Chapter Text
130 AC – Silverwing
It took three days to get as far North as she could before fatigue overwhelmed her. She was a hundred name-days now and even without her age she could fly further and faster than others. She had always been fast, but even she could not fly forever without rest and sleep. And so, when she was a days flight over the Wall, she turned her attention to the closest mountain range and headed down to land.
She tried to aim for one of the tallest mountains for it would give her a good spot to defend herself from any men that were foolish enough to live here or to approach her. She had not seen any men since her flight over the Wall, but she knew they were around for she could smell them – their sweat, and fear, and their blood pumping in their veins. It would have made her hungry, once. But not now.
Her legs buckled as she landed and cold washed over her. She had never felt a chill like it, and she knew instantly that she would not fly again. She could not. Her wings were already beginning to freeze, and the chill was sweeping across her, making her shiver and shake. Even her insides were beginning to turn cold.
She let out a whine of frustration. She was not there yet. She still had further to go. She did not want to die here. She wanted the mercy of a quick death, and that which lurked in the North would give her that. She tried to rise again and managed to stand but then staggered down, stumbling as she did so. She lost her balance and rolled and rolled, smashing against the mountain again and again as she tumbled hundreds of feet. She let herself fall, lacking the energy and will to do much more than simply close her eyes and accept her fate.
Eventually, she lost momentum and skidded to her a halt.
She lay there for a moment, breathing in deeply as around her snow continued to fall from the sky and that which she had knocked on her descent continued to slide past her like the river in the distance. By the time it had stopped, she was half buried under it – just her head discernible above the avalanche that had covered her.
She was not dead though.
She opened her eyes, fighting against the biting cold. All she could see was the brown trunks of trees, the tops of them covered in snow and more snow around them. The world was white save for those tree trunks. She tried to shift her head slightly but was unable to as the weight of the snow above her pressed down. She grumbled and tried again.
Her eyes flicked back and forth as she began to panic – unable to shift the snow pressing her down.
She didn’t want to die like this.
On her second time of scanning the trees, desperately trying to find something that she could use to help herself, she saw something in the trees. She let loose another roar – warning it away from her. But it ignored her.
She watched as it darted out the trees and drew closer to her.
It was a strange thing. With green and yellow eyes that were slitted – like hers – and batlike ears. Silverwing sniffed it, not bothering to even try to raise her head as she did so. It was small. Smaller than the rider that Tessarion had – yet it was not a child. She could tell. It smelt old. It was older than her. The thing stared at her for a moment and then glanced past her, taking in her body covered by the snow.
“I am sorry,” the thing whispered.
It raised its hand raised toward her, and she grumbled again, baring her teeth. It took a step back, terrified, and she snorted – pleased that it had realised not to approach her. Its eyes turned sad for a moment.
“I am sorry,” the thing said again. “But I cannot let you die. She will need you for grief knows grief.” It touched her then, and immediately she felt her eyes drift closed even as she fought to keep them open. "I am so sorry. You won't see us again. But we'll see you. We'll guard you until the time comes, so you're not alone."
Snow brushed against her wings as more fell down the mountain and something else touched her skin, settling over her and covering her as completely as the snow did.
Before sleep consumed her completely, and when all that was left was the tip of her snout sticking out of the snow, the thing pressed its hand more steadily against her snout and breathed out a soft sigh. “Rest well, Silverwing.”
298 AC – Daenerys Targaryen
It was consuming.
All she could think about, every second of every minute of every hour, was her grief. Her husband was dead – her own fault. Her son was dead – her own fault. Even Viserys was dead, and although she did not miss him and he had bought it upon himself, he had still been her brother.
She was alone. The last Targaryen.
For days it consumed her. The sun had risen seven times now. So, they were seven days into their march through the Red Waste – heading south, she thought – before Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion managed to pull her out of her grief. And they had only done so by chirping in her ear constantly and by misbehaving – refusing to go back into the small cages she had had made for them.
But still, the weight in her chest would not fade and her thoughts kept drifting to Rhaego and Drogo.
She sighed and glanced up at the sky and flinched as she gazed directly into the sun. Sweat dripped into her eyes, and she wiped it away without thinking, jostling Drogon who was perched on her shoulder. He chirped out a sad little cry and nuzzled up against her. On her other shoulder Rhaegal and Viserion tussled slightly with each other and one of them clipped her ear with their wing, making her wince in pain. She could feel blood dripping down her ear before one of them licked it, their scaled tongue sliding against her ear. It did little to stop her thought process though.
Her son was dead.
Her husband was dead.
She had her dragons. Her children. The only children she would ever have now. Yet, it was not enough. She wanted more. How was she to continue like this? She could not feed those who had stayed her when Drogo had died...and no one would allow them remnants of a broken Dothraki Khalasar into their city.
They were going to die.
She’d failed her children and now she was going to fail her people as well.
“We cannot go on like this anymore, Khaleesi.”
“One more day,” she whispered. “If we do not find water or a city by morning, I will send riders.”
Ser Jorah made to open his mouth to reply, but there must have been something in her eyes that made him stop. He nodded. “Very well, Khaleesi.”
They walked in silence for the rest of the day. She knew they knew they could not last much longer but, still, she hopedthey would – she could not fail them. She could feel their expectation and hopes weighing her down. They were relying on her. She supposed, in a way, they were her children as much as her dragons were but the thought did not make her feel better.
She felt so alone.
When they stopped walking that afternoon, she found herself stood alone at the edge of the small encampment they had made. She watched as her Dothraki pulled out dried meats. They still had food. Not much, but enough. It was water that was their biggest issue. They had not seen any in days and their waterskins were nearly empty. She knew she would have no choice but to send riders out the next day, as she had said she would. They’d be dead within a few days if she did not. Still, it sat uneasy with her.
She heaved out a deep breath as Ser Jorah came to stand next to her. Nearby, her dragons scuttled across the ground chasing each other – completely unaware of her grief and turmoil.
“Khalessi –”
“DRAGON!”
Her head snapped toward Doreah who had screamed and was pointing to what Daenerys thought might be west. Daenerys’ eyes shot up, following the direction Doreah was pointing to, and she gasped even as several horses bolted past her – throwing the few Dothraki who were still on horseback into the air.
She paid them no mind, knowing they would be able to wrangle back control of the horses and instead fixed her gaze on the beast in the distance that was drawing closer every second. At first, she had thought Doreah quite mad – perhaps the lack of water and food had finally taken their toll on her friend – but birds did not have scales. And there were scales for the sun was flicking off them and casting beautiful blue lights onto the desert thousands of feet below it.
Dimly she realised she could hear Ser Jorah roaring at them not to panic and to hold still. Some obeyed him, more did not. Out of the corner of her eye she could see dozens fleeing. Leaving them. Leaving her.
Good.
“Khaleesi!”
She ignored Doreah and stared up at the dragon as it soared out from west. As she watched, the dragon let loose a roar and turned towards them. It flapped its wings only a few times and crossed hundreds of feet in mere moments. She craned her neck up, watching as it flew thousands of feet over the top of them and then circled around again, the tips of its wings seeming to brush against the mountains.
Beautiful.
Abruptly it let loose another roar and turned back toward them. The front of its body began to angle down. Its wings tucked into its side, and it dropped hundreds of feet until it spread its wings and righted itself, the bottom of its front legs dragged across the desert and sending bits of sand flying everywhere as it skidded to a stop.
Ser Jorah was still roaring for people to be calm. She knew she should be doing something, but she could not bring herself to move. Dimly, she was aware of her children flocking to her – scrambling up her legs, onto her stomach and then up to her shoulders. Drogon let loose a chirp of what she thought might be rage.
The dragon stalked towards her slowly.
And Daenerys did not move. Could not move. Her feet seemed stuck to the ground and even though her heart was beating so loudly she could not hear anything else, she had never been less terrified in her life.
The dragon loomed over Daenerys; her lips curled back over her black teeth and her blue eyes fixed on her. She was silver, as all the stories had said. But even through the sand that was still flying around in flurries around the dragon, she could see that parts of her were a slight grey, parts were white and there was an undertone of blue through her chest. Her wings were light blue, just like the scales on her chest. Still strapped to her back was a saddle – decaying slightly, likely due to the lack of care that had been paid to it over the years, but still there.
She was beautiful.
“Silverwing,” she whispered.
The dragon stared at her. Her eyes slowly moved down Daenerys body, as though she was inspecting her. When they reached her stomach, the dragon let out an angry little rumble.
On Daenerys’ shoulder, Drogon let out a little snarl and leaned forward with his eyes locked on the larger dragon. Rhaegal and Viserion stayed silent, and she chanced a glance at them and saw their eyes rested on Drogon and not the larger dragon. She turned back to Silverwing.
Silverwing cocked her head to the side and stared down at Drogon. Then she let out a noise that Daenerys could only think was a derisive snort and huffed a breath of smoke over them. Drogon let out an angry shriek – his wings beating against Daenerys head hard enough that she flinched from the pain.
She did not take her eyes away from the dragon though, watching Silverwing carefully. There was something wrong. It was hard for her to explain what it was, but she had a strange feeling that she was missing something. As her eyes moved over the dragon, she suddenly realised what it was. Silverwing was small. Well, not small – that wasn’t right. She was huge, bigger than anything Danerys had seen in her life. But if this was Silverwing – and something was screaming at her that it was – then this dragon would be well over two hundred years old and yet she seemed to be far smaller than the stories said Vhagar had been when she had fallen at a fraction of that age.
She was bigger than Daenerys’ thought she must have been during the Dance, but not large. Silverwing must not have been feeding, or using any energy, otherwise she would be larger.
She froze.
How did she know that?
Silverwing moved forward, still in a half-crouch and inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring slightly as she took in Daenerys scent. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, and then they opened again. There was a brief pause, and then the dragon threw herself down into the dirt onto her belly and rested her head on the ground.
On her shoulder, Drogon let out another angry squark – like a little bird warning its mother not to pay attention to its sibling.
Jealous.
He was jealous.
She ignored him. On her other shoulder Rhaegal and Viserion screeched their dissatisfaction but fell silent when Silverwing’s eyes flickered to them. The dragon let loose a noise that could only be described a coo, before it turned to a rumble; almost as though she was telling them to be quiet.
Tentatively, Daenerys took a step forward. Silverwing did not move, even when Drogon let out an angry little chip again. A puff of smoke wafted past Daenerys’ face, and she glanced quickly at her child out of the corner of her eye, surprised that he had managed so much so soon.
Another step later, she was within touching distance of Silverwing. The dragon kept watching her, blue eyes unblinking and fixed on Daenerys own. She paused, then slowly raised her hand up toward Silverwing’s snout.
Silverwing moved her head across the desert floor and shoved her snout again Daenerys’ hand.
Instantly, she could feel everything.
The grief.
The hate.
The loss.
The agony.
It was as though everything she was feeling was being multiplied a hundred thousand times from Silverwing. Memories that were not her own engulphed her.
A small child. Silver haired. She was kind. She could tell that she would be a good rider. She was the sister of her brother’s rider. Vermithor. His name was Vermithor now.
“You will be, Silverwing.”
She was Silverwing now.
She let loose a little rumble of contentment. Then she sunk her leg down and met the young child’s purple eyes, trying to encourage the child to mount her. The child’s eyes widened, and she smiled at her. Alysanne’s hand reached out to her snout and when she pushed her nose toward the child, she let loose a giggle that sent warmth through her.
Her human.
“Father says I am too young. One day. I promise.”
Her rider. One day. She had promised.
Then the memory changed.
She could feel a body pressing up against her own. A bronze head appeared around the side of her and pressed its cheek up against her own before it closed its eyes and began to sleep. She kept her own eyes open and watched her clutch of eggs that they were both coiled around. They would hatch soon, she was certain.
Love overwhelmed her.
Her children. Their children.
Then the memory changed again.
She was flying high above King’s Landing. There was a weight on her back. Alysanne. She twisted her neck and watched as Alysanne let go of the saddle and screamed in delight. She let loose her own roar of pleasure and spun in the air, revelling in the joy her rider felt as they twisted and turned together as they flew over the city. They were inseparable. Now and always.
The memory changed again.
Winterfell was different to anywhere Silverwing had been before and yet it called to her.
Alysanne liked the Starks. There was respect there – something that Silverwing could understand – but the favour with which that Alysanne looked upon the Starks was different. She was fond of them. She valued them.
“They say there must always be a Stark in Winterfell and being here I can see why. I can feel it. You can as well, can’t you?” Alysanne whispered to her one night as they curled up together on the edge of the Wolfswood.
She let out a rumble, trying to convey to Alysanne that she understood. There was magic here. Old magic.
The memory changed again.
It was the strongest magic she had ever encountered. And old. Older than she had thought possible – even older than the magic at Winterfell. Death lingered beyond. Inevitable. Unbeatable.
She let loose a roar as Alysanne tried again, for the third time, to guide her over the top of the Wall.
“What scares you so, my friend?” Alysanne called.
Alysanne’s hand touched Silverwing’s scales for a moment and Silverwing tried desperately to push through what she had seen, but Alysanne’s hand withdrew too quickly, and she could not do it. She circled higher above the Wall, refusing to cross and eventually Alysanne accepted her terror – even if she could not feel it.
Why could Alysanne not feel it?
Why did Alysanne not understand?
She landed heavily outside the high walls of the settlement that Alysanne had stayed at the night before, panting and shaking. Alysanne dismounted and pressed her head against Silverwing and murmured that they would fly south later.
She watched Alysanne go in confusion. Why did she not feel it? Why did she not understand? She glanced up at the Wall and took a few steps backward. Evil things lurked there, and she would not risk Alysanne. She would fly them home with all haste and never return.
The memory changed again.
She and Vermithor were circling above the Blackwater. In the distance, Caraxes was chasing Meleys. She could feel Vermithor’s amusement as Caraxes tried to lay claim and Meleys escaped him again and again – their sister taking no interest in the other dragon. She turned her head, watching as Meleys bit Caraxes on the tail and chased him off.
Vermithor let loose a roar of approval, impressed with Meleys ferocity.
The memory changed again.
Dead.
Alysanne was dead.
She had felt it; the moment her rider died.
She was alone.
She let out a roar of rage and agony and her tail thrashed out and hit the edge of the Dragonmont and sending thousands of little black crystals tumbling to the earth. She could hear the Dragonkeepers screaming at each other. She paid them no mind.
She was alone.
And then, she was no longer alone. Vermithor was there. His snout pressed up against her own, his neck against hers and his body likewise. He would never leave her. He was hers and she was his.
The memory changed again
Rhaenyra had come to Vermithor. Asking him to take a new rider. She had presented him a selection. Vermithor had hated every single one. Silverwing could hear him burning them as she tried to slumber. A roar of rage echoed around the Dragonmont and she raised her head, watching as a man ran past with flames consuming him. She closed her eyes again before he fell, although she could hear the thump of his body hitting the earth.
Vermithor would bend his wing eventually. He was like her; he wanted to be bonded. Dragons were not made to be alone.
The memory changed again
He was the least deplorable of the lot that were sent to her. A fool. A simple fool. But she hoped that, foolish as he was, he would not understand the bond that they could have, and he did not have the capacity to cause her or those she loved harm. And so, she bent her wing to him and let him mount her.
The memory changed again.
He had betrayed her. Them.
He had left her. Her children were fighting. Vermithor had intervened but chased her away when she had tried to help. Where was Ulf? He should be here. He should be helping her. He should have protected her children as she would have protected him and his children – should he have ever had any.
Never again.
She would never bend her wing to a Targaryen again.
The memory changed again.
She was circling high above the town. Below her, Tessarion and Seasmoke were still locked together, fighting and roaring. Her children. She should have known.
She should have let Tessarion go to her rider rather than wait for him to come to her. And now Tessarion’s rider was dead, and it was all Silverwing’s fault – she may as well have killed him herself.
She tried to dive down, but Vermithor chased her away and let loose a snarl at her to make it clear she was not to intervene. He would stop their children.
The memory changed again.
Grief. Crippling grief overwhelmed her. On the ground, Vermithor did not move. His neck was ripped open and hot, molten, blood gushed from the wound. It burnt her as she staggered across the remains of the battlefield toward him, but she ignored it. When she finally reached him, she raised his wing – urging him to get up, to fly with her again as he had always done. But he did not move. She let out a mournful cry and desperately tried twice more to rouse him, but it did not work. He was dead.
He had left her.
She staggered backwards and let out a mournful wail.
She was alone.
Daenerys staggered backwards, ripping her hand away from Silverwing’s snout. The dragon stared at her; her head cocked to one side and her eyes narrowed.
What had the dragon seen, she wondered. How much of her life and her pain had the dragon felt?
She could feel her tears pouring down her face as snot dripped out of her nose. Her heart was beating so heavily against her chest she knew the dragon could hear it as easily as Daenerys could hear her Dothraki trying to wrangle their horses back under control. Silverwing blinked slowly at her and let loose a low croon – the same noise she had made at Daenerys’ children.
She kept her eyes fixed on Silverwing’s blue ones. The dragon blinked once at her, slowly as though trying to convey something. Daenerys took a step forward and tentatively pressed her hand against Silverwing’s snout. No memories flooded through her that time, but the grief was still there. Hers. Silverwings. It was crippling.
“It is horrible, to grieve alone,” she whispered softly. “I am sorry.”
Underneath her hand, Silverwing let loose a mournful trill.
**
They had given her entry to the city. She had thought they would balk and refuse. Or that she would have to possibly pretend to give them one of her children to be given entry. They had been about to refuse her, she was sure. But then Silverwing had reappeared again – having vanished once she had set Daenerys on the path to Qarth – sweeping over the city and circling it three times before she came to land behind Daenerys’ people and let loose a roar. The effect of Silverwing’s arrival had been instant and the men had bowed before her, opened the gates and promised that they would give her men to crew a ship and food and water for the voyage and fresh horses for the few Dothraki that still remained with her.
They named her a friend of Qarth.
When the Thirteen had declared they would give her a ship, and men to crew it, she had expected a small thing. Yet, the ship they had provided her was larger than any she had seen before – even those she had seen during her time at the Magister Illyrio’s in Pentos. She was assured it was a galley, despite the size, which meant that it could stay closer to the coast and so it would be faster, and safer. It was better for her dragons as well, for it would allow them to stick close to land and the ship, something that had not gone unnoticed by neither her nor Ser Jorah.
“It is a gift,” they had decreed, as one, when she had said it was too much. “Our gift to the mother of dragons. So that she might remember the hand of friendship we offered her.”
Friendship indeed, she could not help but think. It was only friendship as long as she never returned unless asked.
Yet, that did not mean she would not still need them. If she wished to return home, then she needed an army. They knew that as well, for they had smiled when they had told her of the Unsullied army in Astapor. They had pointed her like an arrow at her target, and she let them.
She had wanted to balk and to refuse – leaving a city without defences, even a slave city, felt wrong. What felt even more wrong was leaving the slaves behind and not helping them. She had done it in Qarth though, she realised eventually. Qarth had been built on the backs of slaves, and she had left them there. Perhaps Astapor could be different.
Then something had begun to tug at the edges of her mind, as though to tell her she should not act as she wished, and she had eventually relented when the pain became so bad that she was nearly in tears.
It was only later that she realised that it had been Silverwing forcing her own thoughts against her mind. She had panicked when the realisation had swept through her – she did not want the dragon to change her so – and then, something else had slipped through the bond...guilt.
They were stuck at sea, and she could not get close enough to the dragon to touch her again – to try and feel what the dragon had felt and see what she had seen – and in the end she had no choice but to trust in Silverwing. The dragon had saved her. She owed her some measure of trust, at least. The thought, when it had come, had made her bark out a laugh that was mildly hysterical and had made everyone on the deck of the ship look at her like she was quite mad. But she was Daenerys Targaryen. She had lived her entire life with people looking at her like she was mad.
And so, the bargain was struck. She would take the Unsullied from Astapor, leaving it vulnerable, and in return the Thirteen would give her ships to sail home. Ships were more easily built than cities and Astapor was a prize that they could not pass up. Silverwing had made her presence known again in Daenerys’ mind when the deal had been made and, for the first time in her life she knew what it felt like for someone to be proud of her. She was not sure she was proud of herself, not yet at least. But Silverwing being proud of her was something. It was enough.
Her people were three days into their journey toward Astapor when Ser Jorah approached her on the ship they had been given.
“It is a fine ship.”
She turned slightly, smiling as Ser Jorah came to rest his arms next to her on the edge of the wooden banister that ran around the ship.
“A very fine ship,” she replied.
They shared a small smile. A few meters away, her children chased each other in the air. Their wings were small, and they had only started flying a few days ago but they stayed airborne longer than she had expected. She had not voiced such matters to Ser Jorah, but she had wondered if the arrival of Silverwing – who was soaring hundreds of feet above them, barely moving her wings as she tracked their ship as it sailed toward the Gulf of Grief – had accelerated their growth. Although they were still smaller, they were far stronger than before. She had seen her children huddling around the dragon on occasion and she wondered whether there was something happening there.
“You could take the Seven Kingdom’s with her,” Ser Jorah said, hours later.
They had not moved from their spot on the deck. Around the, her remaining Dothraki continued to be sick, but she knew they would not complain. She had proved herself in their eyes. She had bought dragons back into the world and she had heard them talking about Silverwing – about how she had not burnt Daenerys, nor harmed them. How Daenerys would take the dragon for her mount, and she would lead them to glory. They cursed those that had fled when Silverwing arrived and called them weak. The ones that remained would follow her anywhere now. Die for her.
She tried not to think about it, but she had never known loyalty like it. Even Drogo had not commanded this level of respect from his Khalasar. It felt more like a burden than anything else. Was this what ruling felt like?
“She will not let me mount her,” she murmured quietly, trying to ensure no one could hear them. Her eyes fixed overhead on Silverwing who was still soaring above them and seeming to barely need to beat her wings as she used the wind to keep her in the air. It was a thing of beauty to watch. The part of her mind that sounded strangely like the dragon pushed a thought to her mind and she added softly, “not yet.”
“Why not, Khaleesi?”
“She wants to be sure.”
“Of what?”
“That I am worthy. I think.”
“How does one prove to a dragon that they are worthy?”
She cocked her head to the side, considering the dragon above them. “I am not quite sure. I suppose I shall need to find out.”
They did not broach the subject of Silverwing again until they were but a day from Astapor.
She stood again on the deck of the ship, watching as her children played in the sea – diving in and out of the waves crashing against the ship – and wondering when they might be as big as the dragon currently circling above. Silverwing had been a hundred name days when she had vanished into the North – at least according to what Viserys had told her. By her best guess, at their current rate of growth, it would take at least five years for Daenerys’ to be able to fly one of her children.
She did not have five years.
The Seven Kingdom’s had always been Viserys’ dream. It was truly only after he was dead that it had become hers. A place to raise her son. A place that Drogo could give her. Her home. But Rhaego was gone now and so was Drogo. And still, she yearned for the home she could not remember.
She was sure though, if she arrived in Westeros on dragonback with Dothraki and Unsullied at her back, they would never support her. Not that she had a dragon to ride, not yet at least.
It gnawed at her. Constantly. Her every waking hour was spent thinking of Silverwing or watching her as she soared above. She had come for Daenerys – that much was clear for Two weeks after she had first shown herself, Silverwing was still here.
Why?
Daenerys was sure that Silverwing wanted to be mounted. She could feel it. She was certain the dragon wanted to be hers, no matter how much Drogon and his brothers chaffed at the idea. Silverwing had been betrayed – Daenerys had seen it. She had felt it. The stabbing in her heart of betrayal and the burning of her blood, like fire, that made her want nothing more than to burn the world to the ground.
And the pain.
Yet, still, Silverwing was giving Daenerys a chance. Silverwing could have left, and Daenerys knew – as much as it pained her to admit it – that her children would have gone with the larger dragon. But Silverwing had stayed. She wanted Daenerys and she wanted Daenerys’ children to stay with her.
Why?
It ate away at her like one of the parasites the wise men of Qarth had warned them of in the desert. The ones that burrowed deep inside you and ate you from the inside out.
It consumed her.
As she watched, Silverwing flew over the top of the ship with Daenerys’ children giving chase. They could not keep up with the older, larger, dragon. Yet still they tried. Desperate to impress. Like children scrabbling to impress their mother.
She paused.
Mother.
She looked at Silverwing more carefully.
She looked nothing like Daenerys’ children. But that did not mean there was not something there. Daenerys had heard, of course, about women who looked after children who were not their own. They were rare. More often it was a child – a bastard – being forced upon that woman and the woman chaffing against her husband for years over it, before the child met an unpleasant end. She was not sure she could do it. If Drogo had done it to her...no, she could not even think it, let alone consider how she could have handled it.
Yet, Silverwing was different. Dragons were different.
Even as Daenerys watched, Rhaegal began to flag slightly – lagging behind the others – and as though Silverwing knew what was happening, she turned sharply and flew down, behind Rhaegal, and guided him back toward the ship. Only once he was safely back in Daenerys arms did Silverwing turn her full attention back to Viserion and Drogon – even though Daenerys knew, somehow, that Silverwing was completely aware of what the other two dragons were doing the entire time.
“Do you know of the Targaryen dragons, Ser Jorah? Of their histories?”
“No. Khaleesi.”
“Viserys said that Silverwing was the mother of Tessarion and Seasmoke.”
“Do you think that is true, Khaleesi?”
“Perhaps,” she allowed. “They say that after the Battle of Tumbleton, she flew North. She was seen flying over the Wall – Viserys used to tell me stories of it. Of how she was a coward. How she fled. How she should have stayed and let a Targaryen mount her again.” She was silent for a moment. “She refused to fly over the Wall for Alysanne.” There was a sharp tug at her heart that made her breathless before she continued, “but she flew over it when her children and Vermithor were dead.”
“Was the battle not over when she left?”
“It was,” she murmured. “She coiled with Vermithor. Even if Tessarion and Seasmoke were not her children, I can only imagine the pain she suffered at his passing. A hundred years is a long time to love.” She paused as the loss of Drogo hit her for a moment and made her heart clench in the same way that it did when she had mentioned Alysanne moments before. In the air above, Silverwing let out a mournful sound. “Viserys always said that dragons were little more than beasts to do our bidding. But he was wrong about so much, and I cannot help but think he was wrong about them too. Look at her. She guides them and protects them, and she came to me, and she has stayed. Why?” Her arms tightened instinctively around Rhaegal who cooed at her.
Abruptly, as though Silverwing had felt her thoughts, the memory of Silverwing’s terror at what lay Beyond the Wall forced itself to the front of her mind and she staggered under the weight of the memory for it was the first time Silverwing had done such a thing without them touching and somehow it felt more intrusive than anything she had ever felt before.
She shivered as the memory left her as quickly as it had come.
“Ser Jorah, what lays Beyond the Wall?”
“The Wall, Khaleesi?”
She nodded; eyes still fixed on Silverwing. “You have spoken to me of it.” And that was true, he had spoken to her – a length – about the North and the Wall. “But not what lays Beyond. Why was it built?”
“To defend the realms of men.”
“But the Wildlings who live in the far North, are they not men?”
Ser Jorah was silent for a moment before he said, “they are different. They are not like you or I.”
“As some would say, the Dothraki are different to us,” she remarked. “So why was it built?”
“Forgive me...but why do you ask, Khaleesi?”
She gestured toward Silverwing. “Alysanne Targaryen,” she began, but a twinge in her heart made her suck in a deep breath and stop. She rubbed her chest absently, jostling Rhaegal slightly, and continued, as though nothing had occurred, “tried to fly Silverwing over the Wall. Three times she tried. Three times she was denied. Yet, when Alysanne was dead and so was Vermithor and her children, and she had lost everything, Silverwing flew over the Wall. Tell me, Ser Jorah, what could scare a dragon so?”
Ser Jorah was quiet for a near hour as he pondered her words, and Daenerys did not push him. Instead, she watched as Silverwing danced in the air above with her children whilst in her arms Rhaegal let out little snuffles. Eventually, as the sun began to dip slightly – making clear that the end of the day was drawing nearer, Ser Jorah finally spoke.
“There are legends that say that the Wall was built to defend against the Others. Eight thousand years ago, there was a great war between them and the living. They came from the far North, from the Lands of Always Winter, sweeping through Westeros raising the dead with them. And with them came a horrible darkness where Men were born, lived and died during the Long Night – never seeing the sun.”
“What happened?”
“They were defeated, as always happens in tales meant to scare children, Khaleesi. Good triumphed over evil.”
“You do not think them real?”
“They are stories. Old stories, it is true, but stories, nonetheless. It’s not real.”
A loud roar split the silence then, echoing out over the sea for an age after Silverwing had closed her mouth. In the back of her mind, the small voice chanted the same words again and again; death.
“She thinks it’s real.”
**
“I mean to use her, Ser Jorah,” she said softly, speaking in an undertone to Ser Jorah. They were nearly at Astapor and around them men were running around, making the ship ready. She gestured toward the city on the horizon. “These men do not know she is not mine. They will see her, and I will name myself a Targaryen and they will give me what I wish.”
“You mean to threaten them?”
“Yes.”
“These men will not take kindly to threats, Khaleesi.”
“Neither will she,” she murmured, gesturing toward Silverwing who was now flying towards the city that was just discernible on the horizon. “She goes there now. They will fire their arrows at her, and they will do all they can to kill her, and they will want my children. And when I land, and I tell them that she is mine and it is by my mercy that they still live, they will give me everything I want.”
“And if they say no?”
“They will not,” she said, more confidently than she felt. “She will protect us if she thinks we are to be harmed. Remember Qarth, Ser Jorah. She came to me. She guided us to that city. And when they were about to say no to us, she secured us passage.”
“She is a dragon, Khaleesi! You cannot rely on her aid when you have not claimed her. We would be better buying the Unsullied we can afford and pressing on – finding somewhere for you to try and mount her. You could take the Seven Kingdom’s with your dragons. You could take Astapor with them if you wish! You have no need of an army. Or at least use them to take this city. Do not rely on negotiation.”
“What need do I have for violence, Ser Jorah? There will be time enough for war and bloodshed. Why would I spill blood now if I need not?”
A flicker of a smile crossed Ser Jorah’s face, and he bowed deeply. “As you say, Khaleesi.”
When he rose back to a straight position she smiled at him. “How many Unsullied are there in Astapor?”
“Last I heard, ten thousand if you included the ones still in training.”
“Do you suppose that is why the people have done nothing?”
“Khaleesi?”
“You say that Astapor is a Slaver’s City, worse than Qarth. Do you think the Unsullied are why the people of Astapor have allowed their treatment to continue? Fear?”
“Yes.”
“And when the Unsullied are gone?”
“I do not know. Slavery is all any of them have ever known.”
“I wish to free them,” she murmured softly, dropping her voice so he had to move even closer toward her. “I wish to free them so much. But I wish to return home more. Something calls to me. It calls me home.” She was silent for a moment. “It comes from her. She knows she must return, and she wishes for me to go with her. You are right, Ser Jorah. Even if Silverwing never lets me mount her, she will protect my children, and they will protect me. When I return home, she will come with me. She will not leave. I cannot put my children in danger in Astapor by trying to free these slaves, for as much as I wish to...there is something stopping me. She does not wish me to; I can feel it and I know I cannot disappoint her.”
“That does not sound like the Khalessi I know.”
“She doesn’t care about slaves, Ser Jorah,” she replied. “Do I care for them? Of course. I am not so changed. But I want to go home – I need to go home – they cannot help me with that, but she can.”
Ser Jorah was silent for a long moment. “You are doing the right thing, then.”
“Perhaps,” she allowed. “If things were different, and my children could defend themselves, I would take that risk. But they are too young.” She paused and looked towards Silverwing as she drew closer to Astapor. “She will help me get an army, I think, but not to save the slaves.”
“As you say, Khaleesi.”
In the distance, Silverwing let out a roar from atop the mountain outside Astapor where she had settled – almost as though she had heard the words Daenerys had spoken. Behind Daenerys, her dragons chirped loudly in response and let out little roars of their own. Like tiny cubs following a lion. She hid a smile.
It was chaos in the docks when her ship finally sailed in. They anchored at the far end of the large harbour, half a league away from the city itself, and all left the ship. In the sky above her, her children danced in the air – free and happy – and around her, her Dothraki walked happily, more than glad to be off the water. At her right, Ser Jorah whispered in her ear – telling her again all he knew of the city.
As they drew closer to the city she could hear more screaming from the centre of the city. Unsullied – at least she assumed so based off what Ser Jorah had said to her about them – marched past in neat lines. They did not even lookterrified. She stopped walking, and behind her the men and women with her did likewise and watched as another group of Unsullied appeared out of a passageway and formed up with the larger group.
It was impressive, she could not deny it. But it left a sinking feeling inside her that they could so bravely march to their possible deaths with no emotion on their face. She could only imagine the sort of terror they had endured to make them so strong.
“Ser Jorah, find whoever is in charge of the Unsullied and tell them that Daenerys Targaryen wishes for an audience. Tell them that the dragon outside their city will do them no harm as long as the Unsullied remain in this city and do not approach her, and as long as me and my people are not harmed.”
“Khaleesi.”
Ser Jorah vanished into the chaos of Astapor in an instant. She heaved out a sigh and guided her people toward a few stalls nearby where the merchants had fled. Her Dothraki took the food and wineskins greedily, not stopping to even consider whether they ought to pay for such items. She watched them for a moment and then sighed again. You could not change a man’s nature, she supposed.
When her Dothraki’s backs were turned she dropped a few coins that remained from Qarth into one of the empty tins on the nearest stall and then guided her people away again, taking a wineskin and some food from Doreah when it was offered.
They waited at the docks for an age. In the sky above the harbour, her children continued to chase each other and dived in and out of the water – completely ignored by the people of the city, who likely thought that they were nothing more than large birds. So much focus was on Silverwing that Daenerys half thought they could have sacked the city and laid waste to everyone and everything in it before anyone realised what was happening.
By the time Ser Jorah returned, calm had mostly returned to the docks. Stall-holders were back and the screams from the centre of the city had died down. She pushed herself away from the wall and waited, straight-backed and eagle-eyed, for Ser Jorah to approach her.
“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah greeted. “They will meet you in the Plaza of Pride.”
“And what sort of welcome should I expect, Ser Jorah?”
“I am not quite sure.”
She nodded and beckoned for him to lead the way, falling into pace next to him as he began to walk. Behind her, she could hear her Dothraki beginning to follow. As they walked, she caught bits of various conversations from the people of Astapor. She tried not to look at the slaves as they walked past, nor the Unsullied soldiers that guarded what were clearly wealthy merchants.
It did not take them long in the end to reach the Plaza of Pride. The Masters that sat inside were as she expected – well-fed and completely guileless. They relied on the strength of their slaves and nothing else. Yet, for all she felt disgusted by them, she didn’t miss the way their eyes flickered to Silverwing in the distance in alarm but still fixed their eyes greedily on her children as they circled overhead.
It would be so easy to take the city.
She listened as the servant girl – young, with wide brown eyes and a terrified expression on her face – introduced the Masters in the Common Tongue and demanded, albeit far more politely than the Masters behind her had tossed out the words in Valyrian, that Daenerys explain why she was in Astapor and why she had threatened it.
She could have played along. It would have been easy to let them under-estimate her. Perhaps, if Silverwing had not started circling above her making it clear what she wished, she would have let them underestimate her. But she did not have that luxury. She had already announced who she was and that the dragon was hers and dragons did not bow for anyone. As though hearing her thoughts, Silverwing let loose another roar.
And so, she said loudly, “I have not threatened you although I will not hesitate to lay waste to your city if you do not give me what I wish. I want all your Unsullied, including the ones still in training and then I will leave your city. No blood need be spilled.”
She expected the anger that followed. She had not expected their laughter or their insults. She supposed she should have – men were fools, and men faced with a girl young enough to be their daughter were even bigger fools.
“I would not be so easily amused if our roles were reversed. I am sure you remember Old Ghis. Three of my dragons are still young, but the eldest is almost three hundred years old not even Balerion lived to that age. I will offer you terms again: give me the Unsullied, or burn,” she said once they had stopped laughing.
They were not laughing now, she realised.
They were angry. One of them, the man in the middle who had been introduced by the young girl as Kraznys mo Nakloz was angry, furious in his rage. She stared at him as he threatened her and let his angry words wash through her as though they meant nothing.
She cocked her head to the side and regarded the Master carefully. He had risen to his feet and taken angry steps toward her. In the air, her children still circled. She tugged on her bond with Drogon – weaker than it had ever been before, as though something else was taking its place – and he came instantly. She could feel his joy reverberating through her that she had chosen him over the others.
“Dracarys,” she whispered as he streaked past her.
A ball of flame shot out of his mouth and hit the Master full on – bathing him in flames in an instant. She watched as he raised his hands up in panic and tried to swat out the flames but all he managed to do was fan them and they spread all the more quickly for it. Around the courtyard, the Unsullied who stood guard did nothing – for no one ordered anything, for why would the other Masters risk themselves against the wrath of four dragons? They all watched in silence as the man burned, screaming in terror and agony, until he fell silent and his legs gave up. By the time the flames consumed themselves there was nothing left but charred, blackened, bones.
High in the sky, Silverwing let out a roar of triumph and, more clearly than she could feel with Drogon, Daenerys could feel pride flood through the bond with Silverwing. Suddenly, it felt stronger than it had before. She smiled as well. Proud of her child, of Drogon, and proud of herself.
A gentle breeze whipped past, and dust from the bones danced up into the air and spiralled high over the walls of the Plaza of Pride.
“You have seen what a dragon not yet a moon can do. Do you wish to see what one nearly three hundred years can do?”
**
Hours later, as the sun began to set in the distance, Daenerys stood on the battlements of Astapor and gazed out on the desolate land beyond its walls. In the distance, she could see Silverwing curled up in a ball with the three smaller dragons tucked up next to her. They were tired. She could feel it.
It had been almost as easy as Qarth. One dead Master – who she did not think anyone would mourn, least of all the other Masters – and the rest of them had folded and given her everything she wanted. In exchange, all she had to do was leave.
It made her sick. Bile clawed its way up her throat at the thought of leaving the city, and the innocent slaves within, defenceless when the Thirteen and their army came. But they were not her people, nor her responsibility.
Perhaps if she had never met Silverwing things would be different. Perhaps if her children had been larger and less vulnerable. But what were the lives of the slave’s worth against her children? She could not lose them, and she knew what would happen if she disappointed the dragon. Silverwing would leave her, and her children would go with the larger dragon. She shivered as her mind turned to that memory that Silverwing had shared; of the Wall and of the terror that had seeped through her bones at the thought of going North. Silverwing would have left her if she had risked her children so – she was sure. No. It had to be done this way.
As though sensing where Daenerys’ thoughts had taken her, Silverwing’s presence in her mind sparked slightly and the dragon lifted her head off the ground and stared up at Daenerys. Satisfaction dripped through their fledgling bond, as though the dragon was pleased by Daenerys’ decision.
“Khaleesi?”
“I will be fine. Send word to Qarth. Tell them we need enough ships for ten thousand Unsullied. We will use the ships that Astapor has for the rest.”
She hoped it would not take long. Although Qarth did not have that many ships at their disposal, they had friends and allies in cities nearby that would aid them – and she did not need the ships forever. Only to get her to Westeros.
“Very well.”
She did not turn to look at Ser Jorah as she crossed past him, down the steps of the battlements and into the courtyard. Several Unsullied fell into position behind her as she walked and she smiled at them in greeting but otherwise did not change course or alter her gaze from her destination. She left the city through its gate as easily as she had arrived in the harbour hours before.
As she drew closer to Silverwing she raised her hand and the Unsullied stopped marching, and she crossed the final distance toward the dragon alone.
Silverwing raised her head from where it had been nudging a carcass toward the three smaller dragons and gazed at her. They stared at each other for a moment and then Silverwing raised her head higher, extending her neck its full length, and let loose a croon of satisfaction.