Chapter 4:
The Demon Road was aptly named, and if he had it his way he'd never travel it again.
Just not worth the trouble.
Malsero was a well-traveled trader. It was no secret that a man moving the right goods in the right direction could turn a considerable profit for the trouble. There were always risks of course, but various ways to mitigate them.
His journey began earlier that year by taking a number of Myrish eyes and well-decorated rugs to the sea and arranging with a captain of a ship to carry him from there to Volantis, and then Meereen. He brought eight of his slaves with him, for comfort, labor, and guards.
It was a route he preferred. It wasn't the first time he'd done it. Back when he'd first inherited the trade of his father, he'd only had two slaves.
One was a guard, the other general labor. What began as those two became five that were a small crew. Five became ten, and then ten became twenty. He couldn't take everyone along for each journey, so he eventually settled some, relegating the less expensive and less able to a shopfront in Volantis. The ease of passage on ships began to catch up to the profit he could easily make for the coin he could leverage in transportable goods, otherwise.
He'd chosen Volantis for the shopfront because it was the midpoint of his preferred travels. His favored method was to trade up slightly on a couple of the Myrish rugs in Volantis, but keep the majority. A small trader could have made a life of just doing journeys between those two locations, but he knew better.
If one wanted to make the most of an investment, it had to travel far from its origin.
So, with the few things he traded in Volantis, he purchased a heavy stock of the well dried produce of the sweet beets there. They would then be carried by sea alongside the Myrish goods to Meereen, where both sets of goods might be traded for considerably better prices.
If he wanted to invest further, then he could buy slaves from Meereen at that point. The price was at its effective lowest that way, and even if he didn't want to expand, he could always sell them off when he arrived back in Volantis.
For the last five years, every year he'd acknowledged he was far beyond the point where he should be personally risking overseeing the negotiations of each journey. Every time he finished the journey, he swore to himself he was done, but then every new year that rolled around, he'd find himself considering the income he might lose leaving it in someone else's hands.
So he arranged to take some spices to Myr alongside a wealth of coin, and restarted it.
Everything on that year's journey had gone to plan until Meereen. They found their way into port, and he spent the better part of two moons playing the market to find the ideal people to sell his goods. When it came time to put his coin back into goods, he came across something he wasn't expecting.
He found a slave of R'hllor for sale, with the distinct flame tattooing that marked them a member of Volantis's Temple of the Lord of Light.
A good payout.
Slaves could have various qualities that made them more or less valuable, and a red priest was valuable for a number of reasons if they were from Volantis. Firstly, a red priest from Volantis would be both literate and speak various languages. Secondly, the Temple of the Lord of Light offered a plain restitution for any of their priests returned to them at a price that would make anyone feel a fool for letting it go to waste by killing them.
Many a slaver might count their trip paid if they took a group and found a Red Priest of Volantis to ransom. That was because only the long lived and long serving ones were allowed to leave the temple in the first place to let themselves get caught up in risky situations. A new acolyte would be kept on hand until they were well-trained.
That was the double-edged sword, though. Everyone knew that.
The priest was priced quite high, because anyone willing to take a trip by ship would catch an easy, very profitable windfall, yet the priest took less cargo space and upkeep. To carry a well-learned priest of R'hllor was to have fifteen slaves and feed only one.
Malsero bought him immediately despite the exorbitant prices, because for every three honors he put on the man, he would be given back four easily in Volantis. That the priest totalled more than half of his raw profit was unfortunate, but in return he could diversify on silk, spice, and other materials for the return to Volantis, with extra space.
He spent his evenings getting to know the priest whose name was Denorro a little further, as he laid plans. It was around two weeks later, when he'd been ready to set out again that he encountered his first problem.
It spread through the docks of Meereen that a number of pirate ships of the Basilisk Isles were out in force. The rumor was that some corsair styling herself a queen was in a beyond foul mood and seizing ships to search their cargo out off the southwestern point of Old Valyria where most trade passed. What she was looking to pilfer differed depending on each telling.
Malsero doubted she was looking for anything in particular at all. Whatever the case was, she and her men seized anything of interest and sent only a lucky few ashore. The free cities would get together eventually if the disruption of trade continued, but that was going to take time. It was more likely within a moon or two, thoroughly satisfied with her spoils, the corsair would return to the isles. Assuming there wasn't some manner of mutiny or split before then when the loot piled high enough. It wasn't unusual for the pirates.
The captain he'd counted on was not interested in setting out again until it seemed like those things had cleared up.
Malsero wasn't interested in spending potentially four moons waiting around for more favorable conditions. Moreover, every day he spent carrying his purchased goods, the more they depreciated indirectly. Every bit he spent clothing, feeding, taking care of them was coin he wouldn't get back.
He'd contemplated the Demon Road.
It took some asking around, but eventually he found a number of men who all confirmed they had traveled it before. With a bit of coin to fill their mugs and buy their dinners, most of them advised it to be an extremely inhospitable journey. While their tales varied slightly, he'd been able to find some repetitive themes which seemed the most likely truth.
The area was desolate. There would be little to no food or water until Mantarys, and it was generally recommended that it be avoided entirely which required a much greater stock of preparation. Malsero had seen some of the slaves that came from there, and heard plenty an odd tale of the place as well, so he could well imagine the reasoning.
Another consistent saying among those who traveled the route was, "Take no left turns."
They said it as if it was a joke, but only when he'd prompted had they explained that all lefts lead to Tolos, Mantarys, ruins, or Old Valyria.
"The right way is the right way. Stick to the right."
That any traveler who dared it should be well-guarded was a given.
He did his best to count the coins, the numbers, in the following days. Eventually, he realized that the carts were quite cheap, because most travel by way of them was only going to Yunkai or potentially Astapor. People did not often risk the north for obvious reasons.
In the coin he would save by not paying for a ship and the hold space, he could easily pay for a couple wagons, the same necessary food, and even a little more in silk. Then, he convinced one of the men named Jalvas who assured him he'd made the trip three times to be a guide for a caravan. A minor cost compared to his investment.
That was how he set out from Meereen toward Mantarys with eight of his original able-bodied slaves, the priest, and three further slave swordsmen who had once been part of the pits. Arming them had cost about as much as purchasing them, all told. He filled the two wagons he bought first with the necessary food and drink, and then some extra. While it would cut into his profit, the death of anyone was more costly by comparison. There was still plenty of additional space by the time he was done and he began to fill it with odds and ends that caught his fancy that he thought he might flip. Vases. Pottery. Leatherworks. The majority was silk, though.
He'd chosen to carry as much silk as he could because it was both light, and it had occurred to him that the very blockage that prevented his leaving would also affect the prices of silk in Volantis and beyond.
Their journey began easy. At the advice of Jalvas, Malsero arranged to have one of their slaves travel far ahead of the procession at all times. Who it was was changed daily. While his guide had suggested wariness, and picking one he could truly trust so that he didn't potentially run off, Malsero had little fear of that.
He treated his slaves well by most standards, after all. Their lives would be worse free than they were in his service.
That suggestion paid off.
They eventually passed Mantarys, and as recommended by the men of Meereen and his guide, he steered clear of its ominous gates. They saw almost no one on the roads even near it, but for the occasional group of hunters leaving the walls.
Some of those turned out to be an issue in the end, as there was an attack on his caravan not two days later.
One of his new sword-slaves had been killed, and a few of his most valued suffered wounds that would likely take a couple moons to heal even with appropriate treatment. The men that had attacked them didn't have the kinds of goods that would offset the cost they'd inflicted either. The question had been raised whether they should turn back.
They didn't, but Malsero had his injured stay within the wagon while they traveled. Exacerbating their injuries could depreciate their value, if they created long term struggles with some movements.
Despite the danger of traveling the edge of the Valyrian peninsula, the nights were beautiful. Denorro maintained their fire and seemed much aggrieved as a red priest were he not let to make a fire when the shadows grew long, which came as a surprise to absolutely no one. Jalvas didn't care for it, and some of the slaves were visibly put off by the ease with which Denorro stoked the fire into a roaring blaze with little to no tinder to start. The red priest by comparison was beside himself with pleasure at his efforts.
If he hadn't known better, Malsero would have believed the priest was surprised by his own capabilities. The priest's good spirits and general knowledge of healing at least aided in their travels, and his insistent belief that a falling star he'd seen was a blessing on their journey was enough to at least have his injured slaves rolling their eyes.
They passed signs of previous life, but little more than the odd echo of where once might have stood a home or minor fortification. It left him wary. He'd heard rumors before of Stone Men in the ruins, driven out of the various cities' walls by the dangers of their sickness. Most were supposed to be up the Sorrows, but that didn't mean they didn't show up elsewhere.
Malsero eventually saw one with his own eyes. The ill man just sunk back into the rocky terrain, but all the same he'd been on edge for an evening, imagining the stone man sneaking into their camp and giving them the curse.
Eventually the land got worse and more like a rocky desert, but they weren't attacked again, and once they made a sharp right turn on the Old Valyrian road, Jarvas seemed in good spirits.
"No demons this way. Only men."
Malsero was more worried about men, but he understood the idea.
They pulled off the side of the road, and were well into evening supper when one of the slaves put to watch called out a lone traveler approaching by the southern area of the road.
The campfire they'd built left him struggling a little to see far into the darkness. That's why they had two of the slaves alternating their watches far beyond the campfire. Their eyes wouldn't be adjusted to the light. While squinted into the dark, he could still at least make out the figure as they approached, hands up and clapping loudly. He wasn't sure what that was about at first.
The traveler was tall by any standard, and quite muscular. It was not the typical build of a person who spent their lives hunting the pronghorn and hares their caravan had spotted on the way through, once in a while. It spoke of being well fed.
"It's a bit late to be approaching a caravan on the open road for trade!" He called out to the man, lifting his left hand with a quick gesture to the slave that had been on watch on that side, who had drawn his sword.
As he moved into the light, a new thing stood immediately out to Malsero. The man was pale. Very pale, with a hint of redness in his features.
At his words, the man came to a stop, head tilting a little. Then, he lifted his left hand and made a motion toward his mouth, opening his lips slightly. The traveler shook his head.
Malsero saw something else that stood out to him. The man's teeth were well cared for. Nearly the white as his skin.
"Has his tongue been cut?" Denorro wondered, the flap of one of the canvas tops of the wagons pulled back slightly as he peered out.
Malsero gave him a glance. "You aren't supposed to show yourself."
He was worth too much, and people considering the value of an attack would have it assured with his presence known.
Damn.
"He does not match his clothes." Denorro whispered.
Yes. More things that mean you shouldn't have shown yourself.
The expected dust was there on his hides. Most of his adornments were the crude construction of rawhide, poorly treated if at all. He wore a threadbare, stained shirt of linen in the off-white color commonly preferred in the desert to keep cool, that wasn't the ideal fit. It was a little small for his build, leaving more of his arms on display than it should have. A stained pack was on his back, and sticking up out of it, what seemed to be some furs. A pair of waterskins were slung over his left shoulder, and a quiver with the unstrung flat of a bow sat the opposite side. Covering his lower half, the fur turned inward, was a kind of hide wrap. Its color suggested it was likely pronghorn, as well. It wasn't well-tanned, if at all.
A sword sat in a sheath on his hip, carried by the attached belt that simply tightened in place over his hide wrap.
All of the equipment said the man was a hunter scraping the bottom of the market and getting by. It was mostly the same as the men that had already attacked them and what he'd been assured was the general quality of the destitute. The hilt of the sword was simply made, and likely ill-treated for its comparative cheapness. A good sword could easily surpass the value of a cheap slave, so it was little surprise that a hunter's wasn't nice. Having one at all was more of a statement than not, when a spear was so much more useful for their work.
All of that made perfect sense.
He doesn't.
People who survived the wastes, who lived hand to mouth by the whims of a trade as give and take as hunting weren't attractive people. Their skin grew leathery for time in the sun. Their hair was grimey while they did their work at minimum, because until you had a good haul and a guarantee of a future, you didn't waste idly on soap. There was no point in being clean if you were dead.
He well knew the costs of traveling and planning to bathe any amount more than once a week. Without even getting into caring for one's teeth.
The man's hair was a bit greasy, but it wasn't tangled. Didn't have any matting. It hung down enough to touch his shoulders just barely where he'd pushed it back. His clothing still had the dust, but his face was free of it.
He used water. To freshen up.
Before approaching them, probably. That wasn't the behavior of a person who survived the wastes of the Valyrian peninsula.
Even the reddening of his skin was a suggestion.
It's not used to the sun.
Pale skin. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A build that suggested martial inclination, but no visible scarring. Healthy.
Too healthy for here.
He looked like an Old Blood Tiger dressed up to pretend to be a hunter. As ridiculous as the thought was. They would be deeply aggrieved to have their feet even touch the ground, much less wander a road in the middle of nowhere.
That or a particularly well-treated slave who had the best afforded for their care. It made him cautious. Everything about the man's appearance was wrong in just enough ways to cause him paranoia.
A scout for an ambush?
Even that didn't make sense. Someone working for those turned to banditry wouldn't look like him.
Malsero just couldn't quite shake the feeling that what he was faced with didn't fit quite right.
"No tongue?" He asked the man.
The man's eyes were dark, pupils consuming most of the blue. He cast them about, glittering at the edge of their campfire between the slaves with drawn weapons. There came no response, and Malsero started to get more worried instead of less.
Of course, there was always the simplest reason someone that appeared like him might be recently exiled. He didn't have any visible signs of the sickness, but perhaps under his armor.
"No tongue?" Denorro spoke up from the wagon, in the Ghiscari afflicted Valyrian of Slaver's Bay.
The man said nothing, head tilting a little as his eyes flit back and forth.
Oh.
Something like relief eased into the tightness of his chest. That could make sense.
He doesn't speak our language.
Volantene was what he'd gone with first. Denorro tried Meereen, but after a second further, the man said nothing, though he shook his head carefully, motioning to his mouth again.
"Can you speak the northern dialect well? Braavosi?" He asked Denorro. It was a stretch, as most of the time they could still communicate just fine north to south even if they had to do some translating. He could mostly understand it, due to his occasional dealings.
Mine's atrocious, though.
"Are you incapable of speech?" Denorro asked in the northern dialect, more common from Pentos to Braavos. The word choice was more Braavos than Pentos and the inverse for able was different, which marked it mostly the latter.
The man reached down toward his side, and the slaves all tensed as his hand neared his weapon. The blond-haired stranger slowed, lifting his left hand in a gentle placating gesture and pulled the buckle of the simple leather strap that served as an effective belt to keep the rawhide scabbard in place.
The man gripped the scabbard and held it out near its end, far from the hilt of the sheathed blade and presented it toward one of his sword-slaves, Bastelo.
Bastelo looked at him in askance, and he nodded. Easing forward carefully, the slave took the sheathed blade, watching the hunter warily. He stepped back quickly, holding the scabbard like it was going to spring to life and bite him.
As the slave stepped back with it in tow, the blond man made a gentle motion toward him, and the blade, and looked to him, with purpose.
Disarming himself.
A gesture of good faith. Most men wouldn't have dared. They were as much a threat to him as he was them, potentially. No man would want to fight ten well-armed and decently trained slaves unarmed and without any real armor, even if they weren't the Unsullied.
Denorro said something else, that he could only vaguely understand. Based on what he got though, he was fairly sure it was a repetition of the same thing Denorro had said in the northern dialect.
High Valyrian.
It was still practiced by the red priests. Outside of a few very rare circumstances, it wasn't a common tongue. The Doom saw an end to Old Valyria a long time ago. Since then, the language had splintered and changed in various areas. Most people referring to Valyrian referred to the different dialects, northern, southern, and so on. Usually more specifically to the Valyrian of a given city by its city name. Only the most learned men ever bothered with the so-called High Valyrian that was the original.
Pretty much all of the free cities had their own varieties, and the people native to them learned their given one. Volantis had controlled most of the south for a while directly or indirectly, so while there were differences, they were all fairly in line and capable of communication. Even with that, there were already differences between Volantene and Lysene, Tyroshi, or Myr.
The dialect of Slaver's Bay was its own thing, taking in bits and pieces of the original tongue of the people that had been conquered there.
Despite the very rarely spoken tongue, the man's gaze snapped over to Denorro immediately, and his eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit.
Denorro asked something again in High Valyrian that he could only just catch the implication of "understanding" in. The slight rise at the end posed a question.
The man turned his hand flat, and made a side to side tilting motion with it.
Denorro threw open the flap and shoved his feet out of the wagon, dropping onto them.
"He understands a little High Valyrian it seems." He relayed.
"I noticed." Malsero replied in Volantene, lightly. He ignored the irritation he felt for the very valuable red priest leaving the wagon again.
The man reached back, pulling around his pack and dropping it at his feet. As he began to dig in it, rooting around, Malsero made a slight motion to Bastelo who placed aside the sword and resumed his own grip. The man eventually produced a pouch, a little leather bag, and gave it a rough shake.
The sound it produced was of coin.
Malsero's eyebrows lifted.
The man motioned with the pouch, motioned to him, motioned to himself, and then motioned vaguely to the wagons and up the road north.
"He wishes to pay to journey with us?" He asked Denorro, and motioned from the red priest to the man, to translate for him.
Denorro spoke a few words, among which was Volantis.
The man just kind of stared blankly at him for a second without responding. Then Denorro said something else, and repeated his phrase slower.
Eventually, the man nodded hesitantly.
Malsero was still suspicious. A new thought was forming in the back of his head. The possibility of him being a scout seemed further and further from reasonable. While the man might have been able to fake not understanding Volantene or Meereen's dialect, understanding High Valyrian still suggested some training.
Paired with his appearance, a little too well-kempt for any banditry or hunter, a lack of visible scars, a healthy body with an excess of musculature, his old blood features…
An escaped slave, maybe.
"Ask him where he is from." He said to Denorro.
The red priest wet his lips, and drew the length of his scarlet sleeve back a little, motioning with his hand. "How would he even tell us?"
The priest spoke a few sentences, and then when no answer came repeated them. The blond man looked around a little, and then motioned broadly, and gave the red priest a shrug.
If he was a slave, he would have been a valuable one. To have either been taught High Valyrian, or picked it up naturally over time meant investment or having been owned by someone who communicated in the language at least occasionally. Given he hadn't immediately begun to make friends with Denorro, he was no red priest.
People cut or burned the tongues from liars who had committed great crimes on occasion. A serious punishment. It could have also been to prevent him from being able to relay important secrets, if he was a favorite that was kept close on hand with a particularly powerful noble.
Which would also explain much of his skin, and appearance.
The man didn't have any facial scars, or tattooing to mark him a slave of Volantis.
If not Volantis, which is nearest…
That made the next most likely place of origin Lys. In that, a lot of the man's appearance could make more sense.
Even the common people of Lys had plenty of the blood of the Old Valyrians, with their often pale hair, skin, and light colored eyes from violets to blues. Their pillow houses were famous, and they took the breeding of bloodlines to produce the exact traits they wanted very seriously. A practice shared from the highest noble family down to the bed slaves. They were always in search of the next comely young man or maiden to get the exact look someone sought, to fill whatever wicked desire struck their fancy.
The man had that look in part, that he was sculpted more than simply surviving. A few years in the wastes instead of a manse would suck it out of him. Render his musculature more rangy, and either tan or sun-scar his pale skin if he was one of those, escaped into the wastes.
A noble or bastard to one?
He couldn't wrap his head around what would cause one to be out in the wastes pretending to be a hunter trying to pay his way back to civilization.
Too many questions…
It would explain the High Valyrian potentially, and given the attacks by pirates, it was possible there was a shipwreck somewhere on the peninsula.
He cast that thought aside immediately just after it formed though. Anyone related to a Lysene noble would doubtlessly advertise their value in this situation. An organized group like his own would readily ferry someone back to the nearest city where they might easily see payment to their saviors, and then be safely returned to their relatives. Same idea as the red priest, really. It had far better odds than just approaching a random band of people in the desert under the guise of a hunter and hoping they weren't going to kill you for your things or out of caution.
So most likely an escaped slave.
That would mean there would be a reward for his return, probably. If it was meant to be a disposal that had gone wrong, for his death. It was also possible the man was a recent outlaw who had murdered his owner or someone important or something.
Some wealthy individuals forgot that the features much beloved of a pit fighter's build or manner that made them so appealing to lay with also made them one and all very dangerous.
"Yes or no questions then where we can." He proposed to Denorro, and then gave the newcomer a gentle curl of his fingers. "We need to make sure he isn't carrying greyscale, and that's why someone that looks like that is out here. We'll work from there."
He'd try for the simplest explanation first. If the man had greyscale, they'd kill him and leave him behind. Otherwise, Melsaro wondered for a moment if perhaps his luck with the whole trip hadn't turned around.
And if he's hidden greyscale I'll be down another slave.
He almost cursed having the slave take the presented scabbard as an afterthought.
Hopefully he wouldn't have it. He wouldn't be down a slave, and he might have a second windfall to match his minor losses so far. They had some time until they were anywhere close to Volantis. That was plenty of time to get more information.
".... … …" The one in red was saying things, but I didn't understand a word out of his mouth.
I just offered him a kind of hesitant sigh and shrug, giving the pouch of coins in my hand a pointed bounce.
Surely you can still pay a caravan to ride with them here, right?
I could go faster on foot than their horses would move the carts without a doubt, but as these caravan people seemed mostly friendly, it was a good opportunity to learn from them. I also didn't want to be running alone again potentially for days. This was a good opportunity to see what the people that weren't bandits were like.
There was something going on with the language they were speaking. It wasn't that I understood it. It made sense that I didn't know their tongue. We were beyond far from the place where my languages all began.
In the words of the short, fat caravan master with the bushy moustache, I'd understood trade but hadn't been able to really hear the word he spoke when he spoke it. It was more like some part of my mind just plucked meaning from the fluid speech.
"... … … clothing … …" The one with tattoos of flame all over his face was still talking, and I couldn't understand a bit of it until the impression of the word clothing pressed itself in at the back of my head. At least with him, I'd get a word impression every handful of sentences. I hadn't understood the caravan master after the very first one.
I looked from the red-robed man down to my shirt, unsure if he was referring to me, or him. I wasn't worried about disarming, or disrobing. I was confident I could kill every man in that camp butt-naked and in a drunken stupor. Though, a small part of me was a bit annoyed by the runabout.
What's the big deal?
"... … stone … …" The one in red was still talking. I wasn't sure what stone had to do with clothes, but I could tell by now they were looking at me expectantly. The way I heard it but didn't, covering the string of fluid, swooping syllables was bizarre. In a way, it was kind of like the first time I'd looked at a word wall and instinctively drew upon the understanding within my nature, but without the rush, the deeper comprehension.
This was more like a whisper on the edge of my subconscious.
The priest was motioning to the ground, to me, and so on.
I opened my mouth, on instinct to ask him for clarification. At the last moment I caught myself.
Fuck.
I would have to be wary of that.
Blowing out a long breath through my nose and looking to the flame-face for guidance, I pulled the pack off of my shoulder slowly. He nodded approvingly, and made a circular, encouraging motion with his hand vaguely toward him.
Watching him for guidance, I dropped my pack on the ground, and then tossed the coin pouch on top of it.
I waited.
He motioned again, encouraging, and spoke a number of words in that lilting tongue.
"... … … … … sickness … … .."
Sickness?
It wasn't sickness how I thought it. It was like an echo of an idea drifting into my head. More specific. More serious. Implied lingering. Not sickness.
Malady.
I just couldn't understand why it was that I knew that. I wasn't comprehending the words in their separation.
It was magic. Some kind of magic I'd never seen or experienced. I'd have guessed it was an effect the red-robed one was doing, but I'd experienced it briefly with the obvious caravan leader.
So it's something to do with me, or cast on me.
I hadn't seen either of them cast any magic or felt someone put something on me.
At his continued motion, I hesitated, and motioned to the wrap of the half-cloak covering my shoulders.
Sickness and clothing…?
I blinked.
Are they concerned I carry a sickness in my clothing?
I'd taken it from bandits admittedly, and they weren't the cleanest people in general. I'd still chosen mostly for what seemed fine to my nose and eyes. Then again, I didn't have the ease with which to pull the magic of restoration out and mend my issues or visit someone who knew well enough what to do.
Maybe I should have been a little more cautious with that.
Looking to the red-robed man, I lifted my hand and pinched the shirt, giving it a pull and lifting my eyebrows at him. He nodded, so I just pulled it over my head after depositing the rest of my things.
Is this really a common thing with caravans, or is it because of something else?
I couldn't imagine any land making random people strip down just to join their caravan. I expected them to be wary of my clothes but they were mostly looking me over, so I just waited a few seconds. Then I lifted my hands to prompt them.
They shared words, none of which made sense to me. Then the fat one motioned to my doeskin wrap. I gave him a very long lingering stare. It wasn't that I was shy about my appearance. It was just that he was eyeing me far too intently.
You're not my type.
I looked at the dark-skinned man in red, and I could see the hesitation in him, but he made a gentle motion with his hand, and then back the way I'd come from, speaking slowly through a number of words. I got nothing.
Am I really about to do this?
I didn't really have any shame to feel like I'd lost, but it was an irritant. I could just shout them into smears, but that defeated the whole purpose of wanting to have some time around people. Absently, my attention drifted among the others still loitering in the wings. I noticed none of them but the one in red spoke up, or inserted their opinions in the conversation. Most of them had tattoos, little symbols on their faces that didn't vary much or seem particularly artistic.
Ah, fuck it. Let's see what happens.
I reached down and untied the sinew that kept the wrap in place, and pulled it aside, letting it drop in a heap on the sandy ground.
I just let it all hang out, staring blankly into the fat one's eyes.
He didn't seem to know what to do about the intense eye contact. He glanced down, looked me over momentarily, then glanced at the red-robed one aside and said something, turning the edge of his cheek.
I sniffed sharply, and lifted my hands again.
It was right about then that I remembered the scales that had filled in the hole on my side. A little jolt of concern went through me, because I had no idea how that might be seen. The wound was long gone, but I couldn't exactly change what had come in its place.
They're not easy to distinguish though.
The little scales that grew in were so fine it took me rubbing my fingertip over them to really determine the lines between them. The way they perfectly matched my skin tone was unnatural, but then again their presence was completely unnatural as well, so it wasn't the greatest surprise.
The dark-skinned one in red stepped a little to my right and left, looking me over, but then shook his head, saying something else to the caravan leader. I glanced between them, waiting.
The round one with the mustache finally gave me an approving nod, and motioned to the things on the ground and then me. The man in red moved a little closer to me at that, motioning with his hand between me and my things, encouragingly.
He spoke a few more words I still didn't understand, but I took the chance looking in his face to reach back down for my things.
He nodded readily, a hand lifted and held out with a quick motion back near the center area of the fire. The caravan master looked to the other swords gathered around and called something out. The one that had received me, placed my weapon within view in the edge of the second wagon, gave me another look over, and wandered back away from the fire up the road in the direction I'd come from.
Resuming their posts.
A different one continued off the other way up the road, to take his own spot.
I picked up the doeskin wrap, and giving the red-adorned one repeating encouraging motions at me a lift of a hand to stall, wrapped my backself up. Pulling the shirt back on, I reached out and grabbed the rest of the things I'd dropped, and keeping a general awareness of the location of my sword nearby, stepped in toward the campfire. There were a few open seats, as some of the people hadn't returned from the wagons.
I wasn't sure what that was about, as I hadn't seen any that looked like women or children.
The caravan leader made an inviting gesture of his hand to a simple bench seat constructed by placing a flat piece of wood across two stones, nearby him. He gave me a wide smile. His cheeks were plump and cherubic, and the lines that formed in the corners of his eyes made me feel like he smiled often.
I settled in at the indicated spot, and after placing my pack down at the side of my legs, leaned forward a little, bouncing the pouch in my hand.
He said something to the red-adorned one, with a short chortle, and then rolled his eyes. Following that, he lifted a hand and crisply patted his chest twice with a palm, and spoke a few distinct sounds.
After a second, he repeated the gesture, and then the sounds again.
"Mal-se-ro."
I glanced at the red-garbed one, expecting him to again break into a string of words, but none came.
Then, after a long moment, I realized what the gesture was. His name.
I opened my mouth a little, and without thinking, almost said, "Ahhhh." in understanding.
Luckily, I caught myself at the last moment.
That's going to cause a problem. I need to do something about that.
If I couldn't get my voice under control some way or another, I'd have to find a way to keep myself conscious of whether or not I was allowing myself to speak.
I nodded to Malsero, and looked at the tattooed man in red, motioning with my hand encouragingly.
I could tell we were onto something that at least worked, because he readily introduced himself, "De-nor-ro."
Malsero motioned to the pouch of coins and then motioned to one of the men lingering in the periphery, armed. He said something in that tongue I didn't understand again, and the man brought out a small table, placing it down between us. It folded in a unique way with a pair of cloth straps, which drew taut as the legs were spread.
The merchant, for that was what he obviously was, if he wanted so plainly to get to business, patted the flat of the table, and said something else, motioning between me and the wagons.
Negotiating for the ride now, since I'm not carrying sickness.
The only issue was, I had no idea what a reasonable price was. Even if I assumed, perhaps wrongly, that a Septim was roughly the equivalent of the skull-faced coins that made up most of what I had, I had no idea the length of the road I was on, or what would be fair within the local standard.
So what do I do…?
I opted to scoop some of the skull-marked ones out and place them on the table in front of him. Given the size of them, and the rough amount in the pouch, I'd have guessed there were somewhere between a hundred and two hundred all accounted. There were only a few with the women, or the ship, or the square man.
I was fairly certain the pouch's entirety was the combined spoils of the six people I'd come across, but that said nothing of how much it really was. A handful of hunters might presumably be able to pay one fare to ride along with a caravan, but I couldn't be certain.
I stacked the small coppery coins with the skulls on them in sets of five, keeping an eye on the caravan master as I did. His expression was interested, and he still watched me like a hawk. I'd met men that were worried their wives would try to see me with less scrutinizing stares, but for the life of me I couldn't gather what I'd done to provoke it.
It felt like too much for simple bargaining.
For his lack of reaction, I continued to stack new pieces of the copper coins. When I got down to about half of what I had in the pouch, his expression still hadn't changed. I started to wonder if I was overpaying or massively underpaying.
So I motioned to him, and then the pile, watching his face.
After a long moment, he peeled his dark-eyed gaze from me, down to the table's top and considered what I'd set before him. His lips pressed together, moustache shifting as he glanced at me again, meeting my eyes.
Then he held up five fingers, closed his hand, and reopened it to five again.
I looked at the pouch I'd taken, and accounted that I'd be spending over half what I'd had in it. It didn't really matter to me though yet, so I counted ten more and placed them on the strange, folding table in front of him.
He scrutinized my face a moment longer, and then smiled wide, holding out a hand.
Oh good.
I reached out quickly to take it.
Malsero began to collect up the coin, motioning over one of his men and handing it off with a quick dismissive gesture and a few words toward the wagon. I watched the man move over to the first wagon and pull aside the flap. I saw a couple of faces of other men sitting inside it, in various states of ease. One had a wrap around his shoulder, with visible blood stains.
A recent injury.
The flap closed behind him.
When I looked back to Malsero, he was pushing up to his feet again, and moved the straps on the little table, allowing it to flatten out. As he finished straightening up, a real effort given the girth of his waist, he said something to Denorro, and motioned to the fire.
Then, to me, he curled a couple of fingers and moved over toward the second wagon. Pushing up, and picking up my pack and quiver as I went, I moved to follow him at his indication. Nearing it, he stepped aside and pulled the flap, revealing another few men sat in a lean against the side-boards that helped keep the goods inside. I could see a few crates sitting propped at the front of it.
Malsero said something to his men who all looked at me and gave him a nod. One of them replied to him, and then Malsero made an encouraging motion with his left hand, reaching in to pat a spot by the wall of the wagon.
The wagon was essentially the same as what we had in Skyrim, but for that its bed was elongated, flat, with shorter sides and smaller wheels. It didn't have the bench seating on the sides nor was it lifted as high, so we would be sitting on the floor in line with the goods. An arch of sorts was made with bent wooden rods, and some kind of material was run over the lot of it, effectively making a tent.
It wouldn't be terribly comfortable, but it would be an easy ride and not the worst conditions I've ever had to sleep in.
Malsero said something, patting his chest and motioning to Denorro, and then to the other wagon. I understood the general message.
They'll be riding in that one.
Since it was getting late anyways and I ran quite hard to catch up to them, I took the gentle suggestion for what it was. I could get some rest. As I climbed up into the wagon, I looked over the three other men nearby, and settled down to sit. They each had tattoos on their faces as many I had seen by then did. Theirs all were of a crude sword, downward facing at the edge of their cheek on the right side. Matching.
A custom of some kind?
I'd seen stranger things. I tilted my head back against the edge of the wooden plank that didn't quite reach above my height even sitting and drew my quiver around to my front. Conscious of the fact that it might have been my dragon bone that caused my previous fight, I adjusted the flap on my pack and settled it between my legs where I sat.
Putting my arm over its top and settling in, I tried to relax.
It was a little awkward in the back of the wagon for a time, but eventually the men began to speak quietly, glancing at me on occasion. Somewhere in the next ten or fifteen minutes, I caught a murmur that my ears whispered was, "escaped" but I paid it little mind because I literally couldn't get any other context. I let my eyelids fall low and got comfortable.
The smell of spices stored somewhere in the crates lingered in my nose until I fell asleep.
The three of them sat around a table in her study, with a bottle of wine open and glasses between them all. Jaehaerys was discussing everything from the rewards of the tournament he was planning to host soon to celebrate the completion of the Dragon Pit, to where the dragon eggs Elissa had stolen were.
The Sealord has them.
Jaehaerys was nearly certain of it. Rhaena resisted a sigh as she let the third cup of wine run its course in her.
She wasn't ignorant to what he was doing. It was his request that they took the bottle somewhere beyond the ear of most of the castle and enjoyed a few drinks. It was far too early to be getting as deep in their cups as he was trying to urge them, but all the same she acquiesced.
That he hadn't worked around to what he really wanted to talk about yet meant he suspected she would need to be in a giving mood. Aerea had been interested in coming along, but she wasn't intent on having her daughter in the habit of enjoying wine routinely at thirteen, much less when she was already so rebellious.
Thankfully, she hadn't needed to be the one to speak up, as it was Jaehaerys himself who preferred a conversation between them all.
Telling.
Obviously, they were going to speak about Aerea. He'd spent the better part of the day asking about where she'd gone. They hadn't actually gone to interact with Balerion directly with her, despite that. The Black Dread was behaving strangely, and had loitered in the near vicinity of the castle or atop its walls since Aerea's return, without her seemingly being able to urge anything of him.
According to her daughter, he was well fed, though she had some concerns over worms of some awful variety native to old Valyria that might live on in him.
It isn't likely.
Dragon blood was as fire, and it would take something essentially fireproof to survive those conditions indefinitely. She was fairly confident he'd be fine, but she made note of it nevertheless. While it was easy to loathe the beast that had killed her husband, war was war, and it was now Aerea's claim to power.
The excitement in her daughter's face made every ugly feeling she got looking at the Black Dread feel like betrayal. Not Aerea betraying her. That she was betraying the joy her daughter felt. That every Targaryen felt when they began to fly.
Balerion didn't help the feeling, as since his return he'd taken to flying up and landing upon the Stone Drum. With the massive tower's black stone walls, when he sat still, clinging and laid across its top despite his excess size, it was almost easy to think him just one more of the iconic works of stone that marked Dragonstone. He was every bit as black as the ensorceled stone that made up the original seat of Targaryen power and he was just looming at all times.
She'd noticed him tracking people with his golden yellow eyes intently but he'd so far only come down to Aerea in the yard.
"Aerea is thirteen." Jaehaerys suddenly said, drawing a purse of Alysanne's lips.
"Her age wasn't your concern last we spoke." Rhaena pointed out, tilting her cup to her lips as she cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Don't do that. You know what I mean, and you know well that things have changed." He said, shaking his head at her. "I feel I shouldn't have to ask, but…"
Rhaena lifted an eyebrow.
"Her choice in Balerion." Jaehaerys said, prompting.
Asking if I had anything to do with that.
She shook her head. "No. There's no point where I'd want her exposed to him. Of all of the dragons, he'd have been the last I ever encouraged her near."
Jaehaerys looked at her across the table for a moment longer, but then gave a nod.
"Well, what's done is done. She is back with us… safe and alive." He said. "She's about to come of age in a few short years."
Rhaena ignored the heat simmering in her chest in spite of the wine.
"There will be a growing pressure to see her betrothed." Jaehaerys said without further preamble. He swirled his wine in his cup, almost boredly as he regarded her across the table. Alysanne for her part had a thoughtful purse of her lips that she hadn't let up.
Rhaena was fairly sure she was already drunk, but she wasn't going to call her little sister on it.
"However bad it was for you, it will be worse for her as far as men seeking to get themselves tied to her." He pointed out, continuing on. "I would be unsurprised to see people in the near future go about nebulous methods to seek a good reason to be betrothed to her. They will know her innocent, rebellious, and that she has the dragon that brought their kingdoms to heel."
To squirm their way into having her maidenhead or leave her pregnant and then come forward to "make right". Getting the rewards.
She'd feed them to Dreamfyre.
"Less of a risk here on Dragonstone." She pointed out plainly to her brother.
"You intend to keep her here still, then?" Alysanne wondered. "You won't be able to prevent her from flying off, soon."
Rhaena shifted uncomfortably in her well-cushioned chair. She was still sore from how much she'd flown of late, but it was less with the wine in her belly.
"I think we're doing better than we were." She replied. "I think she needs someone who can teach her well, and help her get used to what it is to be a Targaryen with a dragon. Much less one like hers. You both will not have the time. You're busy, between the Dragon Pit, the celebration, and a royal progress soon if rumors are to be believed. If her wanderlust grows too strong a second time, I'll find a way to address things."
"The progress is necessary, but a bit off, yet." Jaehaerys said. "If she came with me, while she'd get less time being instructed, the Dragon Pit being finished would mean that Balerion would be somewhere safe, and we could assure that there are no accidents. I saw him watching us. She doesn't control him yet, obviously. I could have guards controlling the entrance to the pits. She could be occupied with the court."
Which really all comes around to you controlling whether or not Aerea has Balerion at all.
That was the ugly part of the Dragon Pits.
A dragon rider without access to their dragon was by most measures just a person when confronted by another Targaryen with their own dragon. A man or woman with a sword, and guards if they were lucky.
"I will not be apart from my daughter, and I have no desire to remain in King's Landing. The risks you suggested before are far greater there as well." Rhaena said, settling a long look on Jaehaerys. "I will see to her training here, where our ancestors have long flourished, and the dragons do well. Not in Maegor's construction."
"It is my construction." Jaehaerys said, flatly. "It will serve our family for centuries to come."
Yes, I'm sure Vermithor will be first to go into the pit, far from where he can help you if something occurs.
She held off on rolling her eyes, but it was only barely. She would bet her small finger that Jaehaerys barely if ever put Vermithor into that pit, after it was fully opened.
"What were you thinking for a betrothal?" Alysanne's voice lifted, a bit bubbly for the wine.
"Well, I had hoped that our next be a boy." Jaehaerys said to her, with a glance. "I would naturally wed him to Daenerys."
She wasn't completely unsurprised, but the heat in her chest rose despite her best attempt to keep it subdued. She took another gulp of the wine.
So, the second son.
Alysanne's lips pressed toward a frown. With her cheeks red from the drink, and her eyelids low, she looked more pouty than the imperious queen she probably wanted to be.
"You have never brought that up to me before." She said, sounding a touch annoyed.
"It is as we've done. As we've always done." Jaehaerys defended, lightly.
It didn't really help change the queen's expression.
"I think we should bring back the branch our mother made." Alysanne argued instead. "Our first son should marry our half-sister from Rogar. Jocelyn shouldn't be far from us. I've spoken with him in writing a fair bit about the possibility, and he would undoubtedly be ready to accept such a thing. Considering we don't even yet have a first son, they would be far closer to age."
Interesting.
Rhaena tried to ignore her irritation for that man's name, and think more about the implications. Alysanne was still in contact to some degree with Rogar, despite his less than glorious withdrawal from most of the court politics.
Making good on caring for the children.
The bad feelings that thoughts of Rogar brought were fought off to little more than a quiet simmer by Alysanne's appearance and expression. Her sister had enjoyed the sweet red wine with grace, but her momentary gluttony for its refreshing taste was truly running its course.
She'd hesitated on whether to bother with the sweet wine from Lys, but now, she was quite glad to have chosen it after all.
Alysanne had that expression about her, the tilt of a woman who'd had too much but was only now coming to realize it really and stubbornly trying to fight off drunkenness like a child might sleep. More than once, Rhaena had found herself tittering and cavorting with noble ladies before who made such a mistake in her presence. It was charming, seeing her sister work herself up. She hadn't heard her argue with Jaehaerys so plainly since before he was king.
Rhaena chuckled low in the back of her throat. Alysanne gave her a look that might have been an attempt at withering, but with the addition of drunken eyelids and reddened cheeks, it was just fetchingly frustrated. It was almost enough to let her ignore that Jaehaerys admitted directly to wanting to marry Aerea off to his spare.
She offered her younger sister an amused smile from the edge of her cup instead of matching her glare. Then she directed her attention back to Jaehaerys.
"So now, you are considering the first born?" Rhaena asked.
In light of Balerion.
"Well…" Jaehaerys said, hesitating. "I'm saying we should talk about this, and come to an understanding."
Rhaena lifted her left eyebrow at her brother, considering him over the rim of her cup.
He's being careful. Meticulous in his approach.
Not cautious enough, though.
"I've recently been forced to reckon with what is most important to me." Rhaena said, without waiting for him to clarify. While she felt frustration for him trying to marry Aerea off to his second born, it was among a few of the best circumstances she could have expected, even if the first was the more appropriate in her mind.
She wasn't so blind as to not see that he saw his own children as the most true. To him, it wasn't about correcting the wrong he'd done by dethroning Aerea. It was about upholding the tradition of rule with his blood now being the most central.
Naturally, that meant his daughter should wed his son to preserve it.
"What did you find?" Jaehaerys asked, taking his own opportunity to sip. She doubted he drank even as much as she did with each sip. His cup hadn't been refilled in some time.
Aerea.
"Family." She said out loud, instead.
Alysanne's head tilted a little, blue eyes drifting over to her, searchingly.
"So then you understand the importance of assuring we remain tightly knit during these times." Jaehaerys said, probingly.
"I do." Rhaena agreed, with a soft nod.
"Then you will have my promise if we agree. My first son to carry our traditions. My second to marry Aerea." Jaehaerys said.
The look he got from their sister for doing so almost made her smile. Some part of her delighted in the teeth Alysanne was showing. The vindication of seeing someone else walk into a problem that would sting. Rhaena wasn't sure whether it was the wine in her, or that old anger she'd been shoveling dirt over trying to smother for years, that left her feeling so warm.
"But I will not." She said, continued.
Alysanne's mouth was already open to try to defend her own perspective, with her husband. It hung open in the following moment.
Jaehaerys's eyes bore into her though. He didn't even look at his wife, the good queen that she was. Alysanne's own attention shifted to her.
The silence that fell over the study was sharp. Jaehaerys could be difficult to read, but I didn't need to, to know that the air was pregnant with demands, threats, potential arguments of what was, could be, and what might never happen.
"I have precious little left." Rhaena confessed, steady but low. "I will not risk my relationship with Aerea. She is my first priority, and I remember how I was at her age. She has all of my best and worst qualities, even if she's mostly used them so far against me."
Alysanne's expression softened, if only slightly.
Jaehaerys's didn't really change, but he seemed thoughtful, so she continued on in the gap she'd made.
"I have been married twice by now, while I didn't care for it." Rhaena reminded him, indelicately. "It has caused me nothing but grief."
She didn't mention the first. It wasn't that Aegon hadn't brought her grief as well as the others, and that it wasn't arranged. It was just that she would not speak ill of him idly in the same hand as the other two.
"Some of that, you brought yourself." Jaehaerys voiced.
Rhaena offered him only a slight shrug instead of throwing the wine in his face as she desired for the words, and took another sip of her cup.
"I will teach Aerea what she must learn. Both for her future in the kingdom, and controlling Balerion." She continued after swallowing. "I am not inclined to make an agreement that marries her to any son without her input. Much less a second."
He caught the unsubtle remark.
"Then what, you would wish her to marry the first?" Jaehaerys asked, sharply.
"No." Rhaena cut back, in the same tone.
Alysanne blinked at her, and was looking back and forth between them, watching things spiral from behind a drunken veil of thick lashes.
So pretty. So confused.
"I will consider each of them, and discuss them with her." Rhaena continued after a moment. "I just have no desire to see her wed or betrothed right now. I don't feel it's as pressing a concern for her, yet."
Jaehaerys's nostrils flared slightly as he exhaled.
"I am telling you that it is a pressing concern." He said, studying her across the table. "I could very well arrange it by my own will. That you are not being told and I am asking is kindness. Do not forget that I am your king."
"I have not forgotten that you are the king, valonqar." She replied, putting emphasis on the last word. "If you do not like my answer, you can take it back to your court in the Red Keep, and stir whatever frenzy you want. You will do as you wish."
I have always known that.
"I will do as I must." Jaehaerys said, a hint of a frown touching the corner of his mouth. "You're not thinking about this properly. Not seeing the dangers she presents now to the stability of the realm."
Oh, I am.
Refusing to agree wasn't ignorance of the dangers. It might have been only for a moment, but she wasn't intent to fall cleanly into Jaehaerys's plans. He was viewing Aerea as an objective, an obstacle, and a weapon that might be wielded against him all at the same time.
In a way, Aerea had transported them back in time to the first day he'd taken the seat of power from her. Only now, the danger she presented to Jaehaerys's rule was even more.
Maybe a year ago, she would have gone to the negotiating table and pushed Jaehaerys, leapt to make him bend to accept an agreement that Aerea be betrothed to his first born son, and in that reclaim her rightful honor to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Everyone would benefit if he agreed. Everyone of course, but Daenerys who should be queen in his mind, and who he clearly was trying to give the future to, as well. If only as second in place, because he was showing his real feelings, that only a boy would do. It might have been foolish, but she felt in that moment, with Balerion at her daughter's back, she had good odds even to negotiate that future.
She just wouldn't do it. She didn't feel the same about it. She wasn't looking for an opportunity.
Instead, that fire in her chest continued to simmer.
"Jocelyn, our half-sister, is being raised by Baratheons." Alysanne said, pushing that onto the table again with drunken stubbornness. "Rogar is no Targaryen, and make what we might, with all our different feelings on mother's choices late in her life, that's a part of our blood that should be brought back in."
"I wish that it were made simple, but it isn't." Jaehearys said to her, voice softening. "I don't see why you could ever pick Jocelyn to be the future queen over our own daughter."
All of this wouldn't be a problem if the Seven Kingdoms could just accept that a woman could hold power.
Alysanne's fingers tapped lightly at the table as she looked into her husband's eyes.
"I… It's not that I am considering it like that. Daenerys should be your heir. She is the eldest." She said, giving Jaehaerys a frown. "She isn't even yet two, and you are already looking to pass her over. Look me in the face and tell me why she should be inferior in your eyes, that you have a boy and immediately would declare him your heir."
Rhaena gave her sister a sidelong glance. It was almost funny, how the tables had turned. She wouldn't have expected Alysanne to argue in favor of a female heir after all this time. Something in her thoughts must have shown in her face, because Alysanne just gave her a shake of her head.
Jaehaerys for his part looked like he wasn't sure how to feel, faced with both of them. He was outnumbered in a way. She got the feeling he was also partially blindsided by Alysanne's vehemence that Daenerys should be his heir still, and whenever he got his first son, they would not be made the next king.
Therein lay a difference of viewpoints. Because in Jaehaerys's mind, there couldn't exist a situation where a king sat the throne that could be second to a queen.
Then again, even she didn't really understand her sister's angle. She couldn't think of who Alysanne might have had her eye on as a potential partner for Daenerys to sit secondary assuming it could ever even happen, if not one of their own children.
Then again…
Maybe she didn't even have anyone in mind. Alysanne had already surprised her once in the conversation.
"Why don't we just take a little bit of time to think over things, then." Jaehaerys said, accepting her refusal to commit immediately in a roundabout way. He made it sound like it was a decision he made still, somehow.
Regardless, Rhaena knew to expect him to make more efforts in the near future, but she wanted time to speak with Aerea and talk about how these things could go.
"I need to return to the Red Keep. Our departure was abrupt and Aerea being confirmed atop Balerion, alive and well, was already running rampant throughout the halls when we left." He finished. "I just wanted to see her with my own eyes and congratulate her."
Yes, that's why we're sitting in the study half-drunk and arguing.
She managed not to scoff.
I thought he was going to at least stay for a night…?
"I'll stay a few days." Alysanne said to him, looking at her. "Rhaena and I haven't sat and spoken in a long time and by the time we've managed everything else, who knows how long it could be until we manage to again. Maybe I can even offer Aerea some of my experience with what's to come."
Between the dragon pit either completed or nearing it, the tournament soon, and a royal progress planned sometime after, she wasn't exactly wrong. That latter bit though, she wasn't sure how to feel about.
Jaehaerys's eyebrows drew in, a brief moment of consideration given to Alysanne's declaration that she hadn't framed as a request. Then, he nodded.
"That's good." He said, smiling a little and pushing back in his chair to rise to his feet. "I would imagine Aerea will be glad to spend some time with you as well."
He glanced at me, and then toward the window nearby.
"I think I'll depart early then." He said, finally. Looking back to Alysanne and I, he gave me a warmer smile, with a bit of a chuckle, "Do you mind if I steal my wife away for a word in the yard before I fly?"
I glanced between them and waved my hand. "Of course. I'll walk you to the doors."
I stoppered the bottle, since Alysanne seemed so fond of it, and then rose to my feet. Jaehaerys offered Alysanne a hand, and I smothered a smile as we moved through the castle when I noted her lean into him was half-affection, half because she had a good sway going.
A short walk later, and I watched them depart across the yard together toward where Vermithor and Silverwing waited. The pair of dragons were laid close to one another, far closer than most dragons when left on their own. Vermithor had grown since she last laid eyes on him, the bronzy-brown color of his scales continuing to edge darker with time. Silverwing was smaller than him, and much for the name the dragon had been given, mostly of a darker, silvery color like some jewelry left too long uncleaned.
The chill of the last moon of the year was stronger at Dragonstone than in King's Landing, made no better by the island's often overcast skies, and it having a lot of wind obviously from the sea.
Rhaena watched Jaehaerys have a conversation that was far longer than a simple goodbye from the edge of the doorway. Met her brother's eyes when he glanced at her briefly and said something to his wife, before kissing her and stepping back toward his dragon. He motioned to one of the Kingsguard that had come with him, and the man carefully moved in to climb up the dragon at her brother's behest.
Alysanne moved away as Vermithor straightened, beginning to spread his wings. I noted the other Kingsguard was staying.
Rhaena watched her sister climb the steps back up from the yard with the remaining Kingsguard a short ways behind her, with a brief glance up.
"Balerion still up there?" She asked.
Alysanne nodded, and then coming to a stop at the door, grinned. "It seems you'll get to host me a little longer than I initially thought. You have me for at least a tenday. What're we going to do now?"
Rhaena looked her sister over, with a little tilt of her head.
Why would Jaehaerys tell her to spend more time with Aerea and I…
Well, in that framing the answer was quite obvious. So she didn't think about it much further.
"You could probably use a bath." She said. "You both smelled of dragon, but I wasn't going to tell you to stay out of my study."
Alysanne laughed brightly and it said something of her drunken state that she reached down to lift the ruffled-cloth of her top and gave a visible sniff.
"Very well!" She said a moment later, lifting her chin. Her hands went to her hips. "I will need an attendant, I think. Obviously I didn't bring my own."
Alysanne turned to the Kingsguard and motioning for him, turned back to her. Rhaena felt a name stirring around somewhere in the back of her mind, but couldn't produce it for the man.
"To your chambers!" Alysanne declared.
"You want to soak in my bath?" She asked Alyssane with an abrupt laugh.
"Oh? Am I hearing sudden complaint? I thought what was "yours" was mine?" Alysanne started off through the hall with a high-pitched giggle. "Yours will have the best soaps and you can't tell me no, anyways! Or else not until white hair, remember?"
She knew where she was going, of course. It wasn't as if they hadn't all lived there in varying amounts for years.
"You're drunk." She accused, moving to catch up with the queen consort, who was moving surprisingly fast despite a bit too much sway in her step. "But I suppose if I am infamous for nothing else, that many a lady has found their way in my bath is hardly a lie. What's one more?"
Alysanne's laugh echoed through the black stone walls. "If you were so lucky!"
Rhaena found herself smiling a little wider for its presence.
The caravan started to move at first light. I woke up often throughout the night, the motion and movement in men in my vicinity stirring me from my slumber. I wasn't particularly comfortable, so I wouldn't be sleeping deeply any time soon either way. Old habits were hard to shake, even in better conditions.
Well, kind of better conditions.
I still knew very little about the people I was with.
A new day, though.
As I sat up and began to get my pack arranged on my back, I noticed one of the armed men in the back give me a glance. I met his eyes, curious if he'd say anything. He didn't. He just met my eyes for a second, and then looked away.
I opened my mouth, halfway to trying to tell him, "Morning!"
I caught myself though and snorted to myself.
That does it.
I dug around in my pack, keeping an eye on him. Eventually, I found what I was looking for, one of the extra scarf-wrap things that the people commonly wore to protect their faces. I still had the original one I'd been wearing, but given what I was about to do, I didn't want to use that one. Curling my fingers in it, I bore down and tightened my grip, pressing until I tore my thumb through the thin material, and then began to strip it vertically down the length of the cloth.
That should be enough.
Once I was satisfied with a decent enough amount, I tore it away, lifted it, and pressed the material between my teeth, and started to tie it off behind my head. It wouldn't stop me from using my voice. Not the least of which because it didn't prevent my tongue from moving, and if I could make the right sound either way, even in my throat, then I could enact my will on a smaller scale.
What it would do is put the reminder in my head. It wouldn't let me forget.
Hopefully.
Satisfied that the cloth would at least make it a tiny bit more difficult for me to speak, before I accidentally shouted someone's face off, I glanced at the man again. He wasn't one of the ones on watch the previous night. That one was asleep, with his propped up against one of the crates.
Waiting around for me.
I had my own guard.
Fun.
I wasn't offended by it. I was a stranger that wouldn't or couldn't talk by their belief that had wandered in out of the wasteland, and they didn't know if I was up to no good. Looking at that man though, I almost smiled.
Just because I was understood didn't mean I couldn't mess with him a little. He was trying to be subtle about keeping an eye on me, so I flipped the flap and hopped out quickly onto my feet on the stone road while the wagon was still in motion. I had to take a quick step to right my momentum, and turned, jogging toward the front of the procession.
Most wagons tended to move slower than the pace of a man walking with purpose over long distances, but they could also go longer. Most people didn't want to walk ten hours in a day. Much less the fifteen you could have a horse do. While you could push the horses harder, with the road permitting, it meant that they needed more time at rest and really, with all of the goods the caravan was moving, getting them to do that for the entire day would be unlikely.
It'll be hot, too.
My eyes suffered from the sudden brightness of the dawn sun's light stretching across the rocks, but adjusted within a second. Behind me, I heard the scramble of the man intended to be my watcher from within trying to get up to catch up to me.
Moving up and past the two men on the bench seating, one holding the reins of the horses pulling the wagon I'd slept in, I jogged toward the other wagon. Its back flap was open, and Malsero was sitting inside, with Denorro. When they saw me walking out beside the wagons, they blinked.
Behind them, I noticed three men sleeping, one of them still covered in bandages that hadn't been changed.