westwhere | "Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?"

Entry tags:

"Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?"

WHO: Daenerys Targaryen and OTA!
WHEN: As nobles and merchants return to the Citadel
WHERE: Merchant Square, the gates Taravast, and Palace of the Doxe
WHAT: Arrival of the Mother of Dragons
WARNINGS:

I. Arrival to the Citadel

The welcome has been overwhelming, to say the least. A far better sight than Khal Jhaqo and his khalasar. Though when she had first come to in the Stairs of Sighs and was spotted by the band of minor nobles and merchants, it wasn't much of a different feeling than seeing the Dothraki. In both situations, it was simply Dany with Drogon, now it seemed, he was the size he had been in Astapor. There was no riding him now, instead he curled around her shoulders and neck. His serpentine body and black scales startling against the canyon and harsh sun.

She would have to reflect on the magic of it later and how someone had managed to change her child. The moment the men and women saw Drogon, they crowded around Daenerys eagerly. For the few daring to touch her dragon, she quickly pushed their hands away, sensing Drogon's agitation as his claws dug into her skin. She attempted to communicate with them, not recognizing their language. First in the Old Ghiscari/High Valyrian blend of the Meereenese. Next trying simple High Valyrian. When that didn't work, she hoped and prayed the Commmon Tongue would be understood, but that was much like the rest. The most she tried finding their language, the more the pressed in around her and stared at her with wonder. Finally, in desperation, she tried Dothraki, but that was a lost cause.

So here she was, tattered, burned and dirty, looking more like she crawled from the bowels of the Seven Hells, following a large group of people and relying on their gestures to understand them. It didn't help that as they reached the entrance to their city, others started to flock around her as well. She wasn't feeling nearly as regal or majestic as the people were treating her. The more they crowded in, the more agitated Drogon started to become. She kept her hand on him, but soon he was launching himself from her shoulders, taking to the sky and flying across the Citadel.

"Drogon!"

II. Merchant Square

It's becoming more and more obvious that something was being planned when Daenerys was ushered into the Merchant's Square. The man that repeatedly called himself "Rosso Capello" had stayed with her up until the square. Only then did the merchants take control of her. Some stood on crates or boxes, spouting lofty speeches and stories, that while Dany couldn't understand, recognized as some extoling of virtues. She wasn't exactly a glorious sight, but people still stared in awe at her. There was no real room to escape, and for better or worse, she was relying on the people that found her to take her somewhere safe.

She just didn't expect to become a side show at the same time, no different than the mummers and slave auctions in Essos.

Drogon returned, perching on one of the stalls and staring down with his red eyes, no different than the blood red of his horns and back plates. He was terrifying, but that seemed to please the people. They turned away from Dany towards her dragon, still not looking overly pleased with the attention.

'How long before he retaliates? I need something to hold him, to keep him in check.'

The whip she acquired in Daznak's Pit was gone now, but there were so many stalls and so much merchandise, there had to be a whip somewhere. She touched the shoulders of people, repeating the request again and again. "Please, I need a whip." Only to be met once again with the blank (but mesmerized) stares of the people.

"Please can someone understand me?" She shouted in common tongue.

III. Palace of the Doxe

By the end of it all, Dany is exhausted. There was a grim realization of what was happening when money exchanged hands and she was lead away by...some noble household. The way the merchants responded to them, it was someone influential and of high standing. There was no gold collar, at least. No brand on her face denoting what she was slated for (which thank the Gods didn't seem to be a pleasure house.) It was possible to escape all of this as she had helped the others in Astapor. True, there was no army, but there was Drogon.

Yet...the idea of more charred bones at her feet, chaos in the city and looks of anger made her feel sick to her stomach. Where was she supposed to go? What should she even do? This place was foreign to her and she was starting to realize it wasn't Essos. So, without much objection, she followed to the Palace of the Doxe.

Along the way, a sorceress named Karsa offered her a communication and translation device. It was such a relief that Dany started to cry in gratitude. At least she wouldn't be lost in both language and world. There was information, stories about others who were newcomers to the world, which cleared up how she got here. Knowing there were others also was a comfort, though she didn't ask if they were bought and sold as well. She'd find out soon enough.

Reaching the Palace, Dany took a seat on the marble floor, not responding to any further attempts to move her. They brought her here, but they couldn't make her budge. Not until she was ready and had some energy. There were others, people who appeared a bit out of place compared to the rest.

Hoping they might understand her now, she called over, "Are you a newcomer as well?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

There was that moment of relief, but the more he spoke, the longer she spent in his company, the more unsettled she became. It was difficult to pinpoint what it was. There were glimmers of something close to home. Some magic, some air of Essos...or was it Valyrian? Had he purple eyes, she might believe him one of her own. A dragon lord. Though there was no dragon present, save for hers, and no magic that she could see, save for his musical abilities.

"Merchants are granted rooms in this palace?" It certainly is a mark of respect for him. "Your stock must be sweeter than honeyed wine." The offer is met with one of hesitation. She longed for something to eat, something to drink, but it was difficult to know who to trust. Too many poisoning attempts had her wary.

"I'm sure they meant to feed me," likely to drag her to the kitchens or something of that nature. "I'd rather stay here." It might be her only free choice. "My dragon can always bring something, if need be. Unless they decide to cage him."

"Your -"

Dragon. That did it. If only he had purple eyes then perhaps his eccentricities might make sense to her. Alas, Achilles had green and his eccentricities were all thanks to his goddess mother. When you have to dive into the sea on mother's day, well, you're bound to be a bit strange.

"Foreigners are granted rooms. You have your own if you care to leave the floor." he spoke quickly and placed his lyre on his back. Rising onto his feet, he left her.

Without word. Without explanation.

Only to return with a platter of food and yes, some of his wine too. He set it all before her and started to eat too. See? It wasn't poisoned.

"What is your dragon's name?"

Granted rooms? "For even those that were sold to this household?" Before he answered, he disappeared. It was strange, but not completely unexpected. The platter of food wasn't a surprise either, though his wine was a welcome one. Seeing him eat, she picked at the food as well, letting out a sigh of relief. An entire day traveling and being pulled to and fro in the city. She was famished. She downed nearly half the cup of wine.

"The floor suits me for now." Which was likely her girlish petulance, but it was her choice...and more than that, her feet didn't feel capable of supporting her weight anymore. They were screaming from all of her earlier exertions. "I've fared far worse." It was cooling as well, easing the parts of her skin that had been burned both by Drogon and the sun.

"Drogon," he wasn't far but seemed more interested in exploring as far as others would let him. She caught a glimpse of his black scales every now and then. "Though, he is smaller than he was yesterday."

"Yes, especially them. We're here to serve." Achilles reassured her once he was seated across from her again. As if he hadn't disappeared in the middle of their conversation. Truth be told, if he didn't like her, he wouldn't have bothered to see her fed. Her resilience and her bravery called to him and he liked rewarding those traits when he could.

"Your feet are all blisters." he concluded. He had never suffered that himself, but Patroclus had. She would need to wash them and use olive oil to encourage the skin to re-knit.

Achilles glanced over in time to see the dark scales too and he smiled, broadly. Drogon was welcome! More than welcome.

"That would be the magic. But he's here. Can he breathe fire?"

"They are well used to travel and harsh conditions." Not of late, save for the Dothraki Sea, but she could remember the Red Waste. Meereen had spoiled her. The beautiful oil, the warm pools she could bathe in, and perfume to comb into her hair. She touched her fuzz, once again badly singed. "You're observant." Not many men would care for such details, merchants or nobles.

"You tell me." She leaned her head towards him to see the burn marks before lifting her hands to see the same. "The secrets of training dragons has been lost, so I had to cow him on my own." Now that he was smaller, he might be more pliant than before. No less of a threat, but somewhat obedient. Gods, she hoped that was true.

"I worried that he might attack the crowds that brought me here. The last he was surrounded by others, he was nearly killed. He's lived on his own for months." And he could be aggressive, only outmatched by Rhaegal at times. "I have two others, but they must still be back in my city."

Leaning in closer, he takes in her poor feet, setting his lips into a terse line. Ladies shouldn't be treated so roughly, especially ones that shine like diamonds or stars.

"I'll get you to your rooms." he promises, drawing his lyre back into his hands. There is comfort in those strings and he finds himself performing the first song he ever learned. Sans words, of course.

"I'm glad he has fire." Achilles nods at her scars, taking them as signs of battles well-fought, "Why was it lost?"

What a stupid thing to lose! Humans are like that, aren't they. He blows out a sigh and smiles, sharply.

"He has grown feral."

That could be problematic. Or fun.

"Will he make a fuss if I look after you?"

She's unused to this level of concern from a stranger. There had been the quarrel she had regarding her second marriage, that she must wash the feet of her husband. It had been an insult to his pride that she retorted he must wash hers as well. Having Achilles tenderly care for her, she has to wonder again who he is and where he comes from. Men were not so normally caring.

"Thank you." It may mean leaving the floor, but he isn't commanding her, he isn't directing her. He means to look after her. For that, she could surrender her little defiance for the comfort he seemed certain she would receive."

"It was lost because dragons were thought to be gone from the world. I don't know the ancestors of my House had it written somewhere and it was destroyed when they were overthrown. Or it might have been taught? I'm the last of my line and all of this I must learn on my own. I brought my dragons into this world, I must be responsible for them."

And if they were monsters, she was as well. They were one and the same.

"No, not unless he senses some sort of threat from you."

What's wrong with washing feet? Achilles would do far more for those he cares about and not think twice about it. He was a prince and he could act like his fellow princes, yet he had never seen a good reason why. If he wasn't true to himself, wasn't that a waste? There was only one of him.

"I don't have the paste Patroclus would use." and that was a pity. Those blisters would heal overnight with that.

"Soak tonight and no wandering empty halls." he teased her, growing solemn as she explained what had become of her House. That too was bound to happen to all human Houses.

"Just so. If you brought them into the world, you are their mother and their guide. Feral or not, they will continue to look to you." Achilles was guilty of that too. He had yet to find a pool of water deep enough to search for his mother, but once he did, he would.

"If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead and he would be out for my blood."

Some might think him a bit of a monster too. Killing was an art-form for him and he never seemed to carry the guilt of his actions.

"You would add paste to my feet?" She doesn't know whether to laugh or tear up. The pain had been manageable. While they might be blistered and hurting, it was no worse than the Red Waste. She could ignore it until she found a small tub or bucket to soak them in. It was more that she worried for the treatment she'd receive rather than the state she was in. If she was to sleep in the kitchens or elsewhere, that would take priority over her own sores and burns.

She grinned, shaking her head. "No wandering," though she couldn't promise. If Drogon got loose or if she became overly curious with her surroundings, she might slip out during the night. So long as she wasn't locked in, she would take her small freedoms where she could.

"I call myself their mother." Drogon finally returned to her, curling around her neck and shoulders with his serpentine body. There was nothing here that seemed to upset him, which was reassuring. Or perhaps he wanted to be lazy for a moment. She was grateful for his presence, as it always eased her mind. "Much like children, they have their own temperaments. If they want to act as they will, it takes a great deal to stop them."

She wasn't rattled by that. Looking at him, that was something she suspected. His sword wasn't simply for show, but there was something in his calm demeanor that didn't fit a poet or bard.

"A special paste made from herbs. It eases the swelling and heals the skin." Achilles explained, recalling the more useful lessons of Chiron. Well. All of them had been useful. But he wasn't a healer; he was an archer, a spear thrower, a swordsman.

"You are their mother." he smiled brightly, fiercely when Drogon joined them, admiring those jewel-like scales of obsidian. No, onyx? Perhaps the darkest of rubies.

"If this one loses his way, I will chase him back to your arms."

The best place for all children, surely. He wouldn't know. Thetis wasn't the motherly type and had taken little interest in raising him as a child. But once he was big enough to fulfill that prophecy, she had taken him under her guidance with a fierce, unforgiving hand.

"Have you had enough to eat?" he placed his lyre against his back again, tightening the rope that held it in place there at his shoulder, "I can ease burns better than this floor."

"I wouldn't advise that. Staring him down can sometimes seem like staring down at Hell." She'd never forget that bolt of fear, that certainty that she would be killed. Small, as she was, she wasn't much of a threat. Still, Drogon managed to be cowed. "What I need is a whip, something to keep on me if he should become aggressive."

It might seem harsh for a mother to say such things, but her son would not listen otherwise. Only by asserting her dominance in this way had she stopped him from hurting others, as she feared. Without the whip, she might as well be naked before his flames.

Her stomach wasn't filled, but if she ate anymore, she might make herself sick. It was too much too quickly. The wine had already made her a bit lightheaded, even if she was used to drinking such things. An empty stomach hadn't helped. "I have, thank you. If I can somehow, I mean to repay you."

He did enjoy a challenge. What was it like to peer into Hell? Was it like Tartarus? Though he had no desire to die - not yet - the prophecy kept that possibility fresh in his mind. It was difficult not to be curious.

"Whips are easy to make." he doubted being whipped by her would faze Drogon. Those scales were too thick. She had to rely on her emotional bond with the dragon and perhaps use the whip to get his attention.

Her comment about repayment was ignored as he bent forward to cradle her in his arms. He risked getting bitten, he knew, but her feet were in no shape to carry her.

"Did they tell you who you owe your allegiance?"

"So long as it's strong." It hadn't been simple, and perhaps it was due to their bond, but she had used all of her force to whip him into submission. There had been orders, harsh words and shouts of aggression. He would not feel the whip, as his scales were sharp armor for him. That was the only comfort in this.

It seemed that he meant to carry her, but when he scooped her into his arms, both tender and gentle, she wasn't certain how to respond. She wrapped her arms around his neck, glancing back at Drogon. He didn't seem to notice, only unraveling himself from around her neck. He wasn't annoyed, thankfully.

"It was Lady Vannozza's household that I was sold to." There was bitterness in her tone. No slavery in this city? Her instinct was right. Slavery happened, even if the people refused to admit it out loud.

"The handle should be carved of the hardest wood." Achilles remarked, "I do not know what trees grow in deserts, but we are surrounded by merchants. Someone should know." he cradled her against his chest, continuing, "The cord should be leather, of course. Braided tight."

Strong enough to cause an impact - and a sound - but not cruel. If her bond with the dragon was ever broken, a whip wouldn't save her or anyone else. She had to skate a fine line and avoid Drogon's fire.

"We are employed by the same Lady." and that made helping her easier. He knew which rooms were empty in that wing and so he carried her to the one that had been recently prepared. The journey proved two things to him: she was a small woman - and likely of a similar age. Placing her on her bed, he then examined her feet.

"Stay here." he murmured, though not as an order. He didn't want her pushing herself further. Not today. It took him a few moments to gather a basin of water and a soft cloth. Then he returned to her and set to cleaning those blisters.

Edited 2021-11-11 17:18 (UTC)

It seemed he was already commissioning it in his mind. She would have accepted something simple, though sturdy. But at his suggestions, her mind drifted, imagining something, perhaps a dark mahogany with her family's crest on the hilt? Dark red and black leather twined together, so when she used it, it would look like licking flames. The last whip she had seen was in Astapor, the golden harpy on the pommel. No, she didn't want anything of that nature. Simple, strong and durable.

Those were things to think of tomorrow, along with how she meant to eat and survive. Being bought normally meant that there was no coin of your own, no control of your own. From the way Achilles spoke of things, she had to wonder if it might be different here. How many slaves were given fine quarters...unless they were meant for something else?

"What do you make of her?" She asked, curious about this woman others had spoken well of. She waited, not moving as he instructed from the bed. Her smile was small and touched, grateful he meant it when he said he would care for her feet.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?"

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject