#old empire of ghis

[muadweeb]

Vasco da Gama before the Zamorin of Calicut (1898) by Veloso Salgado

[sebeth]

The World Of Ice And Fire: Old Ghis

Warning, Spoilers Ahead…

   The next section of “The World of Fire and Ice” takes the readers across the sea to Essos. Essos is the planet’s “cradle of civilization”. Yandel dismisses the “dubious claims of Qarth”, the “YiTish legends of the Great Empire of the Dawn”, and the “difficulties of finding any truth in the tales of legendary Asshai” and states Old Ghis as the first great civilization.

We know the First Men exodus traveled from Essos across the not-yet broken arm of Dorne to Westeros.  A glance at the map shows Yi Ti and Asshai to be at the Eastern edge of the known world. Wouldn’t it make more sense for the origin of civilization to begin in these locations and spread westward than for it to form in Old Ghis and then have mass exoduses in both directions?

I’ve always felt that Asshai and possibly YI Ti were remnants of the Great Empire of the Dawn, possible post Azor Ahai moon cracking. Asshai clearly took the brunt of destruction in the aftermath of Azor’s creation of Lightbringer as it has a post-apocalypse feel to the land.

Back to Old Ghis, one of a seemingly endless slave cultures/cities in Essos: it was founded by Grazdan the Great. He also created the lockstep legions, the first to “fight as disciplined bodies”.  Old Ghis proceeded to “colonize its surroundings” and “subjugate its neighbors”.  The Old Ghis empire “reigned for centuries”.  

GRRM had to have been influenced by the Roman Empire when he created Old Ghis: the legendary founder, the legions, the wide-spread conquests, the centuries-long rule, etc.

Up next, Old Ghis’ greatest rival: Valyria

[horizon-verizon]

The vast continent, stretching from the narrow sea to the fabled Jade Sea and faraway Ulthos, seems to be the place where civilization as we know it developed. The first of these (not withstanding the dubious claims of Qarth, the YiTish legends of the Great Empire of the Dawn, and the difficulties of finding any truth in the tales of legendary Asshai) was rooted in Old Ghis: a city built upon slavery. The legendary founder of the city, Grazdan the Great, remains so revered that men of the slaver families are still often given his name. It was he who, according to the oldest histories of the Ghiscari, founded the lockstep legions with their tall shields and three spears, which were the first to fight as disciplined bodies. Old Ghis and its army proceeded to colonize its surroundings, then, pressing on, to subjugate its neighbors. Thus was the first empire born, and for centuries it reigned supreme.

A World of Ice and Fire, pg. 13

[visenyaism]

Sorry if you’ve been asked this but what do you think of all the rot in asoiaf? Obv some of it is related to the problems with monarchy but I feel like a lot of it isn’t and it just leaves me curious. Like cold hands or people killed by the others idk what that symbolizes there. Jon is in a land in which rot is in stasis from the cold and it’s creepy as shit. And then there’s stuff that could have multiple interpretations like dany by proxy of selmy experiencing bio warfare with the corpses like I know some people see it as the fall of old ghis but I wondered if maybe it was a sign to dany about breaking the wheel and doing as her ancestors did. Idk I know it’s a nasty series and sometimes grrm is just doing stuff so that it’s gross but I feel like rot comes up SO much and I people are usually talking online about like Tywin when it comes to rot.

Oh one of my favorite things about the asoiaf series is how heavy-handed george rr martin is with the rot symbolism. and (at the risk of sounding like an mfa vomited on my keyboard) the way that the political, pestilential, societal, and climatological aspects of the rot symbolism all interconnect.

In a society founded on so many feudal evils that has perpetuated for centuries, something has to give. It is a recurring theme in these books that violations of human decency under feudalism cause cataclysmic societal collapse represented through literal and metaphorical pestilence.

There’s the sociopolitical collapse in the riverlands caused by war of human decency and norms like guest right and prohibitions on kinslaying or cannibalism just dedicating away as times get hard. broken men. bodies left to rot in the sun for the crows to feast on. There’s the fermenting wildfire under every major street in Kings Landing. There’s the familial/relational decay of incest especially the targaryens and the lannisters. The people who hold power and that society rot, despite everyone’s best efforts at keeping up appearances: Robert Baratheon the “war hero” dies of a very nasty festering stomach wound he got in a drunken hunting accident, Tywin gets shot on the privy and his corpse putefies in the sept.

The climate stuff is also very salient. The series starts during late summer and as things get worse and worse in the world declines into the autumn where the summer fruit and all of the abundance is literally rotting through the hands of the characters. (see: renly’s peach vs doran’s blood oranges!) The cold up at the wall keeps the rot at bay for a while, but it does not entirely stop it. Coldhands’ hands are still blackening. Things are still unraveling at the hinges of the world. that’s pretty representative of the way that the violence of the border wall and the penal colony stationed there to patrol it are not sustainable. The decline of the night’s watch from a once proud order to a penal colony full of cruel and often impoverished convicts dropped off there by circumstance is a symptom of the society that sends people up there. But something still has to give. The wall will fall down and the existential crisis will come, it’s just slowed.

Critically, there is also the forgotten parable of Old Valyria: a society founded on extreme cruelty and slavery which eventually experiences cataclysm coming up from the very tunnels they send the enslaved into to die for the empire. A lot of what Daenerys experiences in Essos is an extension of that commentary on slave societies to me. Like. as the slavers try and reconquer places dany has liberated, people fleeing the violence, bring disease like the bloody flux with them. The rot creeps back. (important: disease and rot in the series is not always something people get for being morally bad. it often happens to people who just have no choice but to live in these places.)

But that’s why I think the way Volantis is described really ties a lot of those elements of the rot symbolism together. This is a society that has founded itself up from out of the corpse of old valyria. The city maintains some veneer of old glory, but the fountains are dry and the paint is chipping. The people there eat food that is so sweet it literally causes your teeth to rot out if you were to consume it every day. In terms of climate, I think it’s relevant that it is described as extremely, almost disgustingly, humid, and everything is excessively perfumed to cover up a tangible smell of decay.The air is quite literally cloying and difficult to breathe. You feel dirty after walking through it. The evil of slavery is rotting the city to its core in the same way that the evil of feudalism and the wars for the iron throne is affecting the city of king’s landing.

To wrap allllll this up. Rot is a signal that obviously societal collapse is coming, but it’s also transitional: the empire of old ghis brought about its downfall, and then valyria found itself on the same principles which brought about its own downfall, and then the Targaryen went to westeros and engineered their collapse in Kings Landing while the freehold did the same essos. I think the climatological and disease aspects of it are really heavy-handed symbolism that something has to give in the societies and we’re at the point in the series where that’s about to happen.

I think the ultimate arc of the series ends in some form of significant societal collapse, but instead of building upon a rotten foundation again people are going to have try and hope for something new and gather the courage to build that.,quite literally dreaming of the spring.

[atopvisenyashill]

The Magic Users Before Old Valyria, Part One: Magical Nuclear Fallout

i am positive this post has been made before but i'm making it anyway because it's eating away at my brain so let's gooooo.

We are delving into a fever dream that Dany has in AGOT, that will take us to the Pre-Valyrian magical users and their link to Valyria.

so in Dany's fever dream in AGOT, she has a vision of her ancestors:

Ghosts lined the hallway, dressed in the faded raiment of kings. In their hands were swords of pale fire. They had hair of silver and hair of gold and hair of platinum white, and their eyes were opal and amethyst, tourmaline and jade.

They look just like other Valyrians - hair of gold, white, and silver with funky colored eyes.

But note the exact gems mentioned! In TWOIAF, we get a little background on Yi Ti and their belief system. read here:

[In the beginning] a single realm ruled by the God-on-Earth, the only begotten son of the Lion of Night and Maiden-Made-of-Light, who traveled about his domains in a palanquin carved from a single pearl and carried by a hundred queens, his wives. For ten thousand years the Great Empire of the Dawn flourished in peace and plenty under the God-on-Earth, until at last he ascended to the stars to join his forebears.

Dominion over mankind then passed to his eldest son, who was known as the Pearl Emperor and ruled for a thousand years. The Jade Emperor, the Tourmaline Emperor, the Onyx Emperor, the Topaz Emperor, and the Opal Emperor followed in turn, each reigning for centuries…

When the daughter of the Opal Emperor succeeded him as the Amethyst Empress, her envious younger brother cast her down and slew her, proclaiming himself the Bloodstone Emperor and beginning a reign of terror. He practiced dark arts, torture, and necromancy, enslaved his people, took a tiger-woman for his bride, feasted on human flesh, and cast down the true gods to worship a black stone that had fallen from the sky.

Opal, Amethyst, Tourmaline, and Jade Emperors, just like her ancestors. It's not a huge stretch to say that likely, Dany, and therefore Valyrians as a whole (or at the least the Dragon Riders of Valyria) are the remnants of this ancient empire, The Great Empire of the Dawn, the same way that the Ghiscari culture is the remnant of Old Ghis - changed a bit, but with many similarities passed down amongst its people.

But who exactly is this civilization and how did they eventually turn into the Valyrians? Well, let's keep continuing with that passage about the Bloodstone Emperor:

In the annals of the Further East, it was the Blood Betrayal, as his usurpation is named, that ushered in the age of darkness called the Long Night…How long the darkness endured no man can say, but all agree that it was only when a great warrior—known variously as Hyrkoon the Hero, Azor Ahai, Yin Tar, Neferion, and Eldric Shadowchaser—arose to give courage to the race of men and lead the virtuous into battle with his blazing sword Lightbringer that the darkness was put to rout, and light and love returned once more to the world.

Basically, the people of Yi Ti believe that the Great Empire of the Dawn stretched far across the globe, and that when the Bloodstone Emperor usurped his niece, The Amethyst Empress, potentially using some weird blood magic, it caused the Long Night and the collapse of the Great Empire of the Dawn.

I think that this blood magic he was messing around with was, to use a metaphor, basically a magic nuclear bomb and I think ground zero for this - and therefore the capital of the Great Empire of the Dawn - is Asshai-by-the-Shadow. It's very notable that Asshai is so old its people don't even know what its origins are:

The ancient port of Asshai stands at the end of a long wedge of land, on the point where the Jade Sea meets the Saffron Straits. Its origins are lost in the mists of time. Even the Asshai’i do not claim to know who built their city; they will say only that a city has stood here since the world began and will stand here until it ends. Few places in the known world are as remote as Asshai, and fewer are as forbidding. Travelers tell us that the city is built entirely of black stone: halls, hovels, temples, palaces, streets, walls, bazaars, all. Some say as well that the stone has a greasy, unpleasant feel to it, that it seems to drink the light, dimming tapers and torches and hearth fires alike.

Note that last part, about the city being built from black stone - Valyria is well known for having Weird, Cool Architecture that involves black stone, fused together by dragon fire. From ADWD prologue:

Across the wide blue expanse of the Rhoyne, he could see the Black Wall that had been raised by the Valyrians when Volantis was no more than an outpost of their empire: a great oval of fused stone two hundred feet high and so thick that six four-horse chariots could race around its top abreast, as they did each year to celebrate the founding of the city.

and again from Tyrion's POV:

The gateway to the Long Bridge was a black stone arch carved with sphinxes, manticores, dragons, and creatures stranger still. Beyond the arch stretched the great span that the Valyrians had built at the height of their glory, its fused stone roadway supported by massive piers. 

And one more time F&B/The Princess and the Queen, when Aegon and Sunfyre on are Dragonstone:

Sunfyre’s scales still shone like beaten gold in the sunlight, but as he sprawled across the fused black Valyrian stone of the yard, it was plain to see that he was a broken thing, he who had been the most magnificent dragon ever to fly the skies of Westeros

rip to the hottest dragon in westeros.

It's very much a Valyrian thing, this fused black stone...yet the entirety of Asshai is built with black stone, even though the city predates Valyria, and the black stone of Asshai is just a little different - a greasy, unpleasant feeling. I think that this greasy feeling comes from the remnants of the magic that caused the Long Night - going back to that idea of a magical nuclear bomb which is poisoning the land the way radiation does. I think this because there are actually several ancient cities of mysterious origin with black stone and a greasy, oily feeling to them, all of which seem to have suffered some sort of magical nuclear fallout the way Asshai has, and they're all not too far from each other either:

The Idol on the Isle of Toads in the Basilisk Isles

Ruins found upon the Isle of Tears, the Isle of Toads, and Ax Island hint at some ancient civilization, but little is now known of these vanished men of the Dawn Age. If any still survived when the first corsairs settled on the islands, they were soon put to the sword, so no trace of them now remains … save perhaps upon the Isle of Toads…

On the Isle of Toads can be found an ancient idol, a greasy black stone crudely carved into the semblance of a gigantic toad of malignant aspect, some forty feet high. The people of this isle are believed by some to be descended from those who carved the Toad Stone, for there is an unpleasant fishlike aspect to their faces, and many have webbed hands and feet. If so, they are the sole surviving remnant of this forgotten race.

The Five Forts

The Five Forts are very old, older than the Golden Empire itself; some claim they were raised by the Pearl Emperor during the morning of the Great Empire to keep the Lion of Night and his demons from the realms of men … and indeed, there is something godlike, or demonic, about the monstrous size of the forts, for each of the five is large enough to house ten thousand men, and their massive walls stand almost a thousand feet high.

Certain scholars from the west have suggested Valyrian involvement in the construction of the Five Forts, for the great walls are single slabs of fused black stone that resemble certain Valyrian citadels in the west … but this seems unlikely, for the Forts predate the Freehold’s rise, and there is no record of any dragonlords ever coming so far east.

The Ancient City of Yeen

Maesters and other scholars alike have puzzled over the greatest of the engimas of Sothoryos, the ancient city of Yeen. A ruin older than time, built of oily black stone, in massive blocks so heavy that it would require a dozen elephants to move them, Yeen has remained a desolation for many thousands of years, yet the jungle that surrounds it on every side has scarce touched it.

And even more suspicious is the fact that Sothoryos, where Yeen is located, is known for its large wyvern population:

Most terrible of all are the wyverns, those tyrants of the southern skies, with their great leathery wings, cruel beaks, and insatiable hunger. Close kin to dragons, wyverns cannot breathe fire, but they exceed their cousins in ferocity and are a match for them in all other respects save size.

Now there's different stories on how dragons came to be, but most interesting to me is what the Asshai'i claim:

The Valyrians themselves claimed that dragons sprang forth as the children of the Fourteen Flames, while in Qarth the tales state that there was once a second moon in the sky. One day this moon was scalded by the sun and cracked like an egg, and a million dragons poured forth. In Asshai, the tales are many and confused, but certain texts—all impossibly ancient—claim that dragons first came from the Shadow, a place where all of our learning fails us. These Asshai’i histories say that a people so ancient they had no name first tamed dragons in the Shadow and brought them to Valyria, teaching the Valyrians their arts before departing from the annals.

Septon Barth later writes that he believes Valyrians used wyverns and blood magic to make dragons:

In Septon Barth’s Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns, he speculated that the bloodmages of Valyria used wyvern stock to create dragons. Though the bloodmages were alleged to have experimented mightily with their unnatural arts, this claim is considered far-fetched by most maesters, among them Maester Vanyon’s Against the Unnatural contains certain proofs of dragons having existed in Westeros even in the earliest of days, before Valyria rose to be a power.

So to sum up basically:

Dany's vision shows us her ancestors, who are almost definitely the rulers of the Great Empire of the Dawn

We know several cities - Asshai, Yeen, the Isle of Toads - that have an architectural resemblance to the fused black stone that the Valyrians used, but their structures predate Valyria.

We know Septon Barth believes dragons were made through blood magic with wyverns as a base stock and that there are a lot of wyverns in one of these ancient places, Sothoryos/Yeen, where the black stone architecture is found.

The people of Yi Ti believe that a magical calamity of some sort caused the Long Night.

THEREFORE: The Great Empire of the Dawn had its capital in Asshai, and used blood magic to start the Long Night (by accident, most likely), which caused a huge magical calamity that affected the entire world, and while their people never recovered from it, they brought their magical knowledge with them to their new home in Valyria, where they made more black fused stone architecture and turned their wyverns into dragons. Meanwhile, the "ground zero" for much of this magical calamity still experiences the magical fallout of this calamity.

OKAY. That's part one because this is getting super long winded. Part Two will be....JUST HOW BIG WAS THE GREAT EMPIRE OF THE DAWN ANYWAY?

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 46

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 46: The Boundaries of a Winged Pig

AO3 - Masterlist

The King’s chambers lay cloaked in darkness despite the few curtains that permitted feeble tendrils of light to infiltrate. A noxious amalgamation of sickness and decay permeated the air, assaulting Daenera’s senses and causing her delicate nose to wrinkle in disgust. It struck the back of her throat, and she struggled not to gag. She couldn’t fathom why the servant’s hadn't taken it upon themselves to freshen the room. A bit of air might have offered a respite to the ailing king. Instead, the chamber felt like a stifling dungeon, a heavy haze of odors and incense choking the atmosphere. 

Viserys was discovered by Daenera near the table adorned with a stone map of Old Valyria. Whips of incense smoke wafted from the small bowls interspersed among the miniature stone structures, giving the illusion of an ashen conflagration consuming the city. Her gaze, however, locked onto the king’s emaciated visage, his pallid face marred by a bandage that concealed half of it. Her heart sank at the sight.

Aemond sat at his father’s side, engrossed in a book, a studious figure amid the sober scene. Tendrils of light cascaded onto Aemond’s silver hair, imbuing it with an almost ethereal glow. The sharp contours of his face, which typically held a blade-like quality, were now graced by the caress of shadows, imparting an unexpected softness to his features. His single eye remained anchored to the pages of the book, a testament to his unwavering absorption in its contents.

A stark contrast hung in the air between father and son, a dichotomy of fragility and vitality. One, Viserys, appeared frail and ailing, while the other, Aemond, emanated youth and strength. Little resemblance existed between the two. Where one was sharp, the other exuded a gentleness; where one displayed kindness, the other wielded a streak of cruelty; and in one’s strength lay the other’s vulnerability. The only trait, it seemed, that had passed from father to son were the distinctive Valyrian features and their shared affections for books and history.

Viserys’s voice emerged from his frail form, strained and feeble, his hand trembling as it reached into the dimness as though conjuring the history text from thin air. “The Valyrians first conquered the Old Empire of Ghis to the east, across Slaver’s Bay, and the Ghiscari colonies in the Basilisk Isles and Sothoryos. Seeking slaves for Valyrian mines, they then conquered and established colonies west and north after defeating the… the…”

Aemond, seated at his side, finished the thought with an air of nonchalance, his single eye remaining fixed on the book. “After defeating the Andals and the Rhoynar in Essos.”

“That is right! Very well done, excellent memory Rhaenyra. I have taught you well,” Viserys exclaimed with a sense of accomplishment, though his voice remained raspy.

In the dimly lit chamber, the shadows seemed to deepen and curl around Aemond as his shoulder subtly dropped, his solitary eye disengaging from the words on the page. Then, he noticed her, quietly moving in the shadows. Their eyes met. 

At that moment, Aemond’s expression seemed tinged with sadness, perhaps even disappointment. A flicker of emotion played across his features before hardening into a scowl. 

Viserys, oblivious to the unspoken tension, reached out to pat Aemond’s hand, slowly turning in his chair to regard his child with his one remaining eye. “Oh, did I say the wrong name again, Aegon?”

Daenera fought back the urge to chuckle, though it was hard given the absurdity of the situation. The indignant scowl on Aemond’s face, however, was too amusing to ignore. Aemond detested being compared to Aegon, and being mistakenly called by his brother’s name was akin to a personal affront. 

“When has Aegon ever read to you?” Aemond sneered, his tone disdainful. 

“I’m sorry, Aemond, there are so many names to remember,” Viserys apologized, a pained expression crossing the half of his face that wasn’t hidden beneath bandages. 

“ You never seem to forget Rhaenyra’s name ,” Aemond muttered under his breath, the resentment darkening his voice. 

Kneeling beside Viserys, Daenera gently placed a hand on his shoulder to signal her presence. The King turned his head towards her, his eye flickering over her features as he tried to place her. “Rhaenyra?”

“It is Daenera, Your Grace,” Daenera gently corrected him, a warm smile on her lips, though marred by considerable concern. “Your grandchild.”

Viserys nodded, his expression grateful, his knobbed fingers brushing against his forehead. “Ah, Daenera, I apologize, names seem to elude me today.”

“Nothing to apologize for. There are many of us, and all our names are so similar.” 

Daenera carefully examined Viserys’s face, her eyes tracing the contours of the half that was visible. His eyes had a reddish rim, as if it had become dry and irritated. Discoloration marred several patches of his skin, giving the impression that the flesh was slowly peeling away from the underlying muscle and bone. His hair had thinned considerably, hanging limply from his skull in clusters. The state of his teeth was equally distressing, showing signs of decay and emitting a sulfurous odor. As she observed his numerous ailments, a nauseating sensation twisted in the pit of her stomach. She knew she would need to inquire with the Maesters about their course of treatment. 

There was something unsettling about this sickness.

“The least one can do is remember their children’s names,” Aemond muttered eye flicking across the page.

Daenera looked across to Aemond, her tone chiding as she spoke. “Do not pretend like you know the difference between Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey.”

“Joffrey is not a Valyrian name.” It was a snide comment, meant to poke at her. 

“Nevertheless, would you be able to tell them apart if they stood before you?” 

Aemond’s eyes narrowed as he glanced up at her, a twist to his lips. “Last I saw your brothers, they were cowering behind their mother. But I suppose now, I couldn’t tell them apart. They’re all just brown-haired boys.”

They locked gazes, exchanging verbal jabs like engaged in swordplay. Aemond exuded a foul mood, one that carried barbs capable of leaving deep wounds on anyone who dared to approach. Daenera felt the sting, but allowed him as much. 

“Aemond,” Viserys interjected, his tone warning his son that he was treading on thin ice. “There will be no arguing.”

Aemond shot Daenera an accusatory glance. 

Daenera straightened, pushing away from the table and running her hand over its smoothly carved stone surface. Intricate grooves had been etched into the stone, providing exquisite details. “Were you reading to him?”

Aemond’s eye shifted to the book in his lap, which detailed the doom of Valyria. “I was.”

“How kind of your son to provide entertainment while you recover,” Daenera remarked to Viserys. “He has a pleasant voice for reading aloud, don’t you think?”

Daenera’s unexpectedly kind words seemed to catch Aemond off guard. Beside him, Viserys stirred, his frail head nodding in agreement. “Indeed, it is very kind. His mother did the same after…”

A veil of sorrow shrouded the aging king’s eyes as he drifted into memories of his first wife and the circumstance that had brought Alicent to his door. His thoughts were lost in the past. 

Aemond turned his eye to the heavens, unable to contain his contempt. 

Daenera pursed her lips, contemplating Otto Hightowers strategic move of sending his daughter to comfort the King after the death of his first wife. It was a shrewd tactic, disgusting and ruthless, and obvious to all except the King himself. Perhaps, Daenera thought, he needed the solace of ignorance. 

Rubbing his forehead again, Viserys let out a low groan, screwing his eye shut as a wave of pain washed over him. 

Leaving the King’s side, Daenera moved through the chamber and entered the adjoining bedroom. There, a solitary cup sat perched on the table beside the bed. She picked up the cup and brought it to her nose, sniffing cautiously. The concoction contained a mixture of herbs that supposedly alleviated joint pains and reduced inflammation. Cat’s claw, white willow bark, wood spider and milk of the poppy. However, Daenera couldn’t help but wonder if some herbs had been added to mask the scent and taste of more dubious ingredients, as they weren’t particularly effective for Viserys’ current condition. Cat’s claw was not what she would have used, nor would she have used wood spider . 

A tingling sensation prickled at the back of her neck as she sensed Aemond’s movements nearby. His presence was palpable, and she knew he was right behind her. 

“Why are you here?” Aemond’s tone carried a stab of accusation, as though she had trespassed, and now stood on ground he had no desire of letting her tread. It wasn’t just about her seeing the king; it was encroaching on him being there. 

“I am ensuring the well-being of my grandsire,” Daenera replied, her words carrying a subtle undercurrent. It wasn’t only about the king’s health but also about verifying that he still remained of this world. It would be all too easy for the Hightowers to maintain an illusion of normalcy, even as the king had drawn his final breath and his body lay rotting in the dark. 

Aemond’s response was pointed. “In other words, you’re here to make sure the King remains alive,” he said, his gaze shifting to the cup, the icy blue darkening. “You suspect we might be poisoning him.”

Daenera offered a half-hearted shrug and brought the small cup to her nose again, inhaling the sweet scent of milk of the poppy. “I wouldn’t put it past your mother, or the Hand.”

Controlling a king would be much simpler if he were ill and dazed by the milk of the poppy. As long as the king remained alive but incapacitated, it would serve the interest of the Hightowers. The Maesters might be merely a tool to conceal their machinations. 

“You’re making quite a quite serious accusation,” Aemond drawled, stepping towards her and just like that, his presence seemed towering. A shiver went down her spine, and she felt goosebumps rise along with the hairs at the back of her neck. 

Aemond continued. “And one easily disproved by the pitiful state he’s in.”

“Do you feel any sympathy for your father at all?” She inquired, her eyes searching his face. She had often wondered whether he had inherited his prominent cheekbones, the sharpness of his jaw, and the shape of his nose. He didn’t resemble his father at all, Daenera thought, but he didn’t quite possess the distinctive Hightower features either. However, that cold, cruel look in his eye was undoubtedly his mothers– inherited or learned?

“I’ll grant him as much sympathy as he granted me when I lost my eye,” he replied, his tone devoid of any compassion. 

Affording his as much compassion as he did then; which was none.

“Yet, you still come to see him.”

“The kind of sentiment you’re looking for isn’t there,” Aemond told her dryly. 

The injustice he had experienced had wounded him far deeper than Daenera could ever fully grasp. She did understand some of it though. The pain in his eye was as apparent to her as the moon on a clear night.

Her fingers extended to delicately cradle his face, but Aemond’s hand swiftly intercepted, grasping her wrist and preventing her touch from reaching his face. His expression remained hard, his head shaking tersely as if to reject the comfort she offered.

Injustice had become etched into every fiber of his being, from the flesh to the bone. It marked his face as an enduring reminder of a profound wrong. It was the source of his seething anger, the core of his resentment. The boy he had once been had been crushed under the weight of that injustice, leaving only the man he had become. Her touch, no matter how tender, couldn’t erase the scars or heal the wounds left by it.

Yet, as much as he resisted, there remained a flicker of longing for understanding in his eyes.

Daenera allowed him this, and moved around him, returning to the common room where Viserys sat. She assisted him in taking a sip from the cup, the milk of the poppy soothing his pain. A small dribble escaped the corner of his mouth, which Daenera gently wiped away with her sleeve. 

Viserys slouched deeper into the chair, closing his one eye as the pain began to recede. With a faint smile, he complimented Daenera, drawing a comparison to her mother. Daenera, however, became distracted by an unusual object on the table, one of the stone figurines adorning the model of the Valyrian city. Puzzled, she picked it up and examined it more closely. 

“Is this a pig with wings?” She inquired with a bemused frown, turning the object in her hand and holding it out for Viserys to see. 

Daenera’s inquisitive gaze shifted towards Aemond, who had retreated into the dimly lit shadows, as though the mere reminder of a winged pig were too painful to endure. Once she would have laughed at him, laughed at his reaction to the reminder, but now she bit down on her lip.  

“A pig with wings…” Viserys murmured, his voice a slow, raspy drawl. He seemed to struggle against the encroaching waves of slumber, his head swaying gently as he tried to remain awake. His lone eye fluttered open, taking a moment to focus on the object Daenera held in her hand. Eventually, recognition dawned. 

“Yes, I believe your brother and Aegon played a prank once,” he recalled, his memory struggling to bridge the gap between wakefulness and dreams. “The pink dread, and the spotted terror.”

The pink dread and the spotted terror were whimsical names for what had been innocent pigs adorned with makeshift wings and tails. Yet, she understood that what had once been a childhood prank now carried a different weight. The only humor she would wangle for it, was the idea of Aegon struggling to catch and wrestle the wings on the pigs. 

“It was a mean spirited prank,” Daenera spoke carefully. 

“Alicent thought so,” Viserys muttered, nodding his head in remembrance. “She wanted your brothers punished.”

“But I do believe it was Aegon who was the mastermind of it. My brothers are many things, gullible and perhaps a bit foolish, but they’re not cruel.”

“You’re brothers are good,” Viserys mumbled, nodding in agreement. “They were led astray.”

Daenera cast a sidelong glance towards Aemond, sensing the tension in his posture as his arms remained folded behind his back. Her voice, gentle but assured, pressed on. “They should still have been punished for it.”

Viserys, perhaps tired from the repetition of this discussion, waved a hand, dismissing the issue as he had done so many times before. The notion of punishment had always sat uneasy with him. 

“It was a prank, nothing more,” he reiterated. “It is long in the past, Alicent. There’s nothing we can do now.”

“Daenera,” she said, her voice gentle but insistent, feeling the sting of the wrong name land on her like a lash.

“Hm?”

“I’m Daenera,” she stated firmly, taking Viserys’s fragile hand in her own as if drawing him back to the present. Her touch, soft and reassuring, sought to anchor him in the conversation. “I think it’s important to acknowledge the mistakes we might have made in the past and admit there should have been some form of consequences. It won’t change what happened, but it might just soothe the sting of the memory.”

Viserys tilted his head, considering her words, but then counters, “What punishment would have been fitting. It was a childish prank. It meant no harm.”

“Restricting visits to the Dragonpit perhaps?” Daenera said, then continued with faint amusement. “I wouldn’t have minded seeing Aegon spanked for his part.”

Viserys chuckled softly, the corner of his eye wrinkling with amusement. “I fear a good spanking wouldn’t have done him any good.”

“That might be, but personally, I would have been thoroughly entertained by it,” Daenera chimed wryly.

Viserys slipped his hand from Daenera’s and reached for the winged pig. He held it weakly, as if the weight of the stone was almost too heavy. “I’ve made many mistakes in my life. Your mother is not one of them. She gave me you.”

“You’ve been blessed with many good children,” Daenera gently reminded him. “Helaena, Daeron… Aemond.”

Viserys put the figurine back on the table, letting out a labored, raspy breath. “They’re not your mother.”

“No, they’re not,” Daenera nodded in agreement as she regarded the man before her. He was a weak king, amiable but fallible, a father who held little love for the children that came after his first. He was the man who had sanctioned the butchering of his first wife for a son who wouldn’t survive, and then married his daughter’s childhood companion. She wondered if he ever recognized the damage his decisions had inflicted on all those around him. And she couldn’t help but question what he might have become had he not been under the influence of Otto Hightower. 

Daenera continued. “But they’re still deserving of your love.” 

Aemond, like a quiet shadow, silently left the king's chambers, his presence vanishing almost seamlessly. Daenera closed her eyes briefly, feeling the weight of the moment. She stood, bidding the King a quick goodbye before following Aemond. 

After a few concentrated blinks to adjust to the sunlight, her vision returned. Aemond was striding down the hall, his hair wishing with each step as he stepped into an alcove. As soon as she reached him, he wrapped a hand around her arm, pulling her into the shadows. She frowned, studying his face. 

“Why did you do that?” Aemond’s words were sharp, accusatory. Anger seems to bend the shadows to his will as they coiled and quivered around him. 

“I–”

“Why did you tell him that?” He sneered, his anger apparent. 

“Because–”

“Do not impose your sympathy onto me,” Aemond snapped, his voice laced with indignation. “I do not want or need it, and I especially do not need you to impose it on him.”

He clung to his hatred of Viserys, using it as a shield against any doubts that might creep in. Hatred was his anchor, and it was easier to hold onto than the complex mix of emotions that lay beneath the surface. Viserys had made himself deserving of that hatred, there was no doubt about that. Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps he was also afraid of what it might mean to let go of that anger, to see his father in a different light. For so many years, hatred and resentment had been all he had. 

“ I do not want his love ,” Aemond sneered at her, his words sharp and laced with bitterness. “And I certainly do not need it.”

“I am sorry.” Her admission of fault seemed to take him by surprise. She knew she shouldn’t have forced the subject, that what was between Aemond and his father was shattered beyond repair, and trying to reconcile it would only serve to rub salt in the wound. 

Aemond shifted, searching her face, seemingly trying to decipher the intention behind her words. He gave her a curt nod, and left her in the shadows.

Aemond found her sitting in the library, hunched over a book with a quill in her hand, fervently scribbling into another volume as her eye scanned the pages. The room was a haven of knowledge, bathed in the soft glow of sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams of light, giving the chamber an ethereal quality. The unmistakable scent of leather and aging parchment hung in the air, a comforting aroma for anyone who sought solace in books. 

With the grace of a shadow, Aemond approached her, his gaze drawn to the cascade of dark curls that framed her face. He observed the furrowed concentration on her brow as she dipped the quill into an inkpot before deftly returning it to the parchment. 

The room was lined with shelves, each holding a treasure trove of knowledge in the form of books. Some volumes stood tall, forming a miniature tower of wisdom, while others lay scattered around her in a haphazard half-circle. Among them, a single book stood out, bound in sleek black leather adorned with ornate gold lettering on its cover. 

“ Mōrītubis māstan ao gōntan daor ,” Aemond spoke, his voice a murmur as he stood before her. You did not come yesterday.

“I assumed you did not wish to see me,” Daenera replied, her gaze briefly lifting from her meticulous work. One hand lay across the page she was studying, anchoring it in place, while the other deftly dipped the quill into the inkpot before tapping it twice against the edge to eliminate any surplus ink. “You appeared rather vexed.”

Her attention swiftly returned to the page, dismissing his presence with a casual air. Despite the absence of anger in her tone or eyes, an irksome sensation coiled within Aemond’s chest, much like a snake ready to strike. 

Did she fail to grasp the depths of his anger? Did she not realize she was closing in on him like an unwelcome shadow, forcing him to confront questions he had no intention on confronting, nor any answers to?

Aemond clenched his teeth, determined to swallow down his fury. “I have no desire to discuss it.”

“I haven’t inquired,” Daenera replied calmly, her gaze still fixed on the pages before her. 

Aemond’s eye narrowed, as he seized the back of a nearby chair with a harsh grip as he simmered with frustration. “I wished to see the extent of his suffering.”

Daenera’s gaze shifted to him once more, her quill pausing in its scribbling as she observed him. There was no judgment in her eyes, and strangely, that lack of judgment added kindling to his irritation. It wasnøt what he had anticipated, and that unexpectedness grated on him. 

“Did it satisfy you, knowing that he lost an eye?” Daenera inquired, her head tilting slightly in curiosity. 

“It’s no more than he deserves,” Aemond retorted, a trace of sneer in his tone. “His suffering brings me immense satisfaction. His body is deteriorating, rotting from the inside out, and I hope it's excruciating.”

“You genuinely feel no sympathy for his pain?” Daenera probed. 

“No,” Aemond replied bluntly. 

Aemond was prepared to offer his father as much sympathy as he had received when he had lost his eye, which was none. Viserys had made his lack of his sons abundantly clear–It wasn’t hatred, but rather a cold and cruel indifference. Even as Aemond’s eye had been ripped from its socket and the wound had been stitched shut, his father had regarded him with nothing more than weariness. Only his mother had demanded justice, only she had shown concern, only she had held his hand. 

Aemond had no intention of sympathizing with a man who had offered him no comfort in his time of need. 

Although a question lingered in the furrow of Daenera’s brow, she chose not to voice it, perhaps deciding it was best not to. 

Aemond was well aware of the unspoken question in Daenera’s eyes: Why did he choose to stay by his father’s side after having seen him?

There had been no logical reason for him to sit and listen to his father’s historical musings. Aemond despised himself for it; all he had truly desired was to witness his father’s agony. Yet, ironically, history was the one thing that the two of them had ever had in common. 

Once upon a time, Aemond had sat beside his father as he had narrated the grandeur of Old Valyria. It had been an attempt to forge a bond that had never existed, to hearn his father’s love, only to discover that there was none left for him.

Rhaenyra had received all of their father’s love, Aegon had been allotted the leftovers, and Helaena had collected the remnants. By the time Aemond had come into existence, there was nothing remaining. Thus, he had labored earnestly to make peace with the void, attempting to forge some sort of connection, only to have even that fragile semblance severed when his eye was brutally torn from its socket. 

Daenera’s eyes had once again descended upon the pages, her quill etching its marks upon the parchment with a soft scratching sound. 

Aemond was prepared to shift the conversation and inquired, “What are you studying?”

Without lifting her gaze from the pages, she replied, “The History of Harrenhal.”

It was a lie that flowed so seamlessly from her lips. The evidence of this falsehood lay before her, as the book’s pages displayed a botanical illustration, complete with notes regarding the plant’s applications and cultivations.

Why she chose to lie so blatantly remained a mystery to him, but he decided to play along. “And what you learned of Harrenhal?”

Daenera set the quill aside in the inkpot and raised her gaze to meet Aemond’s as he picked up the black leather-bound book from her half-circle. It was titled ‘History of Harrenhal.’ It wasn’t the one she had been studying so meticulously. He was well-acquainted with the book and the legend of Harrenhal. 

“Harren the Black built Harrenhal as a monument to himself, intending it to be the greatest of all castles in Westeros. The construction of it took forty years, three generations, and in that time, thousands of captives died in the quarries, chained to sledges or laboring on the five huge towers. He beggared the riverlands and the Iron Islands, depleted the land of its resources and riches, uncaring for the people that starved and suffered for his hubris,” Daenera recounted. “They say the mortar they used between the bricks was mixed with blood.”

Aemond regarded her with bemusement. “It makes for a good story.”

Daenera shrugged half-heartedly. “You do not believe in the curse of Harrenhal?”

“You do?” Aemond had little opinion on the matter. He did not discount the superstition, nor the truth of it, but he saw no plain evidence for such things as curses. 

“I believe there are things in this world we have yet to understand,” Daenera answered, her voice laced with a touch of mystery. “If notions like ghosts and curses hold any truth, Harrenhal would certainly be a fertile ground for them.”

Aemond felt a wry smile tug at the corners of his lips. “Are you suggesting every battlefield will become haunted, then? Even these very halls?”

Daenera hummed in thought, leaning back in her chair contemplatively,” Death has a way of leaving its mark, especially when it’s particularly gruesome.” She paused briefly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a splotch of ink on the underside of her palm. “And what death could be more gruesome than being consumed by dragonfire? Aegon the Conqueror descended upon Harrenhal with fire and blood. They say the very stones of the castle melted. Harren and his entire lineage met their end that day, and ever since, no house has held it for long. House Qoherys, House Harrowway, and House Towers all met their demise while holding Harrenhal. Queen Rhaenys died within its walls.”

Her words hung in the air. 

“And what of House Strong?” Aemond couldn’t suppress the pointed question, knowing its unkindness. 

Daenera’s face remained unmoved, as if she refused to let the question’s barb pierce her. “Lord Lyonel Strong and his eldest son and heir, Ser Harwin Strong, both met their deaths within the halls of Harrenhal.”

Aemond settled into the chair across from her, reclining slightly with one hand resting on the table’s surface. He idly ran a nail over his thumb’s skin. 

“It appears that either the very stones themselves or perhaps the restless spirits dwelling within demand a bloody toll,” Daenera added with an undercurrent in her voice. 

Aemond found himself uncertain of whether he believed in such things as curses or if she truly believed her own words. Undoubtedly, Harrenhal had a grim history steeped in death and destruction, with entire Houses vanishing into extinction. Nevertheless, to attribute such power to a place bordered on the absurd. If there truly was a curse, he’d have to witness it first hand. 

With a faintly amused curl to his lips, Aemond inquired, “What have you learned from the history of Harrenhal?”

Daenera regarded him with a similar, slightly amused expression, her lips forming a smile. “Hubris does not stand against the fire of a dragon. Stone might not burn, but flesh does so very well.”

Aemond’s eyes wandered from the book to Daenera, his expression curious. “You gleaned all this from… a book about plants?”

She chuckled softly, though her eyes held a hint of keen observation. “I figured you’d have more interest in Harrenhal than cat’s claw.”

Aemond surmised that Daenera’s abrupt immersion in the pile of books encircling her was not a newfound passion for reading, but rather her skepticism regarding the Maesters and the King’s prescribed treatment. He had observed her cautious sniff of the medicine cup and the crease of her brow as she had contemplated its contents. 

“And it is not because of your inherent distrust of the Masters?” Aemond couldn’t help but inquire further, his curiosity piqued by the subtle narrowing of Daenera’s eyes when he broached the topic of her deep-seated mistrust of the Masters. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, and took a deep breath, as though gathering her thoughts before responding.  

“I don’t know why they chose to use cat’s claw instead of aloe or boswellia,” Daenera began, her voice measured and thoughtful. “Cat’s claw carries a higher risk of side effects compared to those alternatives. I am compiling a list of other remedies that the Maesters might consider implementing, or perhaps different recipeice they could experiment with.”

“Do you believe you possess greater wisdom than the Maesters?” Aemond inquired, his head canting slightly as he observed her closely. 

“I believe that people often become complacent and entrenched in their beliefs,” she responded thoughtfully. “I might find something they have not considered.”

“The Masteres may not be receptive to your recommendations,” Aemond remarked. “Considering their years of study at the Citadel and their long service in treating the King, it might be imprudent to think that you possess superior knowledge.”

Aemond couldn’t help but sense that Daenera wouldn’t simply present her own remedies and suggestions to the Maesters; she would also bring a barrage of inquiries. He discerned that determined and obstinate glint in her eyes, that spark of spite and stubbornness that would drive her to pepper the Maesters with questions and demands. She sought not just a cure but a glimpse into their motives, a desire to uncover the possibility of malice. 

Daenera countered, “While I may lack the physical links of a Maester’s chain, my education is by no means inferior.”

Aemond remarked, “It’s regrettable that the Citadel does not admit women.”

“Oh, so I could go there and earn a single link for a chain, or perhaps you just want to be rid of me? Between us, it seems you’re better suited to carry a chain, given the weight of that grudge you bear,” Daenera quipped, a playful smile tugging at her lips. 

Aemond couldn’t help but chuckle, a short and amused breath escaping him as he shook his head, his eye momentarily diverting from Daenera. 

With an inquisitive set to his brow, Aemond looked back upon Daenera. “What can you tell me about lucerne?”

This question appeared to take Daenera by surprise. Her eyes widened briefly, followed by a thoughtful furrowing of her brow, a slight blush creeping upon her cheeks. “You remember that?”

Aemond couldn’t quite explain why that particular memory stuck with him. Perhaps it was the swift diversion Daenera had employed when her husband had approached, or it might have been the subtle smirk that danced at the corner of her eyes, a secret known only to her. 

As she began to enlighten him about lucerne, Daenera’s voice held a scholarly tone. “Lucerne serves a range of purposes. It’s primarily utilized for livestock feed and improving soil quality and fertility. In the realm of medicine, it can be employed to alleviate joint pain and as a diuretic. However, it’s worth noting that a common side effect in men is difficulty in maintaining an erection.”

“Princess,” Maester Gilbar chimed, the links of his chain clinking softly as he approached, a stack of books cradled in his arms. His breath came out in almost labored pants, a testament to his determination. With a loud thud, he deposited the books on the table, finally freeing his arms from their heavy burden. “I’ve found the one we were looking for!”

His excitement seemed boundless as he continued, “I knew we had it! I just knew it! And you won’t believe where I found it. At first, I searched in the medical section, where it was supposed to be. In its place, I found the book ‘History of the Ironborn’ by Maester Haereg, who posited that the Ironborn hailed from a different race beyond the Sunset Sea. Of course, his idea has been firmly rejected by the Citadel. Why anyone would–”

Daenera politely interrupted him before he could launch into another passionate discourse. “Thank you, Maester Gilbar.”

The Maester’s expression softened as he turned his attention to Aemond. A subtle frown creased his brow. “Prince Aemond, is there anything I can assist you with?”

Aemond stood up, clutching the leather-bound book containing the history of Harrenhal. “I have all that I need.”

Daenera responded with a chiding tone and light exasperation. “That is my book!”

She extended her hand expectantly, leaning over the table.

Aemond sported a smirk as he retorted, “It seems to me you’ve got enough books on hand. You can hardly lay claim to them all.”

Daenera let out an exaggerated sigh, as if her hand had suddenly become too heavy to maintain. She playfully banged it on the table. “I will be expecting you to return the book to me once you’re done.” 

With that, her attention shifted to the fresh stack of books, her fingers deftly searching through the volumes for the one she sought. 

Aemond relocated to the opposite end of the table, occupying a chair and methodically opening the book to its initial page. 

A serene quiet enveloped them, periodically punctuated by the gentle clinks of Maester Gilbar’s chains, the faint shuffle of feet as he continued his tasks, and the occasional rustling of pages as Daenera searched through her collection of books. Despite the physical separation, they shared a sense of harmony, seated together in a peaceful silence.

This scene was inspired by this post

[yenneferdivengerberg]

Daenerys Targaryen in Game of Thrones 3.07: "The Bear And The Maiden Fair"

⇢The envoys from Yunkai arrived as the sun was going down; fifty men on magnificent black horses and one on a great white camel. Their helms were twice as tall as their heads, so as not to crush the bizarre twists and towers and shapes of their oiled hair beneath. They dyed their linen skirts and tunics a deep yellow, and sewed copper disks to their cloaks. The man on the white camel named himself Grazdan mo Eraz. Lean and hard, he had a white smile such as Kraznys had worn until Drogon burned off his face. His hair was drawn up in a unicorn’s hom that jutted from his brow, and his tokar was fringed with golden Myrish lace. “Ancient and glorious is Yunkai, the queen of cities,” he said when Dany welcomed him to her tent. “Our walls are strong, our nobles proud and fierce, our common folk without fear. Ours is the blood of ancient Ghis, whose empire was old when Valyria was yet a squalling child. You were wise to sit and speak, Khaleesi. You shall find no easy conquest here.” “Good. My Unsullied will relish a bit of a fight.” She looked to Grey Worm, who nodded.

[tru-neutral03]

To the people who defend the slave trade and demonize Daenerys for trying to end it, I have this to say. The slave trade has been around for over five thousand years since the days of the Old Empire of Ghis. They spread their influence over their colonized lands in Slaver's Bay and Sothoryos, enslaving everyone they find along the way. When the Valyrian Freehold conquered them, they convinced them to practice slavery, further spreading their trade. Tyroshi slavers even sail far north beyond the wall to enslave wildlings. We know for a fact that most of the free cities are bigger than any city in Westeros and some are inhabited by well over a million people. Volantis and Meereen are far larger than all of the cities in Westeros and most likely have slave populations that number in the hundreds of thousands. Across the known world, there are millions of slaves, for thousands of years they've captured, broken, and trained people to fit their need for slave servants, soldiers, and bed slaves, simply because they think they're entitled to it. How many hundred million, maybe over a billion, have had their lives taken from them in that time? While you defend the slavers and their practices, traditions, culture, economy, and freedoms. Who's defending the people whose lives they've destroyed? Daenerys is, she tried to make peace with them at great cost to herself, and now that she'll take a more decisive stance against slavery and the masters and answer them with fire and blood you all try to paint her out as a mad tyrant while she's seeking to overthrow the real tyrants who've spread their terror as far south as the Summer Isles, as far north as Hardhome, and as far east as Qarth. You want others to have her dragons (Euron, Faegon, Jon, etc) because you believe that they're entitled to them even though they'll use them for their own selfish needs (destroying Old Town, taking the Iron Throne, taking back Winterfell) while Daenerys is using them to smash a slave trade that has ruined the lives of millions every day for the past five thousand years! You all think she's a spoiled narcissistic tyrant even though she grew up poorer than any of the other POVs and knows what it's like to be bought, sold, and raped (It does not matter that she later came to care for Drogo). She's done nothing but try to help others with the power she gains for herself and while she dreams of going to Westeros she decides to stay exactly where she is in Meereen to ensure the freedom of the people she liberated. Would any other character we've seen thus far put aside their own selfish ambitions in this magnitude? Slavery is a practice that needs to be destroyed by any means necessary and when she returns with Drogon and the Dothraki and finally shows them the meaning of fire and blood I will be cheering her on while you all bitch and moan about the poor slave owners.

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 3: Melisandre

MASTERLIST

Summary: Thoughts of Melisandre of Asshai and Naera's passionate endeavours with the Red Woman begin plaguing Naera as Daemon attempts to get closer to his niece.

Word count: 4.1k

Warnings: NSFW - sort of; Not anything explicit, just some mildly suggestive themes

Note: Wisestone (pronunciation: "Why-stone", but without the 'h' in why (so really its wai-stone))

Liberator. Breaker of Chains. A Targaryen, with an army of freed Unsullied. Why would a Targaryen ever need such an army? Could it…will they be overthrown? Is she a redeemer? A conqueror. The woman didn’t seem cruel, instead, she seemed rather brilliant. Altruistic, but with a mission, and that was perfection. She was intelligent, proud, and oh, so, very, very beautiful.

Gods, Naera sighed. She needed to speak to Melisandre about the visions. She had yet to receive a response on paper.

A book lay in her lap, something on the life of the Slave Masters of Mereen. She had read it before, but she needed to revisit it all. She needed to know when the flashing images of broken leather collars and that woman filled her mind. She needed to know.

She closed her eyes, and leaned back her head, breathing in the serenity of the Godswood. She needed to read. She needed to be prepared, for whatever the days found her with. She needed to be well read and well trained, and primed and proper, but without losing the will of the soldier. She needed to be perfect.

“Mereen has not had a King for centuries,” she read aloud to the silence, “It had been an old colony of the Old Empire of Ghis, but when Ghis warred against the Valyrian Freehold, it affected their lands greatly.”

Footsteps. She stopped; breath bated. Who was it this time? They slowed, stopped, and quieted. No one significant, she supposed. It wasn’t ‘wrong’ to read in the Godswood. It's just—it’s the Godswood. What if God’s offended?

“The coastal cedars all fell, and the soil baked under dragonfire, and later the hot sun, and was blown away.”

Footsteps, again. She whipped around this time, standing and looking around. If she was to be disturbed every other minute, she might as well have retired to her study. Naera saw a glimmer of silver-white hair, ducking beneath a bush. What, now?

“I can see you,” she called out loud, for no response, “Prince Daemon,” she added. Nothing. She considered sitting back down with her book—she needed to know this. It had to mean something. It had to be related.

She couldn’t. Sighing, Naera tried one last time, “Kepus,” and saw him stand tall, a teasing look in his eyes. Useless man. She rolled her eyes. No, no, no. He wasn’t winning with his overtly covert ways.

“My beloved niece called?” He jumped over the hedge rather than taking the long, winding path, and sat opposite her, a bunch of windflowers held in his hand. Naera pressed her lips against each other at his antics, choosing to return to her book.

Civility—treat him how she needed to—she needed to let herself be courted.

Daemon raised her chin again, like the other day, and said, “I brought you something.”

“I don’t like flowers,” they wither, and they die, all too soon, is what Naera didn’t add, but she didn’t return her eyes to the written word. She wanted to see what he’d say. He just smiled at her again, smirking all the same, picked out a flower from the bunch and tucked the stem behind her ear.

“I never said that it was flowers,” he reached his hand down to his waist and unsheathed a dagger of dark polish and sharp width. Valyrian Steel. He tossed it up in the air, catching it by the blade, and reached the hilt out to her. It was engraved beautifully, a dragon’s jaws parted before the blade, and the hilt reminded her of Wisestone’s scales;

Naera looked back at her uncle, then at the dagger in her hand. She could stab him. It would be so easy.

“No,” he almost heard her thoughts, or just saw the joy it brought her, and raised his eyebrows, backing away slowly, “You wouldn’t,” he crawled back regardless. Ha.

“Wouldn’t I?” She asked a mirror of his smirk and set the dagger down. No. He was too good at this—he knew what she wanted, what she’d say, or do. He knew, or perhaps, just once, he understood.

Daemon crept forwards again, close enough to rest his forehead against hers, and asked, quietly, “What’re you reading?” Princess Naera exhaled at his words, nearly sighing. He wouldn’t understand if she told him the whole of it. No one would. No one, but Melisandre.

“A history of the Free City of…,” she answered his question, and her fingers toyed with the edges of the paper. Naera stared back at him, at his raised eyebrow, his short-trimmed hair. His short, trimmed hair. “You cut off your hair.” She stated, more to herself than to him.

Daemon smirked, “At least you noticed,” he shook his head and ruffled his hair, “wasn’t looking like you would.” Naera shook her head, a chuckle leaving her nose.

No. No, no, no. He was very good at this.

“…Mereen. A history of Mereen,” she turned back to her book. Yes, that was better. She would just read, and somehow make time for Asshai, and get some answers from Melisandre—actual answers, not some cryptic statements on nights and terrors. She needed to treat him how she wanted to be treated. She wanted to be ignored, for once.

“Hadn’t you spent time in Mereen?” He started again, brushing away stray strands of her hair. “I’ve heard stories.” Naera wanted to frown, she really wanted to, but why was he doing this? Why was he respecting her? It was a ploy, surely, to get closer to her and win some fraction of her heart, for they both knew that she was too quick to fall, and then he would leave. He would leave her for some whore or maybe even her sister, and her world would collapse.

“I did, yes,” curt answers, quiet, calculated words. That was enough for him, and his like.

“Care to share?” He prodded further, of course, he did and smiled in a strange way. He smiled in a way that made her want to answer, to show him, to prove.

“Well,” she spoke before she could stop, and it was enough for her uncle, her ‘loving’ uncle, to pull away the book on Mereenese history, and lay his head on her lap instead. It was too late to retract her words, she knew. Naera felt exhausted, and his head on her lap wasn't as comforting as it was irritating. She wanted to leave. She couldn't.

Naera thought back. How had she ended up in Mereen? She began, “I was sold as a slave,” not her first, or last time.

“Who would dare sell a Princess into slavery—give me his name,” Daemon growled, not as angry as he could be—she was alive and free, clearly, she had escaped that fate.

“She is long dead,” Naera chuckled, biting her tongue, she had killed the Khaleesi of Khal Dror’hza after breaking out, “I fought in the pits,” she continued. Naera didn’t tell him of how they first sold her as a whore, of how she murdered the first two ‘patrons’ and was whipped and taken to the pits. He didn’t need to be told that. He probably knew. It was just the way the world worked across the Narrow Sea.

“How long?” He asked, instead, without the joy or the tease.  

“A few months?” She couldn’t remember at all, in fact, “I fought dozens of times in the fighting pits,” and they named me the Master of the Pits, she didn’t say. “I was later freed for my skill, and I stayed as a free woman for some time, working on my records,” she gestured to the pile of poorly bound journals beside her, “and then I left for Quarth, in the far, far east.”

“I see,” Daemon responded, reaching for one of her journals—the third, which she had titled, Times in Essos – III. Mereen: Life and Customs of the Mereenese. It had the words and opinions of all the slaves she had spoken to, from the whores to the lady’s maids, or from the rock draggers to the educated slaves, who taught and learned, at the behest of their owners. He flipped through the pages lazily, pausing at the rough sketches interwoven with the scripts and the scribbles of her writing in bright purple and magenta, with the usual black and blue inks.

The first was a pencil outline of a little girl with blooming cheeks and a bright smile, her hair bound in two braids. The daughter of a slaver, perchance, for he could see no iron collar and no metalled chains. He flipped the page again, trying to make sense of Naera’s messy penmanship. He paused at words he could decipher—se, iksos, issi, buzdaris, she wrote in their mother tongue or some bastardized dialect of it.

He chose a different journal then, one titled, simply, Twelfth (Asshai 2), and Naera wasn’t paying attention. The weight of his head on her lap seemed to break her bones almost as painfully as his presence suffocated her soul. Her feet felt numb, her neck felt stiff. She paid no mind when Daemon picked up the second personal journal she had noted in Asshai and was actively planning her departure.

How the fuck can she read this? Was the question in Daemon’s mind, referring to the downright ugly penmanship of her journal. This one was written in blood red, and the pages were charred in some places or dusted by ash and soot. He narrowed his eyes at the handwriting, at the small, scrunched, but somehow overly spaced-out letters on the pages.

He understood even fewer words this time, only Nuhyz, jorraelan, iksi, being the indications of it being written in Valyrian also. He flipped past the pages, past the blur of yellow parchment and red ink, and stopped, near a third of the way, at another sketch. This one was refined, carefully done, and painted properly. It was a woman, with flaming red eyes that glowed through the pages as though someone held two candle flames behind the paper to make those eyes shine, and the palest, smoothest and unblemished skin he had seen. Her lustrous copper hair was nearly covered by her cloaks and fabrics of blood red, the very same shade as the ink surrounding the artwork.

There lay written, below the painting that stretched the entire page of the journal, in a hand distinctly different from his niece’s with curves and proper loops and decor, Lady Melisandre of Asshai, and then, in a language he couldn’t comprehend, in ink that had browned—blood? —with strange symbols that evoked stranger feelings within him. He could almost smell spices past the ashy smoky fragrance of the pages.

“Which language is this in?” He asked Naera, turning her attention back to him. There goes her ploy for escape.

“Hm?” She hummed, peering down at the book he had begun on. Oh. The sketch of Melisandre, her eyes twinkling ominously even through the old parchment. She looked down to where Daemon’s finger lingered, at the bottom edge of the page, at the writing in the oldest language of Asshai, and it glowed red. The smell of spices—anise, cloves and nutmeg, she knew, flooded her senses, and she smiled.

“Asshai,” she answered with fondness. Oh, Melisandre.

“You can speak their tongue?” and write it too, she wanted to say, but she simply nodded.

“Yes,” she took the journal in her hands, and Daemon sat up again. Naera stared at the portrait in reminiscence. Oh, Melisandre and something strangled her heart, as she thought back to her last words to her.

The golden flames of her chambers had made her red eyes burn orange, and her blood-red lips had traced down Naera’s jaws so very, very slowly, teasing, trying, waiting for what, she did not know. She may never know how her lady love thought, how she will continue to think, long past Naera’s death.

Then, with the ardour expected of an infatuated, devoted lover, gasping, sweating, yearning, Naera had begged, and her pleas had been answered. Then, when all was done and tired, Melisandre had held her close, smiling, beautiful, and whispered, “We shall meet again, ‘tween sand and salt, when the sun dips below the sea for hours spent in delight in your embrace, and not ‘ere that, my Princess.” Her Princess and that was perhaps the only time she had delighted in that title.

Her Princess.

Melisandre’s Princess.

Melisandre’s.

“Teach me,” and Daemon broke her chain of delightful thoughts, bringing her back to her reality. She was not in Asshai. She was not in Essos. She was not free, any longer.

Naera sighed, shaking her head, “You will struggle, kepus,” it was not an easy tongue.

“Try me,” he smirked.

Well, his loss, his problem, his struggle. She did not need to hesitate. Naera began with a simple phrase, you will not succeed, but all Daemon heard was a shrill, near melodious ululating, or an alternation between two strangling tunes that added up to nothing, and somehow also everything. It resonated with the mind, enchanted it, pulled at the hidden fragments of R'hllor Naera had learned embued everything and everyone. It made magic true, and the of accomplishment upon mastering just a phrase in the tongue was brilliance personified. 

He stared at her blankly, dumbfounded, and she laughed.

“You would find better luck with probably any other language, my Prince,” and closed the journal. Learning the tongue of Asshai had been difficult for her also, but Melisandre's methods, the way she’d teach Naera how the tongue need be placed on the roof of her mouth, slowly, carefully, with mingling tongues and clashing teeth, with promises of pleasure and rewards and release, with endless patience and only the sweetest of punishments when she’d neglect her learnings.

Melisandre had always wanted to teach—in retrospect, Naera could pass as her apprentice at turns, if it were not for their nightly endeavours, but those words and scenes were not for the world to see. It was all—it had all been so very, very—

“Well, which other languages can you teach me?” Daemon questioned.

Naera shook her head, “Nothing a tome or a Maester worth his links cannot teach you,” she lied outright. No tome in the Seven Kingdoms held knowledge of the tongues of Asshai, the proper dialects of the Dothraki, and the ways of the walled City of Quarth. Not until she sent her compendiums to the Citadel, anyway. That had been the point, hadn’t it? To honour Raiden’s love of learning and her curiosity, to travel the Lands of Essos and bring its fruits to the West.

She had gotten distracted by the joy of free will, the thrill of a duel to the death, the honour of a victory against those who threatened her very life, the lust that came with her lady love, and every other person and every other event that had stolen some portion of her regal exterior, and set her free. She had gotten distracted, and now she wanted this old life no longer.

She wanted to be free.

Daemon remained silent for a minute, and another, and then spoke, “Why do you come here?”

Naera leaned back, against the leafy hedges and twines which dug at odd angles into her back, and sighed and said, “It is quiet,” she smiled to herself, “it used to be a place I could be alone, uninterrupted,” with my thoughts and my passions, away from prying eyes and schemers.

“Away from prying eyes and schemers,” he finished her words, and twirled a lock of her hair in his fingers, asking, “Do they call you Silver Knight for the hair?” but when she shook her head, he added, “I do not pry, Naera. I simply wish—”

“To know me,” she finished his words this while, frowning, and added, “but I do not wish the same.”

He sat up and turned to face her, holding her face with his hands, tender. Why?

“Why?” he asked instead, lowering himself to face her eye to eye. “Tell me,” Why do you not want this marriage to last? No. Naera stood, her morning dress hiked and untidy.

“Because I do not want it,” she told him when he stood again, but spun on her heel, climbing over the tall hedge with her skirts bunched in her hands.

“You agreed to it,” said Daemon, as he followed her suit. Naera smoothed down her dress and pulled away fallen leaves and twigs.

Daemon caught her by her shoulders, and he leaned down, searching her eyes, but she said, as quiet as a whisper, “You will gain nothing from this marriage, Prince Daemon. I have been removed from the line of succession. My acceptance does not mean anything—I agreed for Rhaenyra, and I agreed for House Targaryen,” and she spoke even quieter, for the threat of someone overhearing her words would mean her certain downfall, “I agreed so that the brilliant and wonderful Queen Alicent cannot find reason to belittle my sister.”

Daemon froze again, just as he had the other day, helpless, bewildered, estranged, confused. He let her walk away, again, and watched her disappear in the greens.

Yes, he should’ve said, he agonised, we must, together. Together.

He looked down to where they had sat, at the piles and piles of journals, and the heavy tome on Mereenese history. He couldn’t know his niece if she didn’t want him to—but he could try.

Naera ran her hands through her hair. Pitch black, with a wavy character, now, rather than the flat silver locks she had donned since her arrival. Dull. It was a rather permanent hair stain, but she had done it all before.

Naera had first stained her hair dark to survive the Dothraki Seas because a woman with shining silver hair would make a most wanted fuck, as she had learned. She needed to blend in, at least in appearance, and it had worked for the most part. This time, she stained the lengths to spite her uncle, despite the lack of his proper provocation. She wanted to prove something, though she hardly knew why. He did not matter.

Just until their marriage, she must wait here, and then she can journey to a place with sand and salt adjoined.

The wispy curls above the base of her neck were dry and spun in swirls. She wrapped and twirled her fingers around those curls with fondness—As Melisandre had done before her red woman had clicked her fingers and the dark stain had just melted off in shadows, leaving behind her Valyrian white locks. The priestess had kissed her lips, tender, and reasoned that “the regality in you must never be hidden from me, my Princess,” and she had gushed at her words.

Prior to that, in her time with dark hair, was when she had earned her title. The Silver Knight.

They called her the Silver Knight for her armour, and her cape, and her weapons, and Wisestone, and not just for her hair. She just wanted to see what would happen if she reverted to her dark hair, and what the courts would say, or do, and above all, she wanted to hear what her dear Kepus would say.

Melisandre had finally written a response, scripted in Westerosi with the biblical turns and swirls Naera had learned were characteristic of her lady love’s hand. Elegant. Olden. Perfect.

My Love, Melisandre wrote, but Naera grimaced at the words—she never called her Love. No, Melisandre called her Princess, or some other phrases around Little Dragon, and Warrior or Knight, or Fire and Flame, or some pair of the terms. Naera had been the one to call her Love, and never the other way round.

The truth you seek isn’t one I can grant you. You must discover it yourself, for that is the will of the Lord of Light. Naera set the letter down on her desk, eyes shut tight in frustration as she aimed at controlling her breathing. These weren’t answers. She needed answers. Naera stood, circling her solar, cursing her tight corset and brandished morning gown. Perhaps she shall call on Wisestone and go for a fly. Perhaps she shall make it all the way to Asshai. Perhaps she shall sit beside flames that have burned for centuries and sweat in their magical heat.

Naera sighed. She shan’t do any of that. There is no salt and sand, there is no sea, near where her Love tethers. She must wait.

She read onwards, Melisandre wrote, I worry that the visions aren’t those granted by the Lord of Light, but I cannot presume. You must devote yourself to him, and ask for his blessings of Light, Naera rolled her eyes and read aloud, “for the night is dark, and full of terrors, yes, I know,” but, if only Melisandre could hear her…if only she could see her.

Naera shook her head, and hid the letter somewhere in the many, many documents gathered in her dwelling, among manuscripts and journals and bored sketches and commissioned paintings. That old painting in her second journal from Asshai had raised some memories, and the texts there had reminded her of the woman in red far too well.

Should she paint a portrait of Melisandre? Something to hang opposite her desk in the solar, glowing eyes, glowing rubies, blood-red lips…deathly pale skin…whatever could go wrong?

“Milady?” Her lady’s maid was nice, kind, beautiful, and harboured no hatred. She quite liked her, or, rather, she would’ve liked her if she hadn’t been an informant to her Father. “Prince Daemon is here to see you.”

“I believe I had asked you to send him away whenever he came,” she was turned away from the maid, which helped, in a way, to hide her irritation.

“You had, milady, but…”

Naera turned to face the maid, who had her head downturned and hands clasped in a jitter.

“He is injured and asking for your assistance,” She shouldn’t have told her father of her skill with quick healing, of course. She had, and her father had told his brother, and now, she would have to face him, again.

She could turn him away. She wanted to turn him away, but it would raise questions—questions of whether she had been deceiving people. She didn’t need accusations or rumours.

“Show him in.”

Prince Daemon limped in, his hair limp and matted with mud and maybe a little blood. He had his hand tightly clasped over his forearm; his face was contorted in pain. “Thank you,” he muttered, and sat down at the chair by the window, at her direction.

He paused at her appearance, at her summer dress that hung loosely at the chest to reveal the patterning of her corset, at her sun-darkened skin that shone nearly bronze often, but most of all, at her head of ash and pitch black curls, asking, rather than stating, “You stained your hair.” He seemed to forget his injury, smirking at her change, sure that his comment had forced the shift.

“You should visit a Maester,” she reprimanded him, “My ways are quick, but dangerous,” She leaned over his poorly bandaged arm and unwrapped the messy linen strips over the wound. It was a cut, singular and deep, shrouded by torn skin and muscle and ruptured blood vessels, but she could see bubbles of yellow fat at the very base of the cut, which itself was sliced with precision unlike she had seen in a long time. Valyrian Steel.

“What happened?”

Her uncle chuckled a little, dry, and reached down to his waist for the dagger he had gotten for her, fresh blood dripping down the blade. She pulled it out of his reach and set it aside, and he answered, “’needed a reason to talk,”

Child, she thought, and uncapped her jar of wine, pouring it over the cut very quickly. Prince Daemon hissed in pain, and she stood, tying up her hair whilst rushing around to wash the blade and warm it, but he added, “About the Hightower wench.” Ha. Naera turned to face him, eyes narrowing, then widening, jaw clenching, and relaxing, and lips parting to say something, but she had no words. She settled finally, for the language she knew best.

“Kimivagho.” Talk. There was a threat in her voice, clear as a winter morning. Talk, and do not stop.

MASTERLIST

[bbygirl-aemond]

you mentioned in your post about alyn and addam’s heritage about the blood correlating with commanding dragons.

so you mean that since they have less targaryen blood they can command their dragons less? how would that work with daenerys?

i always took it as less of they can’t control their dragons and more of showing that dragons are still sentient beings with their own thoughts and wills so it’s interesting to see other peoples thoughts on the storms end scene.

bc i don’t think “controlling” your dragon is as cut and dry as a lot of people make it out to be. it’s not like mind control. idk i’m always intrigued to hear your thoughts on stuff.

This actually brings me to a point I've been wanting to make for a while! Daenerys's bond with her dragons is not a dragon-rider bond as we see with all previous Targaryens. Remember that dragons did not choose to serve House Targaryen; they were forced to by magic. In a way, they're just a cog in the machine of slavery that was Old Valyria. It's actually more significant for Daenerys not to have enough Targaryen blood to rely upon this old magic, because it means her dragons are not slaves to blood magic. They don't serve her because they're forced to; they serve her because they want to. Why? Because she's their mother. Let's discuss:

Daenerys is tied to her dragons in several different ways that are all very deliberately unrelated to her having Targaryen blood. This is again meant to emphasize and re-emphasize that we are not looking at a Targaryen dragon-rider bond, but something else entirely. Something new.

First, Daenerys hatches her eggs in a blood ritual that she completes intuitively. This is literally unheard of. Countless other Targaryens (Aegon II, Aegon III, Viserys II, Aegon V, Duncan, Aerys II, etc.), all with many times more concentrated blood than Daenerys, have tried and failed. I mean, Aegon V and Duncan literally died trying to hatch eggs. Before Daenerys, the only thing that ever hatched a dragon egg was its dragon parent. Even in Old Valyria it's unheard of. So Daenerys was able to hatch her dragons, to literally bring them to life, and not because of her Targaryen blood.

Second, Daenerys literally breastfeeds her dragons in the books. Like, she's still producing milk because of her recent birth, and right after the baby dragons hatch she puts their mouths to her breasts and they actually drink her milk. Again, no Targaryen has ever done this, not even back in Valyria. This is just another way that Daenerys's bond to her dragons is separated from her Targaryen blood and predecessors.

Third, Daenerys is more likely than not meant to be Azor Ahai, or the Prince(ss) Who Was Promised. Think of Melisandre's description of Azor Ahai: "born again amidst salt and smoke to wake dragons out of stone." Daenerys is called "Stormborn" for a reason; she was born in salt and smoke. And she woke three dragons out of fossilized (stone) eggs. Azor Ahai is tied to super old magic that predates the Targaryens and even Old Valyria: the Empire of Ghis. So let's add this to the list of ways in which Daenerys's relationship to her dragons is specifically contrasted against Targaryens.

Lastly, Daenerys is specifically meant to be like the anti-Targaryen. She's set up as the Breaker of the Wheel, with the Wheel literally being created by Aegon the Conqueror and the Targaryen Dynasty. She is distant enough from the hellhole that was Old Valyria, and she grew up underprivileged enough, that she has things like empathy and understanding for the smallfolk that we've never seen from Targaryens in power before. So of course her bond with dragons would be different from the Targaryens who came before her. Everything about her is meant to be different from those who came before her; that's the entire point of her character arc so far.

TLDR: Daenerys isn't a dragon rider in the sense of a Targaryen dragon rider. She isn't relying on the Valyrian blood magic that all of our faves in HotD are relying on. That's what makes her so powerful, and so unique: her power over dragons is not because of her Targaryen blood, but in spite of it.

For who else but the Breaker of Chains would wield the power of dragons not because she forced them, but because she loved them and let them choose her first?

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: The Discarded Knight (Barristan II) [Chapter 59]

And the award for biggest piss baby chapter header goes to ...

All kneel for His Magnificence Hizdahr zo Loraq, Fourteenth of That Noble Name, King of Meereen, Scion of Ghis, Octarch of the Old Empire, Master of the Skahazadhan, Consort to Dragons and Blood of the Harpy," roared the herald. 

Damn, his silly titles are way cooler.

Step it up, Daenerys.

+.+.+

Ser Barristan Selmy slipped a hand beneath the fold of his cloak and loosened his sword in its scabbard. No blades were allowed in the presence of the king save those of his protectors. It seemed as though he still counted amongst that number despite his dismissal. No one had tried to take his sword, at least.

In case you missed the last chapter, Barristan hates Hizdahr zo Loraq and refuses to acknowledge him as his king, but he's also offended Hizdahr isn't using him as a personal guard.

Barristan Selmy, ladies and gentlemen.

+.+.+

Daenerys Targaryen had preferred to hold court from a bench of polished ebony

Sorry, quick clarification -

He's referring to those rare times when she actually held court.

+.+.+

Daenerys Targaryen had preferred to hold court from a bench of polished ebony, smooth and simple, covered with the cushions that Ser Barristan had found to make her more comfortable. King Hizdahr had replaced the bench with two imposing thrones of gilded wood, their tall backs carved into the shape of dragons. The king seated himself in the right-hand throne with a golden crown upon his head and a jeweled sceptre in one pale hand. The second throne remained vacant.

The important throne, thought Ser Barristan. No dragon chair can replace a dragon no matter how elaborately it's carved.

Love when people look for any reason to be upset. Dragon thrones seem like a pretty clear indicator of who's in charge.

Pretty sure Hizdahr would love for Daenerys to be sitting in that seat right now, Barry.

+.+.+

The day was young and fresh, and yet he felt bone-tired, as if he'd fought all night. The older he got, the less sleep Ser Barristan seemed to need. As a squire he could sleep ten hours a night and still be yawning when he stumbled out onto the practice yard. At three-and-sixty he found that five hours a night was more than enough.

Makes sense, the effects of sleep deprivation on cognitive ability are well-documented.

+.+.+

On a bedside table he kept a beeswax candle and a small carving of the Warrior. Though he was not a pious man, the carving made him feel less alone here in this queer alien city, and it was to that he had turned in the black watches of night. Shield me from these doubts that gnaw at me, he had prayed, and give me the strength to do what is right. But neither prayer nor dawn had brought him certainty.

If you're plagued by uncertainty and doubt, maybe sit this one out.

+.+.+

In the Shavepate's place stood a fat man in a muscled breastplate and lion's mask, his heavy legs poking out beneath a skirt of leather straps: Marghaz zo Loraq, the king's cousin, new commander of the Brazen Beasts. Selmy had already formed a healthy contempt for the man. He had known his sort in King's Landing—fawning to his superiors, harsh to his inferiors, as blind as he was boastful and too proud by half.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

LMAO.

+.+.+

Skahaz could be in the hall as well, Selmy realized, that ugly face of his concealed behind a mask. Two score Brazen Beasts stood between the pillars, torchlight shining off the polished brass of their masks. The Shavepate could be any one of them.

How many times will George allude to this?

+.+.+

One woman began to wail about a brother who had died at Daznak's Pit, another of the damage to her palanquin. A fat man tore off his bandages to show the court his burned arm, where the flesh was still raw and oozing. And when a man in a blue-and-gold tokar began to speak of Harghaz the Hero, a freedman behind him shoved him to the floor. It took six Brazen Beasts to pull them apart and drag them from the hall.

It's not every day a freedman gets painted in a bad light.

+.+.+

Fox, hawk, seal, locust, lion, toad. Selmy wondered if the masks had meaning to the men who wore them.

That depends, is it a cat mask? A rat? A wolf? That would have meaning.

+.+.+

Did the same men wear the same masks every day, or did they choose new faces every morning?

She changes it every few weeks.

+.+.+

"Is it true?" a freedwoman shouted. "Is our mother dead?"

"No, no, no," Reznak screeched. "Queen Daenerys will return to Meereen in her own time in all her might and majesty. Until such time, His Worship King Hizdahr shall—"

"He is no king of mine," a freedman yelled.

Men began to shove at one another. "The queen is not dead," the seneschal proclaimed. "Her bloodriders have been dispatched across the Skahazadhan to find Her Grace and return her to her loving lord and loyal subjects. Each has ten picked riders, and each man has three swift horses, so they may travel fast and far. Queen Daenerys shall be found."

[...]

Ser Barristan let Reznak's oily words wash over him. His years in the Kingsguard had taught him the trick of listening without hearing, especially useful when the speaker was intent on proving that words were truly wind. 

What the hell? What did he even do? He said nothing wrong!

#JusticeForReznak

His years in the Kingsguard had taught him the trick of listening without hearing

Boy, you aren't kidding.

+.+.+

Prince Quentyn was listening intently, at least. That one is his father's son. Short and stocky, plain-faced, he seemed a decent lad, sober, sensible, dutiful … but not the sort to make a young girl's heart beat faster. And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever else she might be, was still a young girl, as she herself would claim when it pleased her to play the innocent. Like all good queens she put her people first—else she would never have wed Hizdahr zo Loraq—but the girl in her still yearned for poetry, passion, and laughter. She wants fire, and Dorne sent her mud.

It's hysterical how little credit he's giving Daenerys here. The people come first, unless it's a hot boy.

And Daenerys Targaryen, whatever else she might be, was still a young girl, as she herself would claim when it pleased her to play the innocent.

Glad he's picked up on that. Not that it will change anything.

+.+.+

You could make a poultice out of mud to cool a fever. You could plant seeds in mud and grow a crop to feed your children. Mud would nourish you, where fire would only consume you, but fools and children and young girls would choose fire every time.

In her case, literally.

The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. This is a wedding, too, she thought. - Daenerys X, AGOT

Daenerys plants no seeds in mud.

+.+.+

Behind the prince, Ser Gerris Drinkwater was whispering something to Yronwood. Ser Gerris was all his prince was not: tall and lean and comely, with a swordsman's grace and a courtier's wit. Selmy did not doubt that many a Dornish maiden had run her fingers through that sun-streaked hair and kissed that teasing smile off his lips. If this one had been the prince, things might have gone elsewise, he could not help but think … but there was something a bit too pleasant about Drinkwater for his taste. False coin, the old knight thought. He had known such men before.

Gerris is confident, I don't remember him being false. Does something come of this?

Again, this could not be more insulting to Daenerys. I love it.

+.+.+

Whatever he was whispering must have been amusing, for his big bald friend gave a sudden snort of laughter, loud enough so that the king himself turned his head toward the Dornishmen. When he saw the prince, Hizdahr zo Loraq frowned.

Ser Barristan did not like that frown. And when the king beckoned his cousin Marghaz closer, leaned down, and whispered in his ear, he liked that even less.

Providing context for later.

+.+.+

Martell was dancing in a vipers' nest, and he did not even see the snakes. His continued presence, even after Daenerys had given herself to another before the eyes of gods and men, would provoke any husband, and Quentyn no longer had the queen to shield him from Hizdahr's wroth. 

I'm going to agree with Barry on this one. There's no reason for Quentyn to still be hanging around, and pursuing Daenerys. It's disrespectful to say the least.

With that being said, I've yet to see any evidence of Hizdahr being a wrathful man.

+.+.+

Although …

The thought hit him like a slap across the face. Quentyn had grown up amongst the courts of Dorne. Plots and poisons were no strangers to him. Nor was Prince Lewyn his only uncle. He is kin to the Red Viper. Daenerys had taken another for her consort, but if Hizdahr died, she would be free to wed again. Could the Shavepate have been wrong? Who can say that the locusts were meant for Daenerys? It was the king's own box. What if he was meant to be the victim all along? Hizdahr's death would have smashed the fragile peace. The Sons of the Harpy would have resumed their murders, the Yunkishmen their war. Daenerys might have had no better choice than Quentyn and his marriage pact.

And they say Victarion is the dumbest point of view character. Quentyn doesn't have a single friend in Meereen, how could he achieve any of this?

Anyway, he did manage to consider a strong possibility: Hizdahr was the Shavepate's target.

Hizdahr's death would have smashed the fragile peace. The Sons of the Harpy would have resumed their murders, the Yunkishmen their war.

Great point, Barry.

Quick question, what happens if he's arrested?

+.+.+

The Yunkishmen had come. Three Wise Masters led the procession from the Yellow City, each with his own armed retinue. One slaver wore a tokar of maroon silk fringed with gold, one a striped tokar of teal and orange, the third an ornate breastplate inlaid with erotic scenes done in jet and jade and mother-of-pearl. The sellsword captain Bloodbeard accompanied them with a leathern sack slung across one massive shoulder and a look of mirth and murder on his face.

No Tattered Prince, Selmy noted. No Brown Ben Plumm. Ser Barristan eyed Bloodbeard coolly. Give me half a reason to dance with you, and we will see who is laughing at the end.

Reznak mo Reznak wormed his way forward. "Wise Masters, you honor us. His Radiance King Hizdahr bids welcome to his friends from Yunkai. We understand—"

+.+.+

"Understand this." Bloodbeard pulled a severed head from his sack and flung it at the seneschal.

[...]

Gingerly, so gingerly, the seneschal approached the head, lifted it delicately by the hair. "Admiral Groleo."

I'm sorry, can we take a second to go over this man's story?

Captain Groleo is tasked with bringing Daenerys back to Pentos.

Instead, she renames all his ships to Targaryen dragons, and commands him to take her to Slaver's Bay, so she may buy a slave army.

Daenerys realizes she can't take Meereen without siege engines. She orders his ships destroyed for wood.

Groleo is then named admiral by Daenerys, but doesn't actually have a fleet, making it an empty title.

After the peace deal, he's handed over to the Yunkish commanders as a hostage.

Finally, he's beheaded because of Drogon.

Wow.

+.+.+

Ser Barristan glanced toward the throne. He had served so many kings, he could not help but imagine how they might have reacted to this provocation. Aerys would have flinched away in horror, likely cutting himself on the barbs of the Iron Throne, then shrieked at his swordsmen to cut the Yunkishmen to pieces. Robert would have shouted for his hammer to repay Bloodbeard in kind. Even Jaehaerys, reckoned weak by many, would have ordered the arrest of Bloodbeard and the Yunkish slavers.

If that's what two Targs and Robert Baratheon would have done, then surely there's a better option.

Can you see Bran doing any of the above? Keep in mind the Jaehaerys option instantly triggers war.

+.+.+

Hizdahr sat frozen, a man transfixed. Reznak set the head on a satin pillow at the king's feet, then scampered away, his mouth twisted up in a moue of distaste. Ser Barristan could smell the seneschal's heavy floral perfume from several yards away.

You're not fooling anyone, George.

Can't wait for the honourable Barristan Selmy to be happily standing next to Daenerys when she kills this poor man.

+.+.+

"This," King Hizdahr said at last, "this is not … we are not pleased, this … what is the meaning of this … this …"

Use your big boy king words, please.

+.+.+

The slaver in the maroon tokar produced a parchment. "I have the honor to bear this message from the council of masters." He unrolled the scroll. "It is here written, 'Seven entered Meereen to sign the peace accords and witness the celebratory games at the Pit of Daznak. As surety for their safety, seven hostages were tendered us. The Yellow City mourns its noble son Yurkhaz zo Yunzak, who perished cruelly whilst a guest of Meereen. Blood must pay for blood.'"

Groleo had a wife back in Pentos. Children, grandchildren. Why him, of all the hostages? Jhogo, Hero, and Daario Naharis all commanded fighting men, but Groleo had been an admiral without a fleet. Did they draw straws, or did they think Groleo the least valuable to us, the least likely to provoke reprisal? the knight asked himself … but it was easier to pose that question than to answer it. I have no skill at unraveling such knots.

I'm inclined to believe this. I can't find the quotes now, but it's been made clear Yunkai has no desire to test the dragons, regardless of all their threats of war.

I have no skill at unraveling such knots.

We can tell.

+.+.+

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan called out. "If it please you to recall, the noble Yurkhaz died by happenstance. He stumbled on the steps as he tried to flee the dragon and was crushed beneath the feet of his own slaves and companions. That, or his heart burst in terror. He was old."

Fair point.

Edit: I didn’t even notice he said grace again. Twat.

Thank you, @kadarakey!

+.+.+

Hizdahr zo Loraq could not seem to look away from the head. Only when Reznak whispered something in his ear did he finally bestir himself. 

Is the newly developed sadist getting off on it or something?

+.+.+

"Yurkhaz zo Yunzak was your supreme commander," he said. "Which of you speaks for Yunkai now?"

"All of us," said the rabbit. "The council of masters."

King Hizdahr found some steel. "Then all of you bear the responsibility for this breach of our peace."

The Yunkishman in the breastplate gave answer. "Our peace has not been breached. Blood pays for blood, a life for a life. To show our good faith, we return three of your hostages." The iron ranks behind him parted. Three Meereenese were ushered forward, clutching at their tokars—two women and a man.

"Sister," said Hizdahr zo Loraq, stiffly. "Cousins."

Without more information, it's hard to say why they've chosen to return Hizdahr's family. Maybe they're avoiding further provocation. Maybe they're buying him off. Maybe they'd like him to look terrible. Maybe the author is baiting the reader, and making it seem like Hizdahr's in on the plot.

+.+.+

Reznak mo Reznak cleared his throat noisily. "Meaning no offense, yet it seems to me that Her Worship Queen Daenerys gave you … ah … seven hostages. The other three …"

"The others shall remain our guests," announced the Yunkish lord in the breastplate, "until the dragons have been destroyed."

Reznak's even speaking up for the other hostages!

+.+.+

A hush fell across the hall. Then came the murmurs and the mutters, whispered curses, whispered prayers, the hornets stirring in their hive. "The dragons …" said King Hizdahr.

"… are monsters, as all men saw in Daznak's Pit. No true peace is possible whilst they live."

Accurate.

+.+.+

Reznak replied. "Her Magnificence Queen Daenerys is Mother of Dragons. Only she can—"

Reznak, who rightfully hates the dragons, is objecting to them being killed without Daenerys agreeing.

#JusticeForReznak

#JusticeForReznak

#JusticeForReznak

+.+.+

Hizdahr zo Loraq rose slowly from his dragon throne. "I must consult my council. This court is done."

I'm okay with this decision.

+.+.+

"Prince Quentyn," Selmy called. "Might I beg a word?"

Quentyn Martell turned. "Ser Barristan. Of course. My chambers are one level down."

No. "It is not my place to counsel you, Prince Quentyn … but if I were you, I would not return to my chambers. You and your friends should go down the steps and leave."

[...]

"Swords can be replaced," said Ser Barristan. "I can provide you with coin enough for passage back to Dorne. Prince Quentyn, the king made note of you today. He frowned."

This is a -little- dramatic.

We've gone from Barristan believing Hizdahr is weak to Barristan believing Hizdahr is plotting to kill Quentyn in roughly 10 seconds.

+.+.+

Gerris Drinkwater laughed. "Should we be frightened of Hizdahr zo Loraq? You saw him just now. He quailed before the Yunkishmen. They sent him a head, and he did nothing."

Quentyn Martell nodded in agreement. "A prince does well to think before he acts. This king … I do not know what to think of him. The queen warned me against him as well, true, but …"

That can't possibly be the son of Doran Martell saying this.

Hizdahr elected to do exactly what Doran Martell would have done. Think it over.

+.+.+

"She warned you?" Selmy frowned. "Why are you still here?"

Prince Quentyn flushed. "The marriage pact—"

I feel for him, but this is beyond pathetic.

Go home, Quentyn. It's not your failure.

+.+.+

"—was made by two dead men and contained not a word about the queen or you. It promised your sister's hand to the queen's brother, another dead man. It has no force. Until you turned up here, Her Grace was ignorant of its existence. Your father keeps his secrets well, Prince Quentyn. Too well, I fear. If the queen had known of this pact in Qarth, she might never have turned aside for Slaver's Bay, but you came too late. I have no wish to salt your wounds, but Her Grace has a new husband and an old paramour, and seems to prefer the both of them to you."

Anger flashed in the prince's dark eyes. "This Ghiscari lordling is no fit consort for the queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

I don't disagree, but he's one to talk. Ask his sister how King Quentyn sounds.

Your father keeps his secrets well, Prince Quentyn. Too well, I fear.

I mean, yeah.

+.+.+

The shock was plain on Prince Quentyn's face. "Poison … meant for Daenerys?"

"Her or Hizdahr. Perhaps both. The box was his, though. His Grace made all the arrangements. If the poison was his doing … well, he will need a scapegoat. Who better than a rival from a distant land who has no friends at this court? Who better than a suitor the queen spurned?"

Quentyn Martell went pale. "Me? I would never … you cannot think I had any part in any …"

That was the truth, or he is a master mummer. "Others might," said Ser Barristan. "The Red Viper was your uncle. And you have good reason to want King Hizdahr dead."

Is that what poisoners do? Frame people? Imbecile.

Absolutely incredible this muffin isn't able to apply that same spurned suitor logic to another candidate.

Hizdahr zo Loraq might be worth a careful look. Sooner him than Skahaz. The Shavepate had offered to set aside his wife for her, but the notion made her shudder. Hizdahr at least knew how to smile. - Daenerys I, ADWD

x

If I wed Hizdahr, will that turn Skahaz against me? She trusted Skahaz more than she trusted Hizdahr, but the Shavepate would be a disaster as a king. He was too quick to anger, too slow to forgive. She saw no gain in wedding a man as hated as herself. Hizdahr was well respected, so far as she could see. - Daenerys IV, ADWD

At least he knows Quentyn's telling the truth. How low can this bar go.

+.+.+

"So do others," suggested Gerris Drinkwater. "Naharis, for one. The queen's …"

"… paramour," Ser Barristan finished, before the Dornish knight could say anything that might besmirch the queen's honor. "That is what you call them down in Dorne, is it not?" He did not wait for a reply. "Prince Lewyn was my Sworn Brother. In those days there were few secrets amongst the Kingsguard. I know he kept a paramour. He did not feel there was any shame in that."

Look at him bend himself into a pretzel trying to justify the queen's open love affair with a homicidal sellsword.

Is there any shame in Daenerys producing an heir we don't know Hizdahr fathered, Barry?

+.+.+

"Daario would kill Hizdahr in a heartbeat if he dared," Ser Barristan went on. "But not with poison. Never. And Daario was not there in any case. Hizdahr would be pleased to blame him for the locusts, all the same … but the king may yet have need of the Stormcrows, and he will lose them if he appears complicit in the death of their captain. No, my prince. If His Grace needs a poisoner, he will look to you." He had said all that he could safely say. In a few more days, if the gods smiled on them, Hizdahr zo Loraq would no longer rule Meereen … but no good would be served by having Prince Quentyn caught up in the bloodbath that was coming. 

Do you understand that means war, you fucking muppet?

The man constantly asks himself what Daenerys would want ...

The Shavepate was not wrong. Daenerys would want her children protected. - The Queensguard, ADWD

x

What would Daenerys want? he asked himself. He thought he knew. - The Discarded Knight, ADWD

x

Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. - The Queen's Hand, ADWD

yet every action he takes further erodes her peace deal.

I want no war with Yunkai. How many times must I say it? - Daenerys VI, ADWD

+.+.+

"What name do you think they will give me, should I return to Dorne without Daenerys?" Prince Quentyn asked. "Quentyn the Cautious? Quentyn the Craven? Quentyn the Quail?"

The Prince Who Came Too Late, the old knight thought … but if a knight of the Kingsguard learns nothing else, he learns to guard his tongue. "Quentyn the Wise," he suggested. And hoped that it was true.

Final thoughts:

The only ending I will accept is him watching her bleed out, immediately followed by the least knightly death possible.

-> return to menu <-

[racefortheironthrone]

Maester Steven, given that the description of 'pre-Lorath' explicitly mentions that the Andals in Essos kept slaves, may I please ask if you have any thoughts on how the institution came to be abandoned in the Seven Kingdoms? (I'm assuming that The Faith may well have been at the root of this development, as a reaction against the immolation of Andalos by the Valyrians - an excellent way of saying "We have kept the favour of the Seven by learning from their mistakes!" by way of reassurance).

(Just to be pedantic, the First Men also had a taboo against slavery, so it wasn't specific to the Andals.)

If we're thinking historically for a second, I think the Andals used to be not that different from other pre-modern Essosi people when it came to slavery, but underwent a substantial cultural change when Valyria started expanding westward after their wars with Old Ghis and after the conquest of the Rhoynar - because now for the first time the Andals were the targets of a massive slave empire and were repeatedly forced into migrations away from the encroaching Valyrian colonies.

This fear of enslavement seems to have gotten wrapped up with the Faith of the Seven's legends of Hugor of the Hills and the religiously-inspired manifest destiny of the Andals in Westeros - and eventually became a religious prohibition. So it was probably in the early period where the Andals were being pushed back all the way to the Axe and began contemplating a migration overseas as a permanent solution to Valyrian expansionism that we saw the development of a new taboo.

[disillusionedjudge]

@tarnishedxknight - continued from here

"That was hardly invitation for you to keep trying." Yet, Everren could not help the small grin as Ashelia turned away from her and continued to work the controls, and she simply moved to stand behind the pilot's seat. Her arms crossed as she rested them against the headrest and leaned against the seat. "But I will admit, I am impressed by your tenacity."

Her head tilted as the Princess spoke again, and her grin faded. "Do you even know where to find it?" she pressed, but not to be rude. She just... had her doubts, when it seemed Ashelia had not even known the Dusk Shard had been kept in her own palace. "And the Strahl is not something you can merely borrow, your Majesty. A sky pirate's ship is their home as well as their vessel, and not something one will easily lend." Yet, she remained where she was. She made no attempt to stop Ashelia, but she would not remain idle if there was success on the other's part. She would simply prefer to resolve this calmly, rather than needing to remove her from the ship entirely.

Everren did not miss the injured pride in Ashelia's tone, and she let out a small snort in response. Her brow furrowing slightly at her admission of Basch having been the one to teach her. But that was a subject she was not going to broach, and instead, shook her head. "I can assure you, whatever you may know will not lend easily for piloting this one. She is... a unique case. Balthier made sure of it."

And then Ashelia pleaded with her not to interfere, and Everren fell silent.

Admittedly, she wasn't all too willing to aid her. Not when it meant welcoming Archadia's ire, and dealing with Judge Ghis had been quite enough for her taste. But... her desire to leave Bhujerba was stronger, and a part of her itched for a new adventure beyond the usual heist. After all, it was Ghis they had escaped from, and she knew he would take it personally. He would be relentless in his hunt for them - in his hunt for Ashelia in particular - and she was not keen on being chained again.

And, even despite her reluctance, she could no longer ignore an old stirring in her heart. Although a few years since, she was still a soldier. A new war was rising, and she was tired of running. She knew her luck of hiding from the Empire would not last forever, and she would rather go down fighting.

Everren reached out a hand and settled it upon Ashelia's to still it. "Let us get the others before you go flying off," she murmured. "An odd group we may be, but you need not do this alone, Lady Ashe. With the right offer, Balthier and Fran can be easily swayed, and you already have the loyalty of the others. It will be safer to retrieve the Dawn Shard with aid, in case we run into any trouble."

[omnibenevolent-couch-blog]

“Since the end of the Long Night eleven dynasties of emperors have ruled over Yi Ti, each known by a color honorific. Some of them ruled no more than half a century, but the longest ruled for seven hundred years. The transitions of power between dynasties did not always occur peacefully, and on four occasions, the end of a dynasty led to a prolonged period of civil war and anarchy. The longest of these lasted more than a hundred years.” ASOIAF Wikia, Yi Ti, The Golden Empire Section.

If we assume 8,000 yrs BC is when the Long Night happened, any difference in 3-digit numbers with the reigning years of dynasties won’t line up with the timeline. Any variation of numbers within the confines of previously stated lore still won’t add up—11 dynasty’s ruling no more than half a century, but the longest rule was 700 years. On four occasions there were intergerrums, and the longest of these lasted more than a hundred years.

So the shortest dynasty is only ~50 years while the longest is 700. If around 5,000 BC was when dragons started to pop up and Valriya rose to power. Valriya was a peak power after the Rhoynar war; so around 690 to 320ish BC. Leng broke off from colonization from Yi Ti around 200 BC, and the Sea Green Dynasty was around during the Old Ghis era, etc. Any dynasties in line with these aforementioned events have to line up with a lore combo timeline.

If I’m generous with 3-digit number (couple hundred of years n stuff) for each of the dynasties, excluding the 50 yr and the 700 yr reign, and then generous again for the interregnums and much as possible within the confines, excluding one with over a 100 years, then I’d still be left with—at a minimum give or take—3,000 years off of the timeline I want to match up to.

Ahhh gotta figure out a way to finagle shit to make it make sense.

[visenyaism]

something something dany using dragons to combat slavery vs the origin of the valyrian empire, shepherds who were under threat of old ghis, perhaps taming dragons to combat the empire taking slaves in the first place.. .. the first vs the last etc etc

it’s literally so. the Valyrians raised up their dragons to protect their flock from Old Ghis and then once they were on top they decided to turn their dragons on everyone else in essos and spread slavery even further until after several long centuries their entire civilization collapsed under the weight of their own rot. And the very last of them fled and turned their dragons on Westeros until THEY collapsed under the weight of their own rot too. And the very very last of them brought dragons back through sheer force of miracle and hope and she’s using them to END the cycle and eliminate the last remnants of the Valyrian empire even though she’s never wanted anything more than to go home…she is the beginning she is the very end. everything, really.

[vaedar]

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧; 𝐎𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧

        I have finished, at last, for now. Below you will find a more detailed description of the history and workings of the language spoken in Valyria, Vaedar’s mother tongue; High Valyrian. Most of this is canon so the only ‘headcanon’ part is the connection with Latin that I use to explain or give examples of what I am describing with what could be a real life equivalent for High Valyrian ( in historical terms ). I cover a bit of the history of it, the spread, the division, how it’s still used after the Doom, its grammatical genders ( yes, High Valyrian canonly has grammatical genders, read on if curious ), and examples of its written form. 

Be warned, it is a long post. It’s already been added to Vaedar’s Valyria world building doc found over here as well. 

It is important to remember that the details and descriptions given here apply only to interactions in this blog for RP purposes and references. Only those that I otherwise reference to canon are as such, canon and/or official. Also important to remark that some of the descriptions may not fit the laws of reality because this is fantasy, and GRRM himself has stated so when people try to give logical, realistic and scientific explanations to how the ASOIAF world works. I will be using real life references here and there, mostly in comparison to the Latin language, spoken by the ancient Romans, which have very similar historical characteristics to the history of the Valyrian Freehold. 

Let’s start off with a general background on the history of Latin. It was originally spoken by peoples who lived in a place called Old Latium, in what is today Italy. They were tribal people, living by the bank of the Tiber River, in a space of fertile, volcanic soil which would eventually be part of the land that housed the city of Rome. Latin was derived from Greek, Etruscan and Phoenician scripts, and it’s divided into classical and vulgar latin. Classical Latin is the one that survives in literature while Vulgar Latin was the one spoken, with Old Latin being the earliest form of the language. Following Rome’s conquests, Latin was widespread, being the language the conquerors spoke and used, subjecting the many colonies it possessed to it. With the years, and following the collapse of the Roman Empire, Vulgar Latin evolved into distinct languages of different regions of the roman expansion, into what are now the romance languages. 

High Valyrian was spoken by the peoples in the valyrian peninsula ( much like Italy is a peninsula ), which were originally said to be simple sheep-herding folk in the fertile, volcanic lands of the peninsula. We know close to nothing about how they grew to become the most powerful civilization in the ASOIAF world ( yes, with dragons, but how did they tame dragons? up for debate still ), but I believe it makes sense to think they were once clans or tribespeople in archaic times as those in Latium were, united by the same language; which could eventually become the ancestors of the forty noble dragonlord families. 

Throughout history, language has united people. For example, the Greeks, who were divided and spread out in their city-states with different individual styles of governance and variances in their customs. But still spoke the same language and revered the same gods. Like the Romans following their victory in the punic wars with Carthage, the valyrians defeated Ghis, enslaved their people, and imposed their language on them as a means of unity and control. Culture and language are what united the valyrians, not race, for slaves could be of any nationality or ethnic origin ( westerosi, ghiscari, rhoynar, yitish, even other slaveborn/lowborn and/or bastard valyrians captured or sold into slavery ). 

Like Latin after the collapse of the Roman Empire, even after the Doom of Valyria, the Valyrian tongues survived in its dialects and in those who keep with them the purer High Valyrian language ( Like Valyrian houses in Westeros, Targaryens, Velaryons, Celtigars, Baratheons, Qoherys ). Each of the Free Cities and those in Slaver’s Bay speak a form of what’s known as Bastard Valyrian, some so indistinctly from one another that they are on the verge of becoming separate languages with the years. This is just as it happened with Latin, being the common ancestor of the romance languages. The valyrian of the slave cities that once belonged to the Old Empire of Ghis is particularly different in its ‘growl-like’ ghiscari influence, which makes them close enough to be mutually intelligible ( Astapori Valyrian and Yunkai Valyrian ). An example of this can be used between Spanish, Portuguese and Italian. Spoken Spanish is often easier for Portuguese natives to understand while native Spanish speakers may find it more challenging to understand spoken Portuguese, and easier to understand spoken Italian with its spoken accent being more similar to Spanish. Yet, they might find written Portuguese easier to read than Italian.

Also like Latin, High Valyrian is still used as a clerical language by priests, septons, maesters, etc., who also may teach others. Children of westerosi nobility are taught High Valyrian as part of their studies, as a sign of that noble education their position grants them. We have Tyrion, Quentyn and Arya as examples of this, though most of the westerosi nobility can’t fluently understand or speak it, even if a great number of poems, scrolls and songs are written and sung in the language. This can be similar to how privileged Roman children were taught Greek as part of their studies, which can also be applied into Valyrian nobility being taught Common Tongue, since we know Valyria and Westeros engaged in business trade ( like valyrian steel swords ). 

Unlike Latin with its originally three grammatical genders ( Femenine, Masculine and Neuter ), High Valyrian’s grammatical genders are not based on male or female figures, like the English examples of Masculine = man, boy, actor; Feminine = woman, girl, actress; Common ( no gender specified ) = friend, parents, child; Neuter ( having no gender ) = table, rock, pencil. They are instead composed of four genders called Lunar, Solar, Aquatic and Terrestrial. 

The Lunar gender are those words used for humans ( man, woman, mother, father ), nocturnal animals ( wolf, owl, cat ) and military equipment ( helmet, sword ). 

The Solar gender are those words also used for humans ( human, guest ), diurnal animals ( dragon, goat ) names of occupations ( king, soldier, priest ) and body parts ( leg, mouth, foot ). 

The Terrestrial gender are those words used mostly for food aspects ( meat, bread ), plants and metals ( silver, gold, steel ). 

The Aquatic gender are those words used mostly for liquids and bodies of water ( water, sea, blood, river ). 

This is why the famous word ‘darilaros’ in the prophecy can mean both prince or princess, because it belongs to the Solar gender of High Valyrian, where prince, princess, heir terms mean the same. Therefore, High Valyrian is not a genderless language ( it has four grammatical genders, not to be confused with gender neutral ), but one that does not use male of female figures as grammatical equivalents, much like dragons biologically are not defined as either male or female, since they can be both as needed. 

High Valyrian is an inflected, head-final language. This means it’s a language in which a word is modified to express different grammatical categories, particularly declensions of nouns and adjectives for numbers, case and gender and verbs for person, number, tense, voice and moods. An example is: 

dārys = king ( in the nominative case ). Dārys ēdrusi = The king is asleep. dāri = king ( in objective case ). Dāri urnen = I see a king. 

I won’t go into details because I am no expert and I have not extensively studied all of what has been created of High Valyrian as a language ( Only done Duolingo stuff LOL ), but I think it’s simple enough to explain the base. There are also cultural aspects of the Valyrian people that influence the language, such as the High Valyrian word ‘gō’ is used for ‘before, underneath, below’. This is because in Valyrian culture, the aspect of ‘time’ passes as a ladder climb... ( with the future being synonym with what’s ‘above’ and the past with what’s ‘under’. 

Written High Valyrian is a mixed script system of alphabetical, iconic and paradigmatic components. It also employs the use of double dots and single dots as punctuation. Double dots separate sentences, whether they are questions, statements or exclamations. Single dots separate words, since spaces are not used. Below is a screenshot from conlang creator David Peterson’s instagram with the phrase we all know ‘Valar Morghūlis’ ( all men must die ). 

Going by this, Vaedar’s last name ‘Valarys’ could be written like this ( first two glyphs = valar and third = ys ). Another interpretation can be from the Valyrian zālarys, which is composed in itself from the word zālagon = to burn. But I do believe the more accurate written word would be from ‘valar = men’ and ‘ys’ from ‘perzys’ = fire. 

It’s also important to note there are Ghiscari words borrowed into the Valyrian language ( according to the conlang creator ). One of these words, for example, is ‘jazdan’ which means ‘harpy’. This of course, makes sense, given the fact that Old Ghis predated Valyria. 

This all being said for now, I will be updating the section the more I research/learn and/or are given more info in the show from the conlang creator. Remember this is always a work in progress.