sun and breeze flow through. A large, four post bed dominated the furthest wall, a feather stuffed mattress looking fit to burst with its filling, covered with a stylish blanket she could never imagine herself using. Already, her chests await her. Ten of just clothing alone, four more for jewelry, all the while the three for linens used on the road, and the three used for toiletries and pharmaka were surely stored away in the belly of the Keep.

“We will unpack those for you tonight,” the dark-haired girl explained, noticing Ocythe’s lingering gaze on the heavy trunks. “Unless you need something specific from them now.”

Ocythe simply raised a hand in dismissal, her feet naturally drifting her towards the bed like a current swept the swimmer out to the sea. The mattress dipped beneath her weight as she sat on the ledge, just as soft as its appearance had promised. The handmaidens lingered anxiously by the door, awaiting their dismissal.

Without more thought, she began to remove her veil, discarding it to the pillow behind her with a metallic hiss of metal on metal.

“My Lady-“ the dark haired girl gasped, reaching for the delicate silver chain veil from all the way across the room, agape at her carelessness. “Shall we put those away for you?”

Ocythe nodded, beginning to work on the thin scarf which bound her hair. Unwinding once, twice, thrice, before her dark hair spilled down past her shoulders like ink upon a page. She tossed the fabric aside as well.

“Do what you must,” Ocythe bade with another wave of her hand. “I must sleep.”

“Shall we wake you for dinner?” The dark-haired girl asked, retrieving her scarf and her veil from the pillow beside her.

Ocythe paused. The concept of dinner with Prince Baelor Breakspear, with his damnable and dual colored gaze was an agony she could not bear for a moment longer if she did not sleep or scream. She could scarcely dare to imagine what a betrothal to the man would do to her health.

“Yes.” She agreed, hoping to keep the resignation from her voice.

Instead she sounded barbed.

“And shall I draw you a bath before dinner?” The blonde finally managed to find her voice.

“Yes, yes.” Ocythe agreed, toeing off her slippers. “Wake me then.”

Her slumber was heavy and thankfully dreamless, too tired and strained to conjure neither visions nor falsehoods. Her mind stirred naturally before her body, more aware than her heavy limbs, awoken by the sound of water being poured into the metal tub, accompanied by hushed whispers that hoped the water would conceal them.

“Do you think she has those…markings elsewhere on her?” the voice was mousy, hesitant but distantly disdainful. The blonde.

“Tattoos,” the dark haired girl corrected, “and I don’t know. I thought only slaves had tattoos, but I’ve never seen anything like hers before.”

Ocythe had learned to catch whispers, as they were the language of shadows, carried within them like a stream carrying a leaf. Indeed, Ocythe’s face was framed and dotted by black. Upon her forehead, four parallel lines, two on each side streaked downward then flanged out towards her ears before ending at a point, framing the elongate half diamond resting upon the peak of her forehead, its tail the most dramatic and thick before it too came to a point above and between her brows. Each cheek bore four diamonds clustered to an organized shape, just below her storm grey eyes when set straight. On her chin, three prongs, with the middle most reaching all the way to her plush bottom lip. Each line, each diamond, meant something these girls could never understand, their crisp lines a testament to her stillness despite prolonged hours of ceaseless pain. These were no slave markings, hastily jammed into unwilling flesh, but rather sigils the same as the Dragon or the Lion, a banner made flesh.

“I’ve never seen a lady as tall as her either.” The blonde girl dared again, with another sloshing sound of a cauldron being emptied. “Taller than the prince, I reckon. How does a lady get so tall? Especially in a land where no food may grow.”

“Shadows stretch, don’t they?” the other girl responded, a twinge of gossip on her tongue. “Why else is she so thin? Perhaps she can be squashed down too, make her fat and short.”

The two giggled softly, muted by bitten lips and cheeks.

“For the best we don’t have to worry about her hair, I reckon I’d need a stool to braid it if she so pleased.” The dark haired girl began this time, the sound of hot stones clacking to be put in the fire.

“You’re braver than me, I do not think I can bring myself to touch her. I do not care if I’m sent back to The Reach, I’d rather have my hands at home in my father’s court than to catch whatever shadowrot she carries.”

Unable to stomach much more, Ocythe summoned her sleep-slacked limbs and sinews to tighten and work, sitting up abruptly. The sound of shuffling fabric alerted the girls at once, the blonde even startled, dropping one of the stones upon her delicate foot with a wail.

An injury she would incur the blame for, no doubt.

Forgetting her friend, the dark haired handmaid straightened her back before bowing her head, her lips trembling. Ocythe could smell the foul and pungent tang of fear in their sweat, but as no apologies were spilled, perhaps they were hoping she had not heard.

Instead of speaking, she let the pair simmer in their pained silence, lording their conscience over them like an anvil. She rose, stretching her long and lithe body like she’d seen the cat on the first ship do many times after a particularly restorative nap. She did not work at the ties of her own dress, but rather she paced slowly, languidly to the blonde girl, whose face contorted in pain as she struggled to stand and bow her head like her companion. Ocythe turned, presenting her back expectantly and wordlessly to the blonde.

There was a heavy, drawn silence, a thick nothingness before trembling, small fingers began to undo her laces. In a few pulls, Ocythe’s dress was undone, shrugging it from her shoulders before she removed her underclothes herself, satisfied with her torment enough

As she turned, bare and naked in the sun’s setting light, the girls set back to the work her gazes pointedly averted. Ocythe did not move beyond the stepping out of her crumbled and discarded clothes, her eyes moving like a hawk over their every hurried action.

“What oil would you prefer, my lady?” the dark haired girl spoke first, still not lifting her head.

Ocythe blinked at the girl, her steely silence her only reply.

“Night-blooming jasmine is best.” She offered, but the damage had been done.

Without consultation, the blonde girl acted, pouring a vial of perfumed oil into the steaming water, scenting the air with what Ocythe could only assume was the aforementioned jasmine. Pleasant and floral, yet with a darkness she could not pin.

Her bath and preparation for dinner continued in barbed quiet. Upon scrubbing her fingernails, the girls found that indeed, on the backs of her hands, usually hidden by her long sleeves, she bore similar markings to her cheeks, though they seemed a softer, more faded shade of black, the years already leeching the ink into her ashen, almost violet toned skin. In dressing she merely gestured at her trunks, watching with a hidden pride as the girl’s eyes widened at each article of clothing. Her dress for dinner was a deep, almost black amethyst brocade, with delicate gold inlays from her father’s mine.

The dark haired girl brushed her hair, her fingers passing over the silken strands more times than necessary, as if to assess if indeed it was as smooth as she thought. Still, it was wound neatly and tightly beneath her purple headscarf, pinned into place.

Ocythe gestured once more to another chest, smaller, more ornate. She was supposed to wear it to the name day celebration, but she hoped in a month's time she could wear it again.

The headpiece fanned up and out like the rays of the setting sun, what should have been immensely heavy and strenuous on the neck was offset by the precise thinness of the metal, with carvings so minute and plentiful it was as if it were a map of the stars in the sky. Beside it in the chest was the accompanying veil, a translucent mesh of gold that would end just above her nose. The blonde simply stared, mouth agape as she held the fine craftsmanship tentatively, as if her touch might break it.

Indeed, the dark haired girl did need a stool to fashion it properly. The request alone garnered the attention of other nearby servants, who had been skittering about curiously at the fringes, drawing their heads in to see the foreigner draped in the wealth equal to the totality of some lower houses.

The walk to dinner was no different. Previously wary servants no longer averted their eyes, as all gazes in the Red Keep drawn inevitably to wealth and power. Despite this, the walk to the dining hall felt more like a march to war.

She could glimpse the table as they approached, already populated by various men she was sure were of great import. Her father’s deep red robes were unmistakable, even amongst the black and red of Targaryen sigils, his charm flowed like the wine. Already, she could feel herself sink into the comfort of his shadow, so long as he let her stay.

“Lady Ocythe, of Asshai by the Mountain.”

Baelor’s chair scraped loudly as he was the first to stand, with all others except stone-faced old man who sat at the head, a golden crown encircling his head, his white hair cropped and neat, his gaze a piercing and unscrupulous violet.

“My sweet daughter,” Her father praised, taking her from the handmaids who curtseyed before the king. “His Grace, King Daeron II, King of the Andals and the First Men.”

The king turned his violet gaze to her. She could see very little in resemblance between the king and his son, save for the intensity of that gaze, which was lineage enough. He assessed her, beyond the clothes, beyond the veil, finding not the woman to be paraded for suitors, but instead that girl, clinging to her father’s pant leg, too shy to introduce herself but still insistent on seeing those strange men from the ships her father welcomed into their grand hall.

“Your Grace.” Ocythe curtseyed, mindful of how far she bowed her head with her headdress, amazed that her voice still worked despite how her heart settled in her throat. “We are eternally grateful for your host and hospitality.”

He raised his bony hand, gesturing to an empty chair in the middle of the table to his left.

“Well met,” His voice was as thin as his papery skin. “Please, be seated. Our first course is set to begin.”

She settled beside her father, her other side flanked by the Master of Coin as she learned when each member of the table was summarily introduced to her by her father.

“And of course, Prince Baelor, Hand of the King-” Baelor halted her father with the same gesture of his hand by his father.

“Please, we have already met.” His words addressed her father, but his two toned eyes fell upon her with that austere, penetrating gaze. “If we all listed our titles in each address, our food will go cold.”

His polite admonishment was delivered with a tensing at the corners of his lips, the precursor of a smile, but gone before it could grow.

Ocythe’s chest tightened again, the dim light of the candles hopefully hiding the shade of her flush. So often, she found herself unable to look men in the eyes, as in Asshai it could mean a death sentence. Even besides that, Ocythe found the act itself strenuous as she never knew when the right time to look away was, all for fear of staying for too long.

She did not feel the same fear when she looked at the prince. Truly, she felt no fear at all. The strange new realm, the oppressive heat, the snickering remarks of handmaidens, all seemed so menial when they met eye to eye.

Her young heart fluttered, a dangerous sensation, as she did not share her father’s hope. A woman the world recoiled from was not meant to be queen.
She did not need any magics or shadows or ritual flames to divine that truth.

She blinked once, twice to be deliberate, before she turned away, the tinkling baubles at the peaks of her headdress a worthy distraction but she felt the prince’s gaze did not cease.

“Then, you must forgive me,” the Master of War said, his voice as gruff as his looks. “But why have you come such a long way? Surely not just for our beloved Valarr’s name day.”

“A name day celebration hardly warrants half a year’s journey.” The Master of Whisperers said, his pointer finger tracing the rim of his goblet. His one red eye burned into her, a vicious and burning color, almost the same color as the birthmark splashed across his face. Clearly, this man was the Blood of the Dragon, but she could not be sure of the relation, as he was not given the name Targaryen, but rather Rivers.

“Auspicious signs of strength.” Baelor cut in. “The Great Houses will be in attendance, it will be good for them to see we have built influence even in the furthest known reaches of the world, especially after the war.”

Clearly unsatisfied with the answer, the one eyed man sat back before he took a swig of his drink, pressing no further.

“And what a nameday to attend! I hear Prince Valarr is to be knighted with his coming of age.” Her father swiftly changed the topic. “Ocythe is eight-and-ten herself, more beautiful than ever… though I can still recall when I could hold her within one hand.”

All eyes seemed to shift to her unfamiliar form, all looming height and straight backed rigidity. The contradiction elicited a throaty chuckle from a few guests. Already, he was flourishing. The melodic nostalgia in his voice, the exaggerated furrowing of his brow, before his voice brightened again.

A few men leaned closer.

“Truly!” he exclaimed, putting his hand over his heart. “I remember when she was born, she cried until she was nearly the same shade of purple as her dress. I remember the birth of all my daughters. All eight of them.”

“Eight?” The Master of Whisperers asked incredulously. “Any sons?”

“No, My Lord.” Her father denied with a shake of his head.

A murmuring sound spread across the table. She was unsure of the reception to that fact, as if they found it objectionable, or her father’s intentions becoming clearer and clearer.

“Must’ve been a difficult selection process, I’m sure.” The Master of Whisperers spoke again, his words muffled by the goblet at his lips. “If all your daughters are as well decorated as Lady Ocythe, perhaps we underestimated the wealth of Asshai.”

A flicker, in her father’s eyes, a falter of the perfect facade, a tick in his jaw. Well decorated, a purposeful slight, a corpse could be decorated. The other intimation was not lost on her either. We know so little, what else are we underestimating about you?

“Their presence here,” The king himself cut in. “Is of the utmost importance, the salvation of our very House is at stake.”

A hush fell over the room, the air so suddenly sucked out, Ocythe swore she saw the candles flicker, the intimation clear.

They’d arrived at the matter of her dowry it seemed.

Dragons.

Chapter Text

Three weeks blurred together. They did not dine with the king again, their meals instead delivered to their rooms.

Her father charmed in his usual fashion, spending his days between the Keep’s libraries and the king’s court, whoring himself to any man that could bring him closer to Prince Breakspear again.

All and all it was luckless. She didn’t venture into court, she didn’t inflict her presence on others, as she watched them all flinch and cow the moment she entered a room, the space given to her with every stride.

The dinner had answered all of Ocythe’s questions. She did not share her father’s optimism, she saw their position for what it was: Jumped up merchants. Foreigners with no land.

Their arrival had been at an auspicious time in the Targaryen dynasty.

Well… auspicious for Ocythe and her father, as it seemed there were more unwed male heirs than sisters and cousins to marry.

There was Prince Baelor, of course, who was widowed nearly 16 years ago. His two sons, Valarr and Matarys, neither betrothed, and both within her age. Then there was the line of Prince Maekar, who would be arriving the next day for Prince Valarr’s nameday tourney. From Prince Maekar was the eldest, Daeron, two years older than Valarr and herself, and Aerion, who was one year her junior.

Her father was convinced with the host of unwed Targaryens, he could find one worthy of her dowry.

She had to counsel her father day and night not to reveal their true treasure in an act of desperation. He was so stubborn, so set in his ways that charm and money could fix all.

That was Asshai, where magic ruled and blood greased the gilded wheels. In Westeros, where magic was a myth and blood a meant lineage, they would let their name speak instead of their actions of ability.

When pressed at dinner for their knowledge of Dragonlore, Ocythe only revealed the dragon tooth she wore around her neck. The tooth was no blackened fossil, but fresh, likely from the mother of the eggs.

The eggs.

Their eggs. Found near the wastes of Stygia by one of her father’s slaves. Her father had been searching tirelessly since the mountain began to wake, a known Dragonsign. Sure enough, her father was right, as he so often was.

Not one.

Not two.

But three dragon eggs. Three wriggling and hot dragon eggs. They did not move every day, and not greatly, but some nights on her journey, when she had locked every possible door, closed every window or crack, she would hold an egg to her body to feel its subtle shifting like a mother felt a child.

They hadn’t breached the topic yet.

How could they? Their conditions bordered on extortion. Marry my daughter, and you may have three dragon eggs. What stopped the royal house from killing them just for the eggs? What if another house caught wind?

In the corner of her room, inconspicuous to the world, was a small, dusty trunk with a lock no key could open.

At times, when had nothing to do but watch the sun crawl across the sky, she fantasized about throwing the trunk at Baelor’s feet, supplicating herself there as well. She imagined how his two-toned eyes would widen, how he’d struggle to form a courtly and composed response, but her melancholy forbade her from even dreaming that he’d take her hand in marriage.

Sometimes, she would allow herself to imagine his thanks. She envisioned his awe warring with his propriety, in her wildest dreams he allowed the back of his knuckles to brush over her cheeks.

But she imagined nothing further. She wouldn’t degrade such a noble man, so virtuous and kind, to such debased fantasies.

Other than her daydreaming, she had no recourse to the endless slide of solitude. The only mercy was the changing of her handmaidens.

The same night as the dinner, the night of her arrival, the two handmaidens were dismissed. Instead of the two girls upon her arrival back to her chambers, she found a woman. The woman was advanced in her years, with grey streaked dark hair, warm dark skin, and even as age touched her eyes, those were dark too.

The woman did not recoil when she dressed and undressed her each day, did not make snide comments when she thought Ocythe was asleep.

Neither spoke more than polite greetings or simple preferences.

Day and day out, Ocythe dressed only to sit in her chambers. Her time was punctuated not by the hourglass but by breakfast, her handmaiden’s arrival to dress her for the day, her lunch, then dinner, then her handmaiden helping her undress and bathe for the evening.

The first guests for the tourney would be arriving tomorrow, Baelor’s youngest brother Prince Maekar, his wife and his pack of children. Her father assured her that Prince Maekar had not only one, but two sons who were marriage eligible.

But she had no interest in other princes. She had no experience with boys her age, and from her view of the courtyard from her chamber, she had very little interest in gaining any.

Another pastime she’d come to enjoy was eavesdropping. There wasn’t much gossip in Asshai, not anything you’d risk your life to hear, as that was the price more often than not, but Kings Landing was quite the opposite.

She swore everyone and their mother talked as freely as the breeze, so long as they couldn’t see another.

It didn’t help that she was knowing in the ways of the shadows and the prophetic flame. Almost anything she wanted to know, she could find at her altar of the hearth.

She’d come to learn that the second born, Aerion, was most troublesome, even by Targaryen standards. She’d heard the servants who scrubbed the floors of the main hall whisper about how many cats suddenly go missing whenever the young prince comes to visit, how a servant boy was once beaten to blindness at Aerion’s behest over an allegedly stolen pendant. By all accounts, he was as cruel as he was wild.

If the only Targaryen they could manage to marry her off to was that one, she would throw the trunk of dragon eggs into the deepest depths of the Jade Sea herself. From all she’d seen and all she’d heard, it was Baelor and his line, his two sons, who should be the rightful owner of those eggs.

Ocythe refrained from her magics often. She knew that her magics were indeed very old, and that she was in a savage land with false idols; thus magic was mere wivestale, a horror. She prayed every night and no more, unless she grew utterly restless and sent a spying shade into the dark.

Though, the nights made her bolder. Having restricted her spells, she had picked up a horrible habit of sneaking out of chambers.

With each passing night, she ventured further and further. She knew by day, she was welcomed to roam, but she could hardly stand the passing glances of either horror or disgust. At night, she could move with her shadows, even escaping the notice of guards as she slithered through the dark.

That night was no different.

She moved without sound, one foot in front of the other, rolling heel to toe. She was going further into the Red Keep than she’d ever ventured, where her shadows had glanced, to the skull of Balareon the Black Dread.

She’d heard tell that the Targaryens had a few eggs, fossilized and cold, no more than stones, as dead as Balareon, all the more reason why her eggs, wriggling and moving in her trunk, could not be taken lightly.

She was mid stride, on a middle level, a domestic floor, with no elaborate veil or headdress to add to her height or give her away by jingling like a jester’s bells, when a hand grasped her shoulder.

If she was not so schooled in her emotions, she would have yelped at the fright, instead her body only jolted, arched and tense like a startled cat.

“My apologies,” a warm and rich voice rumbled with amusement, but sincerity. “I did not mean to startle you, My Lady.”

Her head whipped to find the source, her mouth parting as her eyes widened in the candlelight held by her captor. There, in the empty and dark halls at the hour of the wolf, stood Prince Baelor.

His grip on her arm was not a clutch, but a gentle and steadying touch, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle against the bare skin of her upper armbefore he retracted his hand.

Don’t- she wanted to protest. Keep your hand upon me, always.

“My Prince-“ she moved to curtsey, but he waved her off. “My apologies.”

“But it was I that frightened you, my Lady.” He stepped closer, bringing the light between them, illuminating his handsome face, softening the lines of age first beginning to shape and deepen. “Why should you apologize?”

Ocythe blinked at him, her storm grey eyes impossibly large like the creatures of darkness, inordinately wide in order to grasp whatever scraps of light they could. Another chuckle rumbled from deep in his chest, guiding her by the elbow to a nearby side table, his clever fingertips deft, but painfully lingering.

“Despite what that look in your eye might have me believe, you’re not a prisoner here, my Lady.” The prince scolded, though his admonishment was twinged with a wry amusement, a tightening of his lips that resisted a smile. “You’ve no need to scuttle in the shadows like a door mouse if you leave your chamber, we do not have a curfew.”

Despite his attempts at comfort, Ocythe’s shoulders did not slack. Instead, she ducked her head, not trusting his gaze upon her bare face, for fear he might have seen the color spreading on her cheeks.

It was a terrible sensation, whatever it was that feeling was that always seemed to follow Baelor. It was like his shadow, wherever he went, he seemed to be cast upon her. Her fingers tingled, her tongue fat and useless, every inch of her burned worse than the day she stayed out in the sun too long.

“Aye, Your Highness.” She managed, knowing a response would be expected, but saying so little felt so useless. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

The prince exhaled through his nose with a shake of his head. Amused, yet strained. Still, he stepped closer, the loose fabric of her haphazardly wrapped veil catching on his doublet. He was still dressed for the Small Council chamber.

Ocythe was not.

Ocythe wore nothing more than her nightgown, a shawl for her shoulders, and the aforementioned headscarf draped loosely, unfastened and unpinned, held between her hands as she clutched the shawl. Her black hair spilled like ink over her cheeks, her shoulders, down her back, slipping out and catching the wind. The fabric was all thin, shimmering and easy silks, pale blue like the waters of the Narrow Sea. The silks had appeared within days of her arrival, a much needed respite from the heat of her overbearing and thick robes that were illsuited for days in the sun.

“I too suffer from bouts of restlessness.” Baelor began, his studying of her features less than subtle. “I’ve heard many remedies, from maestar’s tinctures to flagons of wine, but I find nothing puts me at ease quite like a tax ledger.”

He exhaled again, a dry chortle at his own joke, or his own attempt at one.

“Oh, I’m certain that would put me right to sleep as well, your Highness.” Her words, ever tinted with their eastern vowels and Asshai’i hisses, this time were laced with her own humor, subtle and dry.

Another chuff, her humor received.

The chuff quickly stumbled into a chuckle, deep and throaty, accompanied by a shaking of his head.

“I should not be so presumptuous.” He said, his head lifting slightly to be on an even plane with hers, “to boldly project my sufferings onto you. Perhaps, it is that the night is more agreeable to your nature.”

Ocythe would have bristled at the comment if it came from any other man, but Baelor Breakspear was not any other man. But his observation was not unkind, not othering, but rather a tentative probe.

“Do know, I do not presume this because of your origin,” he continued, his voice dipping low, a conspiratorial whisper. “But rather I have smelled your incense in the night halls these past few nights, distinct as it is. It’s no mere coincidence I found you. It’s been weighing on me, the thought of you scurrying like a thief in the night for a book or a crumb of bread.”

Ocythe stilled, her breathing stuttering to a stop. Ever the attentive, the prince stilled as well.

“You may ask for more than bread and cheese.” He murmured, his eyes following a loose black lock that hung in front of her face. “Your prudence is admirable, yes, but a prince might find it insulting to presume that he cannot provide for his guest.”

“My apologies, your-“ she turned to him, but was cut off by his proximity, choking the words in her throat.

“My Lady, please.” He insisted, “you mean no offense, I know. Neither do I.”

Her cheeks flushed again, that painful prickling of blood in that delicate space between tissue and skin. Her heart was twisting within the fragile confines of her chest, her sinews tightening like an old leather strap. She looked away once again.

“Whatever your heart desires, my Lady,” He continued, once again in that hearth fire timbre. “If it is within my grasp, it is within yours.”

Even as the proposal left his lips, they both knew the awful truth that he would not offer such a thing if he did not intend to make good on it. That it was beyond the hospitality of even the most excellent host.

Neither moved, his words still hung in the air between them, thick and tangible, unable to be swept away by the night breeze.

“Some might take advantage of that offer,” her reply was barbed, as doubt was her only true tongue. “Your Highness.”

“I’m well aware,” he returned, without a moment of hesitation. “That’s why I offer it to you, my Lady.”

The confirmation, the digging in of his heels, it was almost enough to kill her. She turned her head, finally daring herself to look, already knowing what she would find. His mismatched eyes were tender, the brown and the blue were the same shade as Blackwater Bay in the candlelight.

“You’ve not been in court.” He said, that same sort of gentle probing tone of his. “Is it not to your liking?”

“Not at all,” she snipped, before she could help herself, “Rather it is that I am not to the court’s liking.”

She wanted to bite her own tongue off to keep herself from saying anything else so unbelievably stupid, as she felt she was utterly unable to lie to the man.

“Please forgive me,” she murmured. “I should not take such a tone with a prince.”

Another chuckle, this time accompanied by the shake of his head. His presence was closer, excruciatingly closer. The pair stood shoulder to shoulder now, observing the candle flame on the table as if it were of the utmost interest.

“You didn’t take it with me, My Lady.” He chortled, eyes flicking over her once more. “You expressed an opinion near me as that is your right. But it is my duty to assure you that you and your father are my guests here, and my guests should be treated with respect, wherever they go.”

There was a beat of silence, the flame licking softly at the scant amount of air between them.

Now, her treacherous spirit commanded. Throw yourself at his feet, you fool. Beg for forgiveness. Beg that he might touch your arm again, or your face, or your waist, or your hips, anywhere-

Her breath faltered, breaking the tenuous silence, a string of spider’s silk, between them. Her eyes darted first, unable to bear his unblinking gaze for a moment longer. Her hands curled on the desk in front of her for support, exhaling through her nose.

The prince stood very still beside her, she could sense his concern, a suffocating cocoon she wished to be burned in. She could hardly manage the sizzling inhale and exhale she had to remember to repeat, rather than passively breathing.

He shouldn’t touch me, her conscience intruded on her base nature. I am tainted by the shadow, poisoned by black magics. He does not know the Lord of Light, he cannot burn away my sin.

“My Lady, if I have offended-“ he began after another extended silence, now punctuated by the forceful exhale through her nose each breath.

“Did you dismiss my handmaidens?” She cut in, daring to turn her face once more. “They were rude to me, whispered behind my back. I did not tell you, but by dawn they were gone. Was that your work, Your Highness?”

Another silence, his face twisting with something. First, his brows furrowed, then lips pursed and curled down at the edges, before his eyes flickered to the flame between them. For a prince, he wore his guilt too openly. She could see it, she watched as his guilt played across his face like a song as he remembered his propriety and station, the clear boundaries they should have between guest and host, prince and peasant.

He sighed, plucking the candle from the table, his eyes still averted.

“It’s late, My Lady.” He said, straightening his back. “You should get your rest, take my candle to guide your way.”

Ocythe shook her head, a gentle dismissal.

“No, thank you, my prince. I do not need it.” She said, pressing her hands together and then into her lap, a childish gesture to avoid having anything shoved into them.

A glint in his eyes, a tightening of his lips.

“Very well, My Lady.” He conceded, stepping aside.

With that, Ocythe slipped back into the night to find the safety of her chamber. And once in her chamber, she did not sleep. Instead, she curled in her bed, praying that the sun would rise, and would banish her embarrassment from the night.

Chapter Text

The sun rose steadily over the horizon, an answer to her nighttime prayer.

The night had haunted her, every glance, every word, they were still fresh in her mind as if he was still beside her. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel his heat.

“Whatever your heart desires, my Lady, if it is within my grasp, it is within yours.”

The offer was a white hot brand on her soul. It burned her inside and out. She had been too stupid, too fearful to take the man’s heart held out to her, fluttering and beating on a golden platter.

Shortly after dawn spread her rosy fingers, tangled them in her nape then drug her out of bed to her windowsill to take in the morning light, her handmaiden arrived, a far earlier arrival than usual.

“The prince’ll be here soon, my Lady.” The crone rasped in her accented Common. “And his horde of little dragons, you are to meet them.”

Ocythe wiped half sleep from her weary eyes, surely bedraggled by dark circles based on the crone’s leery examination of her current state. The dread only grew as her handmaiden said nothing, not even a grunt of acknowledgment or permission, but instead only looked as if she were a general planning battle positions.

“I can wear a full veil,” Ocythe suggested, her restraint worn to nothing by exhaustion. “If I am indeed so unsightly.”

The old woman scoffed, stepping back.

“No, my Lady.” She said, already moving to her trunks to retrieve a dress. “Just imagining how Prince Maekar might find you and your…”

The crone didn’t need to finish her sentence. Ocythe already knew what she meant. She knew how the lords and ladies of the court stepped aside at her presence, their gazes hungrily brushing aside any obfuscation of her face to find her tattoos, to confirm if the rumors of the foreign Lady with strange markings on her face were indeed true.

Within the room, the old woman moved with surprising purpose and chose with intention, a detail Ocythe did not miss as she rose from her perch. It seemed the crone had a preference on what dress she wore, and it would seem a matching veil or headdress as well.

Ocythe tentatively approached the meal the old woman had brought for her. Fragrant blackberry honey cakes, soft cheeses, and an elegant half of a freshly caught fish, her stomach managed to growl despite the knots that it’d been tied in over the night. She had to be mindful, three weeks of fresh and fine food and she could barely fit the dresses she’d brought with her. Her spindly frame had quickly filled out, starting in her hips, her arms, even her chest. If she wasn’t careful, she wasn’t sure where else she would strain against her dresses next.

The crone brushed her hair as she ate, a rare combination, her haste spoke of how little time they had. Each pass of the brush through her hair smoothed it until it shined like black molasses. Swiftly, with practiced ease, the old woman braided her hair in tight, intricate braids. She felt her work multiple braids at once, something Ocythe had never worn, as it would end up beneath a headpiece anyway, but today the crone had a clear design in mind.

Hair and faces were powerful things, a loose strand could connect you, a face could be envisioned in a spell, in Asshai one must keep both as close as your blood or your true name. It was a matter of safety, not propriety, if given the choice, she’d wrap her face or hair before she wrapped her body.

But those magics did not live in Westeros, they were utterly unknown to the First Men or the Andals.

Perhaps it was for the better.

The elaborate work took quite some time, at least double what it usually took to ready her, and Ocythe deduced that was why she didn’t wait for her to finish eating. Even when Ocythe had finished her breakfast, she was ushered over to her usual stool before her mirror.

There, in the reflection, she saw the fading dark circles beneath her eyes, though they were far less distracting than her tattoos. Silently, she watched the old woman work, her eyes intent and curious over the flurry of her fingers.

“The princes will be eager to meet you.” The crone said, an answer to the question her gaze asked.

“Prince Maekar’s sons?” She asked, her cheek packed with a honey cake she’d brought with her from her breakfast.

“Aye,” the woman swiped a crumb from the edge of her mouth. “And Prince Baelor’s, they’ve come from Dragonstone just this morning.”

Valarr and Matarys. The Young Prince, and the Younger Prince, as they were known. Other possible suitors.

“And?” She asked, a moment of unbidden curiosity getting the better of her. “Do you know them? Are they like their cousins?”

The crone chuffed, gesturing to her to rise to dress.

“They’re fine young men.”

That was to say they were not like their cousins at all.

Ocythe did as she was bade, watching the crone scurry about the room before she retrieved a dress not from her own collection, but from a small chest Ocythe had noticed before.

“A gift.” The woman said, sensing the question on Ocythe’s lips even as she had her back turned away.

She didn’t bother asking from whom, she assumed it was her same patron who had exchanged her handmaidens. A pang in her chest as she remembered the heat of Baelor beside her, his multicolored eyes ever present in her mind.

The dress was a fine, deep red damask, accented by threads of silver, the cut of the sleeves revealed a black lining. It was in the finest and most popular fashion she’d seen only the wealthiest ladies of the court wear. It wasn’t just any dress, it was a dress of House Targaryen from seam to tip.

She chewed her bottom lip anxiously, hoping it would fit.

To her pleasant surprise, it fit like a glove, especially over her new womanly figure she’d begun to fill out. Her handmaiden hummed in satisfaction at the estimation, a pleased little smile on her face as she cinched the laces in.

“You’ll wear your headdress and no scarf today, my Lady.” The woman said, adjusting a braid tighter as she rose.

Ocythe exhaled. It would be…new, bold, Westerosi. She knew a few strands of shed hair would not be swept up and kept to be burned in a curse-fire.

“Can the princes not imagine my hair?” She asked, examining herself in the mirror with a soft, burgeoning pride.

She looked… like a lady. Her hair neatly braided and pinned in a great spiral to contain just how long it was. Her tattoos rested upon her face like the Targaryen house colors rested against her body.

The clusters of four diamonds beneath her each eye, making the same greater shape. The same marks were upon the backs of her hands, though the black ink was faded and stretched at the harsh edges from time.

They were marks of protection, the kind men paid shadowbinders to paint upon them to brave the Doom of Valyria, to endure the edges of the Shadow where everyone except shadowbinders did not dare to roam. All the women of her family bore them, and her hands were the first to be protected, as were their hands, as hands weaved the shadow first.

Each tattoo was another protection, upon her forehead to preserve her mind from the terrors of the Night and Shadow, beneath her mouth to save the tongue that could whisper dark magics. To those who did not already know, they would never know. They were savage markings on a savage girl from a savage culture.

“Careful girl.” The old crone warned softly. “They are still your princes so long as you’re in this land, do know that. Sit.”

Ocythe sat on her stool again, her bodice keeping her from slouching to let the old woman reach the top of her head more easily.

The headpiece was scant, it did not hide nor obscure her face, instead it hugged it like a border, with silver pronged spikes protruding from every direction. It was a sunburst, or a barricade. She would be more exposed and bare than ever, yet her defenses were true.

She was hurried down to the Great Hall, still blinking and wincing at the early morning sun, her large eyes bred to pluck the scantest glimmer of light from darkness perhaps would never fully adjust to the intensity.

There, she was met by the sight of her father, chatting easily with Baelor again, as if they had the rapport of a King with a trusted advisor, eating their own breakfast over a banquet table. Across from the Prince Hand sat two young men, whom she assumed to be his sons. If it wasn’t for their dress, their looks would have given them away.

One with dark brown hair, accompanied by a small silver streak, older than the other but just Ocythe’s age was surely Valarr. The other, with red hair, a brilliant smile and a careless sort of ease to his youthful presence must’ve been young Matarys.

“Daughter!” Her father exclaimed, too cheerful for this hour of the morning. “How is it you become lovelier and lovelier every day.”

“You should wear red more often.” Her father praised, taking her from her Handmaiden’s escort. “Our Lord’s colors suit you well.”

A clever twisting, a secret prayer just streets away from the epicenter of the Great Sept. Ocythe noticed her father could hardly manage to bite his tongue at every praise or dedication to the Seven.

The young princes with their back to her approach, turned their gaze over their shoulders to assess her father’s claim. She curtseyed when she approached, but her eyes moved past the boys, and instead fixed on their father.

“My princes.” She greeted, but those storm grey eyes of hers, fluttering and flashing beneath thick lashes were clearly not for them.

Do you like the dress? Her gaze seemed to ask as she rose, trying to move with languid steps to show off the fine fabric. Baelor’s eyes darted away, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Valarr rose first, with a determined and courtly manner. He bowed his head slightly, as princely and stiff as a statue of his ancestors. Then there was Matarys, who upon realizing proper protocol by watching his brother, scrambled to his feet to match Valarr’s position, head down slightly.

“My Lady.” The young Prince acknowledged with a nod, his own mismatched eyes sweeping over her dress in assessment. “I am pleased to see my father did not overstate your beauty in his ravens.”

Ocythe repressed a smile, it could have just been platitudes, a charming and prepared comment, but the mention of Baelor’s attention was not lost on her.

“I did not receive any ravens describing your beauty, but I would agree with them if I did.” Matarys said, nudging in front of his older brother with the zeal of a younger sibling. “Even then, I’m sure no mere writings could compare to a beauty like yours.”

“You’re too kind.” Ocythe’s humility was genuine, especially as the even younger prince continued.

“A beauty like yours surely has never grazed my family’s shores! Such markings and height-“

“Matarys.” Baelor chided softly, but gave no warning behind it.

Her father chuckled and broke the tension, waving her to join them at the table. Ocythe settled beside her father, who was bedside Baelor, putting her on the opposite end of the table. She did not eat, as she had eaten earlier and the dress cinched at her waist. She looked at the lemon cakes longingly, and the figs, and the soft cheeses drizzled with honey over soft breads, her fingers twitched to reach for one.

“As long as the compliment is genuine, he does no harm. What sort of girl does not enjoy the attention of a prince?” Her father hummed, all ease and charm.

Baelor, for his part, even outside of her vision, tensed. She could feel it, feel him tense, flex his jaw tight at her father’s comment. She’d realized it, in the hours between night and dawn, the man was fighting for every inch of his propriety. If they were to be married, it would have been done by now, their engagement short and swift.

Instead, it seemed she was to be shuffled off to some other Targaryen, one further in line, or an obscured branch that flowered to nothing. Baelor’s restraint was an act of duty, barely concealed to the passive magics Ocythe couldn’t help, just as her ears could not stop from hearing, her magics could not stop from reaching, plucking, feeling. Last night, their simple meeting, it opened the lock to Baelor’s mind, from henceforth, Ocythe could not shut the gate again.

“How are you finding Westeros?” Prince Valarr asked, and Baelor’s tension rose, despite his silence. “I was told of your lengthy journey, and your early arrival. I apologize, but my duty at Dragonstone kept me, or I would have received you with my father.”

Valarr, then. She thought to herself, Valarr is poised to be my husband, but it is not certain, is it?

“It is quite pleasant, Your Grace.” Ocythe replied with a nod, her harsh and rasping voice had grown softer with her use of Common tongue, far from the necessary hissing of Asshai’i, and her throat had healed from the constant assault of the Mountain’s poisonous water. Still, her voice was a reedy, unsweet sound.

“I heard the black stone of Asshai drinks the sun, is that true?” Matarys asked with wide, piercingly blue eyes.

Valarr shot a look to his younger brother, either annoyed that he stole his question, her attention, or his tactless and boyish curiosity. Already, she could tell the littlest prince was not adept in politicking the way his older brother or father were.

Ocythe couldn’t help her chuckle, a rare sound.

“Indeed, Your Grace.” She nodded. “It’s simply a fact of life in Asshai, as miserable as it sounds. It is no place for a prince.”

The boy’s blue eyes went even wider, his mouth parted slightly, as if he were a child being told bedtime stories of a far away land, where the tales were fantastical and false.

“How have you found the climate here, then?” Valarr picked up, not letting his brother continue his questioning, a silent jostling for position.

“I’ve…sunburnt my hands and face a few times.” Ocythe admitted with a darting glance, her own confession felt just as childish as Matarys’ enthusiasm.

“You wouldn’t burn at Dragonstone!” Matarys cut in again. “It’s always, always raining.”

Another spike of annoyance from Baelor. It wasn’t at his son, no, she only felt an overwhelming adoration from their father towards his sons, but instead it was a muddy annoyance. Instead, his emotions flared as if disturbed not by her absence, as that would war with his duty, but the idea of Ocythe being away from the sun.

As Valarr opened his mouth to reply, a herald scrambled into the dinning room, bowing and making his addresses before Baelor ushered him along.

“Your- Your Grace, Lord Hand- Your Brother-“ the herald collected himself “Prince Maekar, he’s arriving!”

Baelor smiled, a firm, fond smile. The princes, on the other hand, bristled, a grim sort of acceptance passing like a shade over their handsome faces.

The Targaryens moved with rehearsed grace, one unit, pausing only to look back to her and her father, an expectant expression.

Valarr even offered his arm.

She took it, and felt nothing.

She knew, she knew she should have been giddy, should have been elated to hold the arm of a prince, the next in line of the next in line, her own age, undeniably handsome. Still, she found her eyes fixed on the back of Baelor’s head, able to see the scant strands of grey beginning to sprout in his dark hair.

They navigated silently, Valarr a stiff escort beside her, neither talking, nor giddy, their strides in quiet synchronicity. It was the portrait of a political marriage, a cloud of acceptance hanging over him.

At the steps of the Red Keep, Valarr released Ocythe into her father’s grasp, going to take his own father’s side in the center of the welcome reception. The sun beat down on them, the heat on her exposed face and scalp a thrilling and punishing burn she’d come to adore. She was surprised to find herself closer to the center than she would have presumed.

The trumpets sounded, the announcement of royalty like the announcement of a regiment arriving during a siege. Prince Maekar’s procession was equally militaristic, with a marching column with rippling black banners, boldly branded with a red dragon, flanking the black horses which the Royal Family rode upon, with a glorious, two story wheelhouse in tow.

Prince Maekar, and his spawn, were everything she was told a Targaryen was meant to be. Silver-gold hair, marble white skin, purple eyes that pierced like a needle, clean and sharp. Behind Prince Maekar, with his stone serious face and his ever weighing gaze, were three boys of Blood of the Dragon growing successively smaller like Myrish nesting dolls.

The first young man had a hazy, distant glaze in his eyes, an unkempt look about him, his hair frizzy and long, stubble dotting his jaw, with an uncorked flagon jostling at his hip. Daeron, she surmised,the drunken dragon. His eyes slipped over her with a syrupy indifference, as if sizing a whore at a brothel, leaving a slimy trail in its wake.

The second sat high on his horse, with short, neatly kept hair, his sharp face clean shaved and cruel. His eyes cut through the crowd, beyond his cousins, pausing to look for the king, lingering on Baelor with a twist of his full lips with a smirk that felt cloyingly cruel. His gaze then fell upon Ocythe like the executioner’s blade, that smirk of his turning to an unbidden grin, flashing dragon tooth teeth, just like the one on her necklace. Aerion Brightflame. Unbidden hunger and aspiration burned in his eyes like dragon fire itself.

Behind him, was a boy no more than ten, meek and meager. Even upon his horse, in his family’s great cavalcade he faded to nothing. But his own purple eyes found Ocythe as well, though he did not stare with cruelty or indifference, but rather curiosity, a new discovery to be studied, recorded; it was a look too intelligent for a boy his age. Aemon, bound for the citadel.

Once the procession came to a stop, and the family dismounted, from the wheelhouse another host of people spilled out. A woman, draped in purple, with soft brown hair and purple eyes and a full, radiant face, and a gravid, expectant belly bulged. The woman looked more like Baelor’s sister than Maekar as his brother, Dornish she’d come to learn. At her hip, stood a young girl, with dark brown hair braided down her back, with purple eyes that matched her equally purple dress, a near copy of her beautiful mother. Behind them, was a handmaiden, carrying a toddler, with that shock of Targaryen blonde hair, wriggling and crying for his mother.

She kept her back straight, her gaze forward, not craning to look or cowing away. Still, so many dragons in one space made her chest tighten, the steady realization dawning on her just as a sacrificial lamb finally noticed the knife.

After the formal introduction was made between brothers, the decorum was dropped by Maekar, the pomp and circumstance an itchy cloak on his shoulders he was eager to discard. She even watched the annoyance in his expression as he picked up the slack again, when Baelor gently pointed him in her direction.

With the rigid march of a foot soldier, Maekar lead his regimen before her, even his wife and daughters and the handmaiden carrying the babe on her hip came to heel in line. Baelor stood beside his brother with a tilt of his head, this mismatched eyes and dark hair so at odds with the Blood of the Dragon, but side by side, she could see it now, The Hammer and The Anvil

“Lady Ocythe of Asshai.” Baelor gestured with his elegant, ring clad hand, his courtly introduction bellied by the simmering heat in his lingering glance. “Our most honored guest. She and her father are great stewards of Dragonlore, bringing most credible reports of dragons from the Shadowlands.”

Maekar’s face twisted, tilting back to meet her looming presence, as if he smelled something fetid at the mention of Shadowlands. Even without her passive sense she could read the disgust and disbelief rolling off of him like waves. Still, his purple gaze lingered on the dragon tooth pendant on her throat, fresh bone white, neither blackened nor fossilized by time. His gaze then settled over her dress, the fine red silk, the royal cut, his lips curled at the edge to see a foreigner in his own House’s colors.

“Your Highness.” She curtseyed, a graceful and smooth movement, as she had practiced in her room many a time.

“My Lady,” he grunted, giving a jerky and brief nod of acknowledgement. “Allow me to introduce my family.”

Ocythe stepped forward, to walk down the line, ready for inspection.

“My heir, Prince Daeron.”

“My Lady.” The prince gave a short bow, wine spilling at his side with a curse. Lingering in the dip to scramble for the cap of his flagon, Maekar wrenched his heir by the neck like a kitten being scruffed, bringing him upright again.

“My second born, Prince Aerion.” Maekar swiftly moved on.

Aerion, without skipping a beat, his gaze still fixed on her necklace, swept up her long, spindly hand, bending over to reach it. He paused only to examine the cluster of markings on the back for one moment and one moment alone, before pressing a kiss to the tattooed skin. The kiss was lingering, wet enough to leave a glistening sheen behind, her hand still held in his grasp.

“My Lady,” he practically purred, even as he stood up straight, he was a considerable deal shorter than her, maybe by a head. Using it to his advantage, he cast his purple eyes up at her through thick, surprisingly dark lashes.

Ocythe had to keep herself from sneering or shuddering, she was not sure which urge was stronger. She had not forgotten the gossip of his cruelty, standing within his vicinity his very presence radiated a low level toxicity she had not felt since leaving Asshai.

Nearby, she felt Baelor himself bristle, and to a lesser extent, Valarr still in the welcome ranks bristled too. Ocythe resisted a smile, not wanting Aerion to think of it as his own spoil.

Maekar suppressed a dramatic rolling of his eyes, but did sigh deeply, ushering her along to the next in line.

“My third born, Prince Aemon.” He gestured with exasperation, his patience clearly thinning.

“M-My Lady,” The young bow bowed, looking between Aerion and Ocythe nervously, wondering if he had to kiss her hand as well.

Making his decision for him, Maekar kept his pace.

“My first born daughter, Princess Daella.” His tone was the same for his daughter as it was sons, an unscrupulous expectation for a girl no more than six or seven.

The girl curtseyed, nothing flashy, but her purple eyes were wide, drinking in Ocythe’s alien and unknown appearance, too young to know better than to stare.

“My Princess,” Ocythe returned the curtsey in kind, causing the girl to turn, to bury her little face in her mother’s skirt.

“My wife, Princess Dyanna of House Dayne.” Maekar said, trying and failing to maintain the same rigidity in his tone and jaw, but faltered on the woman he so clearly adored.

“My Princess.” Ocythe did not wait to be greeted first, instead she curtseyed deep and low, her head bowed until the woman’s sweet voice brought her up.

“Rise, my Lady. Well met.” The woman said, “I look forward to talking with you on walks through the garden. Naturally, I cannot sit still for long when this heavy, and you can imagine how the wheelhouse suited me.”

Ocythe offered a sympathetic smile before moving on her own time, hoping to deliver the poor pregnant princess an expedited return to her whatever comfort she required.

“My youngest, Prince Aegon.” Maekar said, gesturing to the toddler who was still red faced, but quelling.

“My Prince.” Ocythe greeted again.

The toddler situated himself, fixing his little eyes on her with a determined set of his jaw. Then, with an uncoordinated but swift, meaty little paw, grasped her dragon tooth necklace.

The handmaiden gasped, trying to wrench the young princeling away from the tooth, from her barbed face, but Ocythe stepped forward, as did the whole family. Instead of jerking away, Ocythe instead offered her throat out and laughed as his stubby fingers gripped the bone, undeterred by the prongs of her headdress.

“How fitting, my little Prince.” Ocythe cooed, head tilted to the side to keep observing the toddler’s fascination. “You know your blood when you see it.”

Maekar chuffed, more accepting of his son’s curiosity under this new light.

“Suppose he is.” Maekar said, eyes still fixed on the small joining between them. “Eliya, give the Prince to the Lady Ockton until he lets go. I’d prefer not to hear his wailing any longer, unless you plan on storing him in the dungeon, there’s not a stone in the Keep thick enough to suppress him.”

Without any fanfare, the toddler was hoisted into her arms, a surprising weight she was not prepared for. Now, within her arms, the toddler wrapped both of his hands around the large tooth, bringing the edge of it to his mouth.

She didn’t even have the chance to correct the Prince on name. Instead, she had to keep her head craned in strange positions to keep from gouging the child in her arms.

Then, Ocythe could only watch in horror as the babe slobbered over the tooth, his own blunt and short baby teeth clacking uselessly against it.

Now intrinsically tied to the royal procession, Ocythe struggled to pay attention to the horde of Dragons flooding the halls of the Red Keep. Instead, she was now playing nurse to the littlest dragon.

Ocythe had never held a child.

She was the youngest of her eight sisters, besides her memories of herself as a child and her sisters nearest in age, she could not recall the last time she’d even seen one.

Children were not seen in Asshai.

Children were a rarer commodity than food or water in the Shadowland. The Shadow, it if had not poisoned the water of the womb, strangled children in the street, or starved them in their huddled and hidden homes. Her father’s true sign of wealth was not the finery he draped his daughters in, or the jewels that dripped from their bodies, but rather his daughters themselves. So wealthy he had been able to feed and fully rear them.

Children, babies, until she’d left the shores of Asshai, were mythical to Ocythe the same way dragons were to the Westerosis.

It was in Qarth that Ocythe had seen her first child, a slave sent to fetch them from the docks by one of her father’s closest clients. Brown skinned, thin, with eyes sunken into his shallow face, the only sturdy on him the thick slave collar on his neck. Ocythe swore she would never forget it, that the first child she’d seen in her ten-and-eight years was a slave.

Soon, she’d become accustomed to their existence in the periphery. In Lys, they’d picked up a boy of four-and-ten who traveled with them to his home of Myr to be with his kin and their own brightly colored hair. He’d been a brief companion, but a welcomed one, conversing with her in Valyrian, neither of their mother tongues, but both made do.

Kings Landing was littered with children, she’d seen them scrubbing the floors, but never one as young as this, never a Prince, with big purple eyes that had grown heavy with sleep.

Never in her arms, never while the child held a dragon tooth in his mouth like a mother’s teat.

The closest she’d ever gotten was those long, lonely nights in the cabin of her ship, when she’d hold a dragon’s egg to her stomach, imagining something like this.

She could not keep up, not with the strange new weight in her arms. Every step had slowed, careful not to jostle the sleeping weight propped against her hip, fearful of his reported wails.

He was somehow heavier as he went limp.

The young princes dispersed, chatting amongst themselves about armor and swords and tourneys and tilts. The Hammer and the Anvil had disappeared from the front of their group to surely greet one another as brothers and not princes away from the public halls. And the Princess Dyanna, had been ushered by her handmaiden to seek comfort elsewhere.

Leaving her alone.

“Make sure to hold his head.” An even voice from beside her startled her slightly as she walked.

Her father. He had been outside of her notice during the welcoming of Dragons. His presence put her at ease, as she felt abandoned with the young prince so carelessly.

”This look suits you as well, my Jewel.” Her father said in the hissing tongue of Asshai, a comfort to her ears and no other’s.

Long, blackened fingers guided her other hand up to the base of the boy’s small skull, where wispy Valyrian blonde hair was silk soft.

”Seeing you like this,” Her father began again, ”It is just as the Lord had shown me in the flames. You, in the House colors, the Blood of the Dragon at your hip. This is His plan, sweet daughter, this is your destiny. Trust in Him, for the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Yet with a summer wyrmling in her arms, Ocythe could not bring herself to think of the Long Night or darkness. Instead, she could only think of her own child in her arms.

One with dark hair, and two toned eyes.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week had been a steady stream of arrivals of the Noble Houses. First was the Baratheons, who came like their beloved storm, rolling like thunder, as bright and unyielding and booming as lightning, their blazing yellow tourney tent eating up more than their fair share of the tourney grounds. Her handmaiden had warned her not to be lured to the sounds of festivities, that she would be swept up by the bacchanalia and end up pregnant and wed to some lowly storm lord by the morning.

Next were the Tyrells, bringing half of the flowers of Highgarden with them. By the end of their arrival day, the walls of the Red Keep were abloom with spectacular petals and flowers of every variety, too many for Ocythe to keep count despite her best efforts to study and learn each and every one. A lovely Tyrell daughter with honey blonde hair had even noticed her examination and helped her pluck a bouquet in a fleeting moment of friendship Ocythe craved more and more with each exposure.

Then came the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, whose gold was famous even in the distant shores of her homeland, but a tightfisted and miserly house could not escape their renown. Still, she watched from her perch in a spire to see if cruelty made form was as ugly as their reputation. To her surprise, unlike the haggard faces of the practitioners of dark and evil magics in Asshai, she found the Lannisters to be the Lions of their sigil. Behind the Grey Lion, rode in the gallant Golden Lion, blonde hair as shiny and full as a lion’s mane.

The Martells were greeted by Baelor with more warmth and enthusiasm than any other house. That was another arrival Ocythe was made present for, this time placed staunchly between Aerion and Valarr, yet not out of the Prince Hand’s sight. In fact, she was paraded by Prince Breakspear to his fawning aunts and uncles who did not squirm or recoil at her looks but rather inquired ceaselessly about her tattoos with rapt and genuine interest. She preferred the questions about her tattoos to the questions about which Targaryen Prince she was to marry, or which she had “sampled.”

The days leading up to the tournament tore by her with the speed of a racing river, each day a new and dizzying delight. She drank sweet wines and ate sweeter foods, though all promised that the feast of Prince Valarr’s nameday was to be the grandest and most splendid of all.

It was in times of great revelry when she missed her sisters most of all.

They had all known her and her father’s journey was one-way. Her eldest sister and her mother charged with their mines and estate, as they did not share the same reservations about women holding or inheriting power in Asshai as they did in Westeros. She knew her family would prosper, would thrive even, but they could only prosper as far as the Shadow allowed. They would never taste the fresh fruit she’d glutted herself on, and clean water fetched at the wave of a hand. Never feel the heat of unbidden sun.

She knew letters were possible, but unreliable at best. When she looked into their bare faces the night before she left, she knew it would be her very last.

In halls filled by family names, she thought of how they had none. Instead, their ties were by blood, by memory, by shared faith.

Perhaps her older sisters, having some experience with children amongst each other, would have been better suited for this journey.

Indeed, the Targaryen she had seen the most of during this grandeur was little Egg. She avoided any further pronged and protruding accessories, as it seemed the moment she caught Prince Aegon’s bright and curious little gaze, the summer wyrmling would wail until he was in her arms again, teething on her dragon tooth necklace. The princeling could not be in the same room as her without crying his nickname for her ceaselessly.

Dragon Princess!

“But you are a Dragon Prince,” Ocythe would assure him, pinching a foot or cheek. “I am not even a Lady.”

The toddler prince did not care, nor did he acknowledge it at all. Instead, he chose to babble at her about anything else, in short two to three word sentences, growing frustrated when those could not suffice to describe the greater machinations she could see brewing in his little head.

Maekar had relegated Ocythe to nursemaid, often looking at her with puzzled perplexity when he saw her without his young son, as if that was all she was good for.

When the day of the tourney came, the expectation was no less. While her father sat in the viewing section for noble houses and knights of high renown, Ocythe was settled squarely in the Targaryens’ viewing box.

Dressed to match in the gifted red dress, the same she wore for Maekar and his family’s arrival, her handmaiden once again had woken her especially early to prepare her. Countless braids plaited into intricate patterns, pinned high and tight, all off of her neck and beneath another gift; a silver ruby laden head piece like a bolt of woven lace, laid in a band across her brow.

All to be a well decorated nursemaid.

When she approached the viewing area to sit beside her father, she was quickly intercepted by Princess Dyanna’s handmaiden, looking haggard and exhausted with a red faced and inconsolable Prince Aegon in her arms. The handmaiden looked utterly disheveled herself, her dress covered in what looked like the little dragon’s refused breakfast, her hair in last night’s braid.

“Seven Blessings to you, my Lady.” The handmaiden said, shoving the toddler into her arms without so much as a blink. “He’s been crying for you all morning. The Princess sends her regards and gratitudes.”

Before Ocythe could ask anything, it was not as if she had the ability to protest, the handmaiden was gone in a flurry. Then, two of Maekar’s sworn men, in their finest, shiniest black armor, guided her up to the viewing area.

At least, closer to Baelor. Though, the Prince Hand was not much for conversation. He was flanked by his Queen Mother and his father the King, his anxiety was nothing but palpable. In that moment, he was not Prince Baelor Breakspear, nor Prince Hand, not even the Hanmer to his brother’s Anvil, instead he was a father, anxious over his son.

She’d had the tilts explained to her many times, and to her understanding, Prince Valarr faced a favorable path, with well respected and renowned Knights who would not unseat a prince on his nameday.

Or at least, that was what Aerion had explained to her, though his verbiage dripped in bitter admonishment.

Maekar, not content with Ocythe minding just one of his sons, saddled his second eldest by her side, as Daeron was in the tourney himself, though expected to be knocked out almost immediately. The boy was everything she’d expected him to be, haughty, casually cruel, utterly deranged, even if he played sweet in front of his grandfather and uncle. His madness was brimming beneath the surface, infecting every last word, action, look.

“It’s all some great farce.” Aerion started with a cross of his arms over his chest, pouting like a toddler, before passing one more glance over his shoulder to make sure his uncle, or God forbid his father heard. “I cannot enter the lists until my eighteenth name day, which is next year. We’ll have a tourney for me, as well. Even then, I’ll be facing proper competitors, not geriatric knights or gouted lords who can barely raise a lance, unlike some Princes of the Blood.”

“I see, My Prince.” Ocythe said with a measured nod, careful not to hold his gaze for too long, lest he take her engagement for agreement. “I’m sure you will perform valiantly.”

Yet, she could not be cold. She had to dance a delicate dance on a tightrope of spider silk, one of pleasantries but not flatteries, neither adoration nor admonishment.

Unable to tell the difference, Aerion's venom spewed freely, his violet eyes brimming with hunger, a desperate desire to be seen by someone he deemed worthy, though never above him.

Ocythe could not determine just yet on how he viewed her.

Handsome was not the word for Aerion. Baelor was handsome, the Golden Lion who’d rode previous was handsome, even the Laughing Storm was handsome. No, Aerion was beautiful, with his deep set eyes and strong brow, his face angular and sculpted as if carved by the Lord of Light himself, lips full and constantly in a pout. His build slender, svelte like an elegant cat. His stature was small, not just in comparison to her, but in comparison to any other boy his age, any time he wished to look her in the eyes as he addressed her, he had to crane his neck a considerable deal, which she could tell irritated him each time.

Still, he did not seem disinterested in her. Instead, she was sure it was the whispers of their knowledge of dragonlore that drew him to her.

If it wasn’t that, then it must’ve been his constant competition with Valarr.

Every dinner, every arrival and feast, Ocythe had found herself snugly at the side of Prince Valarr, and thus Aerion was not far behind. Daeron, Maekar’s air, should have been who was courting her as heir to Summerhall, but instead, every dinner she’d seen the prince long enough to observe him consume his purely liquid diet of wine, mead, and more wine.

It was a wonder he’d managed to enter the lists today at all, in her opinion.

The tourney was just beginning, with a High Septon blessing the fields, a reading of the lists as the competitors, with Prince Valarr going first.

“Don’t you find it degrading, my Lady?” Aerion began again, this time with a needling tone, looking between the dragon tooth and the meaty hand grasping it, then even further over his own brother. “A woman of your caliber and knowledge, being dispatched as a wet nurse to a toddler?”

Aegon, sensing the slight in his older brother’s tone, turned his head away from his words and buried his face into the crook of Ocythe’s neck, clinging to her now rather than her necklace.

“Not just any toddler, My Prince.” Ocythe hummed, adjusting Egg in her arms so he sat opposite and away from Aerion. “A Toddler of the Blood.”

Aerion, for his annoyance at his youngest brother’s presence, seemed to soften at the appeal to their pedigree. His eyes wandered, the path of his purple gaze unmistakable, starting at the dragon tooth still clutched in Egg’s hand, down her body with slow and careful examination. She had to hold her breath to keep from shuddering at the shameless inspection, the bile coiling in the base of her stomach, a supple sheep before the snarling and hungry dragon.

Yet she was no spring lamb, as his eyes flicked back to her face, she saw the disgusted curl at the edge of his lip as he glanced at her tattoos. A poisoned and tainted meat to him, it seemed.

“Certainly so.” He said, settling back into his chair, as he had pushed himself almost out of it to get a better look at her. “It is good practice, I suppose. Though, when we’re wed, we’ll have servants to care for the babe, but it does help to know how’ll you’ll look sitting for a family portrait.”

Ocythe stiffened at his casual presumption.

When we’re wed.

When was that decided? How could her father be so reckless? Even a fool could see that this Prince Brightflame was not the steward of dragons they sought.

“Dragon Mama…” Egg gurgled around the dragon tooth.

A look of wildfire spread across Aerion’s face at his brother’s careless mashing of words, an exploratory phrase she knew meant nothing. Despite this, Aerion’s lips split across his razor sharp grin, his head tilted to the side, neck craned to see his squirming and restless brother waking from his nap.

“Truth often comes from the mouths of babes, don’t you agree, my Lady?” Aerion asked, though she knew he had his response, leaning closer. “Perhaps he’s not wrong, just early. You’ll be a mother of dragons, yet.”

A barely repressed shudder ran down her spine at the proximity, the lecherous leering gaze.

Behind them, Ocythe felt Baelor’s gaze find them, fix on them. Without turning her head, she could feel the tick in his tightening jaw, the tides of anxiety turning to something choppier, the usually calm seas now churning beneath a brewing storm from every angle.

The galloping of horse hooves alerted Ocythe, allowing her to pull away.

There, as his black horse whinnied and snorted, rearing to begin, in his finest, grooved and matte black armor, sat Prince Valarr, his helm in his lap.

“Grandfather,” he greeted first with a bow of his head. “Grandmother. Father. Uncle. Cousins.”

Each summarily dipped their head in response, sitting up to greet the prince properly. King Daeron even stood, a warm smile on his aged face.

“Beloved Grandson,” the king said, “may your nameday and year be prosperous. Ride true. Remember yourself, with Fire and Blood.”

“Fire and Blood.” Each Targaryen echoed like a prayer, though she could pick out the sneer in Aerion’s tone beside her.

Valarr bowed his head once more before he spurred his horse to a slow trot, moving forward, and directly in front of Ocythe.

“My Lady,” he greeted, his mismatched gaze now landing on her and her alone.

But his two toned eyes were not the only ones upon her. Baelor’s gaze had returned, watching with careful determination.

“My Prince,” Ocythe returned, bowing her head, but could not do much else, as Egg turned in her arms, now fascinated by the clanking and clattering of armored knights and their armored horses.

“I’ve come to ask for your favor.” Prince Valarr said, as though it were some solemn duty he was honor bound to fulfill.

Ocythe blinked at him for a moment, unsure of his meaning. She could feel the whole box’s eyes turn to her now, expectant, but expectant of what she was unsure.

“Oh,” she said. . “Well, you certainly have it, my Prince. I will cheer for you endlessly and pray for your success.”

Beside her, Aerion snorted, his laughter and mean and mocking sound, cut short only by the swift strike across the back of his head by Maekar, delivered with a Valyrian curse.

Perhaps at her ignorance, perhaps at his cousin’s punishment, Valarr smiled as he leaned closer, as she leaned to meet him.

“You’re supposed to give me a token, my Lady.” He whispered, or as close to a whisper as he could manage with the distance and wooden railing between them. “A ribbon, a handkerchief, a bauble of your choosing. I will wear it for the rest of the tourney to remember your favor by… it’s supposed to rouse my spirits.”

A horrible, painful blush spread from what felt like the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Embarrassment was the tip of a hot knife, bullying its way into her chest for all to see.

“I see.” She managed, sitting back up again.

She situated Egg on her hip more securely with one hand, the other grasping and patting her body for anything at all she could spare or remove. Her delicate fingers catching on a ribbon she hadn’t even realized was woven into her locks.

With some effort, the ribbon came loose from her hair, a shimmering red the same as her dress. Between her fingers, it rippled softly in the breeze as she reached out to him.

Gauntleted hands plucked the favor offered to him with a surprising gentleness. Still, she watched him fumble to try and tie the ribbon around his vambrace.

“Allow me, my Prince.” She said, settling the fussing Aegon into her chair, briefly ignoring his mounting cries that would surely boil over if she was not swift.

Despite the pressure of the eyes upon her, she neatly and quickly tied the ribbon against the intricate design of his vambrace, just below his wrist, the crimson visible against the dark metal.

“Thank you, my Lady.” Valarr said, turning his head to meet her gaze once more.

For the first time, she saw more than just duty. It was a softness, a glint, something close to fondness if she wasn’t careful.

“I shall win for you, in your honor.” He said, pulling on his helm.

The unmistakable turn of his head meant one thing, he’d shifted his limited gaze not to her, but to punctuate his promise and ensure his cousin had witnessed it.

Valarr spurred his horse with a squeeze of his heels and a thrust of his hips, leaving her to her seat, gathering the crying Aegon into her arms once more. She settled the toddler squarely on her lap with the seething Aerion by her side.

Ocythe could not spare more than a glance to Aerion as the joust began, though even that was enough to gather the white hot rage radiating off of him. His arms crossed, his lips pursed, nostrils flared. He looked no different than Aegon when denied his precious teething dragon tooth, irate that his cousin had dared to touch his shiny and new exotic toy.

On either side of the muddy field, two competitors raised their lances. Valarr, the picture of a prince, his armor shining and new, unblemished by dents or chips earned in combat, her red ribbon glinting on his wrist. Opposite Valarr was a distant cousin from the House Dondarrion, between his father’s age and his own.

The flag was waved, and the horses ran. Mud flung up and back beneath the force of hooves thundering, the clatter of armor shifting against itself, lances were lowered.

CRASH!

Wood splintered, burst and flew in an exchange of blows. From her view, as she clutched Egg’s face against her chest to shield him from any debris, she watched as Valarr’s lance struck true, straight into Dondarrion’s breast plate, lifting him from his saddle but not out or off. The Dondarrion, for his part, managed to chip a blow off of Valarr’s shoulder, splintering his lance but not destroying it as Valarr had.

As they rounded the wooden partition, Valarr even lifted his broken lance to display his handiwork, her ribbon still snuggly in place on his wrist. The crowd cheered at his acknowledgment, but he did not linger for praise.

Behind her, she felt Baelor exhale a great sigh of relief, but all was not over.

“How gallant.” Aerion muttered, slumping in his seat, resting his feet on the wooden bannister, all but screaming his discontent. “Breaking your first lance on a drunken cousin. We should’ve had him face Daeron”

Ocythe did not dignify him with a response, instead, she braced herself and Egg, preparing for the next pass.

Another wave of the flag, another jolt of the horses, and they were off. The angle was different, Valarr was now on the opposite side of tilt, and she could see how he kept his head tucked down, his shoulder dropped slightly.

She could see precisely how true Dondarrion’s blow struck, the lance collapsing in on itself as it had no choice but to break against the dragon proudly displayed on Valarr’s chest plate.

Wood flew again, the angle of Valarr’s hit on Dondarrion obscured and obfuscated but it was lesser than the one dealt to him. She could hardly help her gasp as it escaped her lips. She’d seen how far he’d lifted from his saddle, seen the momentary slack of his body, the reins slipping from his hand before he could recover.

He was upright, but barely. A collective gasp stole the cheers from the stands, leaving a blanket of silence in its wake.

Behind her, she heard Baelor rise, and the shuffling of the seat beside him.

“He’s fine.” Maekar’s voice grunted, bringing his brother back to his seat. “You want to embarrass the boy? Fretting over him like a hen. How’s he supposed to have any pride? Seven help you.”

Matarys, Valarr’s squire, hurried to his brother, his pleasant face wrought with worry. He brought the next lance, lingering at Valarr’s side as guided the horse and rider round again, hurriedly exchanging what must’ve been words of encouragement.

Aerion had sat up beside her, leaning forward in great interest, a glint in his eyes, lips pressed tight to suppress a smile. He passed her a look over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised as if to say ”behold, your champion.”

She exhaled, leveling her gaze as if she were on her own mount, ready to pass again. If she had a choice, if her father had any sense, if no betrothal was set in stone, then Valarr was her champion, and no matter who he faced, any victory he won was against Aerion.

The challengers readied themselves again, Matarys looking especially pale and uncertain, hesitant to part, left his brother’s side, giving an assuring pat to his thigh.

The horses reared, the flag rose, an overwhelming silence once a heavy blanket on the crowd discarded as they cheered their prince on.

She hadn’t meant it. She hadn’t even realized she’d begun until it ended. In a hurried, muted whisper against Egg’s tender scalp, she spoke many a word in Asshai’i, but in the common tongue, it dissolved down to one meaning.

Fall.

The moment of Valarr’s lance’s impact, true or not, hidden by the angle, the Dondarrion challenger was ripped from his saddle as if he was snatched by some unseen force, tossed into the air and thrown into the mud like a doll.

The viewing box erupted in cheers.

Save for Aerion, of course.

Still, Ocythe had to be careful to keep Aegon clutched tight against her as she leapt to her feet. She turned, finding Baelor on his feet as well, aglow with pride, looming taller and broader than she’d ever seen.

“Now imagine if you went down there,” Maekar said, resettling himself in his chair, his tone as close to fond as he could manage.

The Anvil’s gaze flicked from the celebration to Ocythe, violet and searing. He looked through her, down to her very bones, not even pausing to behold his son before he dismissed her with a thrust of his chin.

Ocythe sat back down again, Aegon having woken from the commotion, wriggling and fighting, no longer content to be held.

“No!” The boy cried, but for what Ocythe was unsure, as her duties thus far had been to hold him, ill equipped for much else.

“Don’t despair brother,” Aerion sneered. “Cousin Valarr still has a chance to embarrass us yet.”

Ocythe bristled, placing Aegon on the ground, watching him toddle back and forth with unease. It was a miracle any man learned to walk, she began to realize, as the boy lumbered from spot to spot.

Still, she said nothing, her gaze fixed on Egg, her jaw clenched.

“Though, I suppose you’re happy to see your champion win.” Aerion continued, discontented at her lack of a response. “A beginning to a long and happy marriage filled with hollow victories.”

“Aerion,” Maekar snapped again. “Go congratulate your cousin on his first victory. Perhaps he’ll give you tips for your own nameday tourney next year.”

With a chuff, Aerion stood, the weighted gaze and expectation of his grandfather and uncle upon him, knowing he could not ignore the command.

“My Lady.” Aerion snarled, barely caring to navigate his toddling brother as he exited with a great sweep of his cloak.

Not even before he was halfway down the stairs did a collective sigh leave the viewing box.

“Maybe he’ll settle after being unhorsed a few times, tends to knock loose things back into place.” Baelor murmured to Maekar in a hushed tone, only caught by Ocythe with her shadow singer’s ears. “If we’re lucky.”

“You should know better than most, brother, I am not a lucky man.” Maekar grunted. “And I have a deep suspicion Aerion will not be knocked from his horse for a very long time. It would be against his nature… and my luck.”

Ocythe had to keep herself from tensing, to hide her eavesdropping, but to hear the barbed resignation from Aerion’s father was the deliverance of a hanged man’s sentence.

As she watched Valarr dismount, removing his helm to look for his father’s approval, the ribbon on his arm a long forgotten token, she exhaled her own resignation and made a solemn vow.

She may have not loved Valarr, but she would marry him if it meant keeping the dragon eggs far, far away from Aerion.