DAENERYS
She could not yet see where they were going, nor hear any sound other than the drip of water, but she could smell a faint, pleasant scent, like sandalwood and palm and sunlight, so different from the apocryphal den of horrors she'd pictured after hearing Kojja Mo's warning. The red priests were certainly naught to be trifled with, and she had learned every hard lesson there was about how a fair face could hide foul intentions, but she went forth unafraid, as befitted the blood of the dragon.
However, it was a lucky thing that the path seemed to be straight and smooth underfoot, otherwise they would be tripping and blundering along like a pair of fools in a farce. It was not plain darkness; it was the complete and utter absence of light, rubbing up against them like a dockside whore, until it seemed ridiculous to even think of the sun. Even when Dany had her free hand directly before her face and wiggled her fingers, she could not make out the meanest shape of it. All she had was Jorah's fist clutched tightly in her other one, to remind her that she was not lost alone here forever. She hoped they were still going in the same direction. Otherwise they could be making a great circle, until they either buckled of exhaustion or the red priests grew bored of toying with them and deigned to grant them an audience. But of what sort, who can say?
Once or twice, Dany felt wind on her face from high above, but still no glimmer of sunlight accompanied it. Since there was nothing to fill her eyes in this void, she began to imagine it instead, and if she turned her head just slightly, she glimpsed a fearful specter: a carpet of ragged silver-gold hair, mad purple eyes, fingernails that were cracked claws almost a foot long. She had seen him once before, in the House of the Undying. The Mad King, it whispered in her head. Your own royal sire.
Dany averted her gaze, not wanting to look, but she could not escape it. It grew clearer and clearer, until she knew she was no longer hallucinating but seeing it in truth: a great throne room, crackling flames, a man screaming as he burned, a younger man strangling himself trying to reach him. . . and then a golden youth in gilded armor and a white cloak, a golden sword stained red. . . that cracked shrieking voice asking, "Whose blood? Whose?" and another voice which she had never heard but knew to be Ser Jaime Lannister's: "Rossart's."
Then the mad king fled, and the golden youth charged after him. And before her eyes Daenerys Targaryen watched her father die, at last.
She uttered a short, sharp scream, pulling on Ser Jorah's hand like a filly fighting the bit. The blood from the body spilled across the tiles almost to her feet, soaking her slippers, and she twisted and struggled to get away as he held her fast. "No – let me go, please – he killed him, just there, I saw – didn't you – "
"I see nothing, my queen," her bear said, very low. "Only the dark."
It is a vision, only a vision. I could not have changed it, it happened years ago. And yet even as Dany thought that, a new pair of ghosts glided out, above the stiffening ghastly corpse of Aerys Targaryen, the Second of his Name. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.
One of these ghosts Dany had also seen in the House of the Undying. He was tall, silver-haired, violet-eyed, handsome and melancholy, with long elegant fingers that cradled his harp. The other hand held a blue rose, and he seemed to be offering it directly to her. Their gazes locked. His mouth moved, but whether he spoke the words or she merely imagined them, she did not know. "Little sister."
"Rhaegar," she whispered, stunned. Again he held out the rose to her, but when she tried to take it her fingers only passed through dusty nothingness. "What is – "
"The prince who was promised," he said sadly. "I did my part, little sister, and it cost our family everything. You must do the same, and it will cost you no less. Fire and blood will raze a kingdom, but not raise it. Father never learned. You must not become him again. You must not."
"I will not," Dany promised. "In Meereen, I – "
"Meereen is nothing," her gallant brother said. He's dead, he died too, at the fords of the Trident Robert Baratheon put a warhammer through his chest and killed him. Then had him burned, so his tomb could never be made a place of honor. . . but Ser Barristan, Ser Jorah, all of them called him the last true dragon, and fire cannot kill a dragon. "And you have lost even more than you know."
"What?" Dany leaned forward urgently. "What has transpired in Meereen?"
Rhaegar was beginning to fade. His voice came as if from down a long tunnel. ". . . bound to his will. . . poisoned gifts. . . made a bargain with them. . . call him Crow's Eye, but not for that. . . dragon horn. . . cursed. . ."
"Brother!" Dany screamed. "Stay with me. Please!"
"It is too late," a second voice said softly, near at hand. "He was never yours to know."
Dany's heart had already been in her throat; at this, it almost jumped out of her mouth. Then she turned and looked upon the one member of her family she had never before beheld, either in flesh or in dream.
Rhaella Targaryen was small, barely taller than her daughter, clad in a hooded mantle of black with the three-headed dragon of their House burning on the breast. Her silver-gold hair was neatly plaited, her purple eyes haunted in her thin face. She glanced at the place where Rhaegar had stood, then back to Dany. Her voice was as ethereal as she looked. "My little stormborn girl. What has become of you?"
"I am a queen," Dany said. A tyrant. "A conqueror." An usurper.
Rhaella did not answer immediately. Then after a moment, her hands floated up to the collar of her mantle. With one deliberate gesture, she pulled it away, baring herself to the waist.
Dany stared. Her mother's torso was slender, the ribs sharp and the breasts small, and pale and white as a stripped beech – save for where it was scarred with livid bites, scabs, and bruises. Without a word, Rhaella removed the rest of her garb as well, until she stood as naked as her nameday, so close that Dany ached to reach out and take her hand. But she could not take her eyes from the horrific abuse made so plain on that thin fragile body. Wanted to ask who had done it, wanted to demand – but already knew.
"Fire and blood," Rhaella said bitterly, drawing her mantle closed again. "Is that the queen you will make, my child?"
"No." The word seemed stuck in Dany's throat. "I tried. . ."
"He is right." Rhaella's eyes flickered in the direction of her departed son. "Rhaegar did as he must. You now, child."
"But. . . Mother, no, please, Mama. . ." The word was utterly foreign on her tongue. She had been called Mother in every language that was: Mother of Dragons, Mother of the slaves whose chains she'd broken. But never once spoken it to another, as it was meant.
"Go," Rhaella whispered. "Be strong enough. No other choice. They come. Burn them. As a Targaryen should. One last time. Burn them, and then burn you."
"I don't – "
And Rhaella was gone, as completely as if a candle had been snuffed. Dany turned in all directions, hoping and fearing another visitation, but nothing stirred. She was alone.
She was quite alone.
"Jorah?" She turned again, groping at the solid wall of darkness. "Jorah!"
No answer.
"Jorah!" It was useless to cry out. If he was anywhere nearby, he would have answered. She had no idea when his hand had gone from hers – she'd been trying to touch the shades of her dead family, but she knew that they were still dead, and that she, somewhere here under the Shadow, was not –
– or was she? For a brief, horrifying instant, Dany found herself unsure. They will change you, Kojja had said. But she was Mother of Dragons. She was no use to them dead.
Dany wheeled in a panicking circle. She touched her mouth, her breast; she was still breathing, her heart still beat. That took the edge off somewhat, and as she squinted down the long vault, she could just make out a pale, formless glow at the end. Likely Jorah had seen the same thing while she was preoccupied with her phantasms, and gone to investigate. It did seem strange that he'd leave her side to do it. But as she'd just learned, one was not always the master of one's own will in this place.
Curious but still wary, Dany started forward. After only a dozen yards or so, slants of sunlight began to burnish the mosaic-inlaid path beneath her feet, and she could hear birds singing. She sped up.
Yet again, she'd erred in her estimation of the red priests. She had pictured some vast audience chamber, sculpted threateningly in dark stone, a great bonfire between hangings of red silk and smoking iron braziers. But what she emerged into instead, blinking her eyes hard against the summery glow, was a small, informal cloister garden. Water trickled invitingly from an elegant fountain, and the air was green and gold, buzzing with insects and iridescent butterflies as big as Dany's fist. The ground was soft white sand, and shade spread out deep veils beneath the gauzy leaves.
It was so swooning and seductive, in fact, that Dany had to stop in her tracks to savor it; so as you lost memory of light in the darkness, so too in the Red Waste you lost memory of luxury and fertility. Nonetheless, she resolved not to be gulled by any part of it, no matter how attractive. For all she knew, this was an illusion. She had seen something similar in the House of the Undying.
Dany glanced cautiously from side to side, but saw neither Jorah nor anyone else. A tray with two golden goblets sat on a stone pillar at the center of the garden, but though she was very thirsty, she knew better than to accept some potentially sorcerous beverage in a place like this. So she merely took a few more steps in, glancing around for one of the red priests. Likely they intended on making an entrance.
She had only been waiting a few moments when the foliage rustled, and a tall man who had not previously been in evidence stepped gracefully through the trailing vines. He was clad all in red, a fluttering belted robe with dagged sleeves and a gilted collar, a red beyond even the word: crimson, scarlet, cerise, cardinal, vermilion. The points danced like flame around his wrists, a ruby winked at his throat, and his skin was a deep rich gold, honey-baked brown. His eyes were liquidly black, his head shaved close in a fashion that briefly reminded her of Xaro Xhoan Daxos. On impulse she looked to see if his lips were blue like Pyat Pree's, but they were not. Blue lips speak lies. . . yet that did not mean that this one had any more disposition to be truthful.
He came to a halt facing her, his long bare feet making no noise in the sand, and offered a grave nod. "Mother of Dragons. We have waited long for you, and thought to see you sooner. Yet of course, you are most welcome."
Dany inclined her head in return. "I thought it would be sooner as well." That was not a lie, but not entirely the truth; she had not decided to go to Asshai of her own will until hearing that Khal Jhaqo proposed to sell her there regardless of her opinions on the matter. Yet perhaps if she had heeded Quaithe's counsel sooner. . . No matter. It was done. "You know me by repute, I see, but I do not know you. How shall I call you, my lord?"
"I am no lord, only a humble priest. And I have been called many things in my time, but I presently content myself with Fintan."
"Those who claim many names and no lordship usually lie," said Dany. "Where is my companion, my lord?"
Fintan looked confused. "Companion?"
"The one who entered this temple with me. We were separated in the darkness."
The red priest shook his head. "My lady, I saw you in my fires approaching this place, but there was no one with you. You walked alone, while rain the color of blood lashed about you. Such a color. . . indeed, I have never seen its like."
"I rather imagine that you have, my lord."
That made him smile. "You are a clever one, Mother. But whatever you may think, you came to us alone and unarmed, as indeed was the only way you could. Look about you. Here is the goodness, the richness of light and truth and beauty, more real than you could ever imagine. What if you have been asleep your whole life, and only now have woken?"
"Or perhaps I now dream, my lord."
He smiled again, but this time it did not reach his eyes. "The hour is late, my lady. Too late. Your delay might yet cost us everything. What kept you?"
"Folly," Dany said. "The folly of mercy."
"Just so." Those black eyes lingered on hers. "Meereen? What is in Meereen to keep you from your true destiny? How many nightfires burn there?"
"Many, to keep the Harpy away."
Fintan waved a hand. "Any fool can build a fire. It was the first gift god gave to us, and the greatest. But without the aid of R'hllor, it is only a feeble spark in a hungry darkness. Tell me, my lady, did these sparks of yours keep the night's terrors away?"
"No," Dany was forced to admit.
"No," he repeated. "So then, my lady. There is much and more I could tell you of Meereen, if I had a mind. I could tell you who the Harpy is, and who you love that is dead. Could tell you that you are only the mother of dragons, and no longer their mistress."
A cold chill went down Dany's back. "My. . . my brother came to me. Rhaegar. Back there. He said – "
"All he said was what we know, what we have seen in our fires. Yet perhaps you begin to understand. In this great heart of god, there is nothing that cannot be done or known, no spell beyond our abilities or comprehension. Even life and death are but two sides of the same coin here, a coin which we throw, and if you stand with us, we will become so strong as to break the Great Other forever. That is death's side of the coin. And like anyone, Mother, I imagine there are many whom you would have back again."
Dany's mouth was dry. She was familiar with the bitter price of bloodmagic, would not rush to grasp at it as she had so disastrously the first time. But in her head she could see them: Khal Drogo, her sun-and-stars, and Rhaego, the son they'd made together who had never drawn a living breath. The stallion who mounts the world. Even Doreah, her handmaiden who had died in the Waste, and faithful Groleo who'd lost his head in Meereen. And those two ghosts who'd just visited her. . . her splendid brother and her poor lady mother. . . a thousand wrongs put to right, a might and power that no one would ever doubt again. . . to live forever. . .
Yet even as she thought it, Dany saw other faces as well. The wild-eyed, shrieking king, his heartsblood bright on that golden blade. The Usurper, who'd sent knives after her through all of the Free Cities. Her brother Viserys, and his fits of rage and abuse and vitriol, the small scared girl she'd been that he had kept so remorselessly under his thumb. If none of them had died, I would not be standing here. I would not matter. But they did. I do.
"Will you, my lord?" she said at last. "A coin is a coin only by virtue of having two faces. Otherwise it is merely an abstract, a drawing, and no longer real."
"It is so," Fintan agreed. "As we presently understand the world, at least. But that is no longer enough for what we must do, Mother. You know this, elsewise you would not be here. We are the only ones who can restore what has been taken from you."
"What has been taken from me? I lose patience with riddles."
"Your dragons," Fintan said bluntly. "Drogon languishes even now, wounded and angry, better suited to carry out the reaving and burning of his namesake than anything else. Viserion, the weakest of the three as Viserys was the weakest of your brothers, has already been bound under the spell of that unholy thing from Valyria. He serves a new master now. . . and that master serves the Great Other. And Rhaegal. . ."
"What?" Dany's heart was beginning to pound. "What about Rhaegal?"
"It seems that no one can find him," Fintan said, with an odd, twisted smile. "Just as no one could find your brother – until it was discovered that he'd run off with Lyanna Stark and become a tipping point for the rebellion that cast your House from the throne of Westeros. You see. It has a certain. . . symmetry."
"Yet you know," Dany said. That smile had told her as much. "You saw him in your flames. Where?"
Fintan gave a light shrug. "I could be mistaken. We have been in the past."
"And yet you do not think you are."
"No, I do not think I am. But you must forgive me, I have been dreadfully discourteous. Here we stand speaking of such matters, and in the day's heat. Permit me to offer you a cup."
Dany accepted the golden goblet he handed to her, but made no move to take a sip. "My companion told me that your order has begun to preach that I am some hero returned. Azor Ahai. Yet during the months I ruled in Meereen, countless travelers told me that Stannis Baratheon, the Usurper's brother, is still laying claim to the Iron Throne. Not only that, but he believes that he is Azor Ahai reborn, complete with a red priestess of your faith and a flaming sword. Which is it, my lord Fintan? It cannot be both. Unless your folk equip every potential candidate with one of your own, so you come out on top regardless of which of us does."
"So cynical for a young girl," Fintan mourned. "As for Melony. . . my lady, let us be frank. She has a certain amount of low skill, and a devotion to the Lord of Light that would put many of us to shame, but she is wrong. When she speaks, she is wrong. When she foretells, she is wrong. When she acts, she is wrong. She took it into her head from looking into her flames that Lord Stannis was the one, I misremember how, and from that moment on there was no getting it out. Yet by now it must have become apparent even to her that she is wrong, so she must continue to contrive and dissemble and pretend. Her mistakes have ensnared her, you see, and so become lies. She even procured a false Lightbringer, or perhaps she truly believed that if she burned simple wooden idols, R'hllor would anoint a suitable replacement. That should tell you all you need to know of her. If she was ever to return here to Asshai, she would be made to answer for her heresies, and to pay the price for them. There is no leisure for such ill-done work when the fate of mankind hangs in the balance."
"Lightbringer," Dany said. "Azor Ahai's sword. You said most clearly that the one Lord Stannis holds is false. Where then is the true one?"
"Do you think that if I knew, I would be standing before you?" Fintan spread his hands. "It is the one mystery that remains closed to me. Some say that it was lost for good millennia ago, at the end of the first Battle for the Dawn, but I do not believe that. It will be found, and when it is. . ."
"It is?" Dany prompted.
"It will forever remake our image of the world. That is where you come in, Mother."
"I see." Dany had expected this. "Yet if the sword is false, than Lord Stannis's claim to be Azor Ahai must therefore be false as well. Is it then me?"
"It certainly could be interpreted that way. But I know that you sought us out for another reason. To fulfill the charge laid on you by the shadowbinder Quaithe, and to undo the blood magic wrought by Mirri Maz Duur and cure your barrenness – among other things. Is that not so?"
"It is," Dany said guardedly.
"There is no antidote to what has already been done, but everything is changeable. That is the nature of fire. Our sister Quaithe wished you to open your eyes. From the beginning she has foretold numerous morrows which then came to pass. Now hear me. You must win your dragons back with blood, and then you must take them to Westeros, so they may join in the last battle against the servants of the Other. Afterwards, when all is burned clean, so too will the scourge on your womb be lifted. But only, as before, at a price."
Dany did not like the way he said it. "What price?"
"Your dragons are your children now. If you ever wish to bear children of your body, they must die. And if you still think to win the Iron Throne, you will need to give it an heir. This great War of the Five Kings came about because of Robert Baratheon's failure and Cersei Lannister's treachery in that matter. And dragons cannot sit that throne, my lady. Nor listen to petitions nor wrangle about taxes nor govern a people."
Dany was shocked. "So you would have me choose between my children? That I shall have them of fire or of flesh, but not both?"
"Precisely."
"But I could not conquer Westeros without dragons, and I could not hold it without an heir. I need both."
"So you do. But you may not have both."
"Will you tell me that all this time I have been fooling myself?"
"No. Not at all. But many ordinary men have taken crowns without the aid of dragons, and bred many sons. For all the Targaryens talk of being exceptional, it seems strange that you cannot do the same."
Dany's fists clenched. "Do not mock me."
"Your pardons, my lady. But your dragons are needed in Westeros. Win them back and lead them there."
"They will die if I go to Westeros, you said." There was always a chance that he was lying, or at least not being entirely forthcoming, to find a way to keep them for the devotees of R'hllor. But Dany had a sinking feeling that he was not. It was too unholy, too dementedly and blackly perfect, Mirri Maz Duur's last curse from beyond the grave. Any mother would sooner see the sun rise in the west and set in the east, the mountains turn to dust and blow like leaves in the wind, before choosing to sentence one of her children to death.
She turned away. She could not bear to contemplate the magnitude of the decision fronting her. It seemed it should be simple, but it was not. It was anything but. To stay here and to be Queen of Essos, to have her dragons live, to never bear a child, to let House Targaryen die with her. Or return to Westeros, fight the Other, see her dragons die even if she won, and yet perhaps one day birth a living babe, to grow the withered branch fresh again. If she was to become queen, to sit the Iron Throne as she had always said she should and must, she would have to give up the very thing that had brought her ancestor Aegon there three hundred years ago, the sigil of her House, a weapon beyond cost or price. Mother of Dragons. Without them, she deeply and shamefully feared that she was nothing after all. Only a girl who had not yet seen her eighteenth name day, no warrior or seasoned diplomat, a girl whose father had been. . .
A queen who would sit there, if she did at all, only on her merits, and no other. And if she did not go, left Westeros to its fate, selfishly kept her dragons for herself. . . the Great Other grows very strong now. . .
The garden was brilliant, warm and sun-kissed, but Dany suddenly felt very cold. She did not know that Fintan was to be trusted, she did not know where Jorah was, she did not in fact know if she was asleep or awake, and she did not remember how long it had been since she entered. She dearly wanted to be dreaming, and was terrified that it was so.
At last she said, "It seems you feel that I should think of my duty. My family, my line. Since I am the last Targaryen, I must – "
"Oh," Fintan said mildly. "This would be the time. As a matter of fact, my dear. . . you are not."
"What. . .?" Each new revelation took Dany furtherly off guard. "Kojja Mo told me of Maester Aemon, but said he passed before he – "
"He did. But it is not Maester Aemon to whom I refer."
"Then. . ." Dany almost dreaded to hear the answer, considering how unsettled she had been earlier by his proposal of resurrecting the dead ones. "Who?"
"Why." Fintan smiled thinly at the expression on her face. "The one who awaits you in Westeros. Your brother Rhaegar's son. Your nephew."