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Mothra oh Mothra, if we were to call for help over time, over sea, like a wave you'd come. Our guardian angel!
The song grew from a faint whisper until it was a sweet chorus that hummed through Daenerys' body, reverberating through the marrow of her bones. She was lying upon her bare back upon the smouldering remains of the pyre, the remnants of the dragon eggs held in her grip. Cracked open, showing only tiny black bones. The dragons inside long dead even if the magic still clung to the air. Above, the crimson comet was leaving a bloody smear through the black swathe of night above the Dothraki Sea.
The song- what song was it? Daenerys didn't know the language, had never heard anything quite like it but she nonetheless understood -continued to hum through the air. High in the sky she thought she saw a shape, fluttering against the night with gleaming wings of orange and blue that filled her vision with light.
Her hair was burnt to nothing, her clothes charred scraps, ash staining her flesh. She hurt, the miscarriage still raw and aching from where she lost her son. And now she lost her husband, lost her dragons. The song, what was it?
Around her the khalasar slept, the scant few hundred who remained when the rest of the horde broke and vanished into the Sea.
Then she felt something touch her hands and with aching moments she titled her head to look down. Two women, tiny and no bigger than mice, were within the pyre with her. Each on either side of her prone body, each gripping her hand with tiny fingers. They were unnaturally beautiful despite their diminutive statue, a compelling perfection to them that seemed out of place in a pyre of bones and ash. The women were the ones singing in their strange tongue, voices pure and strong.
It took so much effort she nigh came to passing out but she managed to gently squeeze the tiny fingers gripping her hands. And then she started to sing the song. Voice hoarse, the smoke thick in her throat and tears burning her eyes, but she sang. And sang and sang and sang until she passed out as a bright light flared through the land and she felt something heavy settle upon her belly, many legs digging into her skin.
No one knew what to make of her newborn daughter.
When she woke the following morn she had the heavy caterpillar sitting upon her, tucked against her chest like an infant. A dull, solid brown creature with clacking mandibles and scuttling legs beneath its slug-like body. But intelligent, Daenerys knew. Young and ancient in equal measure, even if she didn't know how she knew that about her daughter.
Mothra, that was her name. Daenerys knew it with as much certainty as she knew her own name.
Was it instinctual, this knowledge? Daenerys didn't know. But she knew her daughter was aware. Was a gift, even if none had seen those strange little women in the pyre nor heard that song. That chant that sang over and over as the pyre smouldered.
But then all her energy was dedicated to survival as they headed west. A grim and terrible place indeed, but Daenerys would not return to Vaes Dothrak. And any khalasar they passed would drag her back there and kill her daughter and people. So to the Red Waste they did, and death followed with them.
Their travel into the thick of the Red Waste was filled with exhaustion, searing sun and speculation. Doreah especially seemed fascinated by Mothra, especially as not even a week into their travel and the caterpillar had already grown larger to the point Daenerys struggled to carry her.
"It is a bug," Irri had just said, eyeing Mothra with great confusion. She, like the other Dothraki, had seemed confused by the caterpillar but none had harmed her yet. Mothra was also very watchful and Daenerys felt she could sense the grub's emotions if she laid a hand upon her dark brown hide.
"True," Doreah agreed, blonde hair scraggy and skin sallow. "But caterpillars cocoon themselves. It will change into something else. What do you think will come out?"
Yet soon enough Doreah was taken from her as well.
The city, which they named Vaes Tolorro, offered them some shelter from the death beyond, water and fruit to scavenge as they rested. But Doreah, her dear friend, languished more and more. Her skin grew cracked, her lips bleeding, her hair wan. They were all suffering, others had died as well, but even in the shade of the ruins Doreah was dying and until she eventually did so.
Daenerys held her friend close, coaxing water past her split lips but her eyes grew foggy and unfocused.
She despaired at losing another, so soon after Drogo and Rhaego.
Days passed and more died. Doreah succumbing to her sickness, others dying from scorpion stings or poisonous berries or the burning heat. Then Jhogo returned, with news of the great city of Qarth and their curiosity over the creature Daenerys had at her side. She was not too pleased but had no option even if there was a sense of warning within her that she didn't understand.
Qarth was a beautiful city but its people were rotting and rancid. Only the woman with the red mask and the warlocks seemed interested in the grub while none of the others were impressed with her daughter. The Pureborn were notorious for offering poisoned wine to those they thought dangerous that dared to visit their Hall of a Thousand Thrones, but they had not given Dany so much as a cup of water to sate her throat. Instead they had heard her pleas from their thrones inlaid with ivory, obsidian, jade and amber, but did not care or notice. Milk Men indeed.
They never saw me for a queen, she thought bitterly. I was only an afternoon's amusement for them to stare at, a horse girl with a curious pet.
More interested in the grub at her side, Mothra now bigger than a stallion but she was still a passing fancy.
'A maggot mother,' one of the Thirteen had even jeered at her, when she asked for his aid to Westeros.
She ignored it, well used to the stupidity of men. Let them look upon her and think her foolish, they all seemed to forget they only existed due to a mother. The maegi, Quaithe, was well intrigued and urged Daenerys to listen close to her daughter's songs. As with the warlocks, they kept inviting her to the House of the Undying. She was wary of magic but she knew her daughter was strange indeed. Perhaps the answer she sought was within magic? A sword killed as easily, even more so than a maegi's aid.
Her patron, the ever watchful Xaro Xhanon Daxos, welcomed her back to his palanquin of silk, cushions and rubies after her failed meeting. He had been the one to offer her his generosity, welcome her as a guest into his palace. Rumours of the odd creature at her side, which grew larger each and every day, calm and watchful and seemingly so aware of everything around her. As the days had passed Daenerys knew Doreah's words about Mothra changing into something else would ring true. She had visions of wings of blue and orange each and every night and the sensation of great change upon the horizon.
She climbed into the palanquin, glad for a respite from the heat and glaring sun. Behind the palanquin Mothra settled back upon her own wagon. Daenerys seemed every more aware of her daughter.
"Tell me the words of the Pureborn," prompted Xaro Xhoan Daxos as he poured wine into his golden goblet inlaid with precious jewels. "Tell me what they said to sadden the sweet queen of my heart."
"They said no." The wine tasted of pomegranates and hot summer days. She had the urge to fling it aside. "They said it with great courtesy, to be sure, but under all the lovely words, it was still no. They think I am a foolish girl destined to die a fool with a strange pet at her side."
"Did you flatter them?"
"Shamelessly."
"Did you weep?"
"The blood of the dragon does not weep," she said testily.
Xaro sighed. "You ought to have wept and thus let them see your grace." The Qartheen wept often and easily as within their culture it was considered a mark of the civilized man. "The men we bought with us, what did they say?"
"Mathos said nothing, I think he even fell asleep while Wendello praised the way I spoke. The Exquisite refused me along with the rest of them, but he wept afterward."
Tears shed without emotions mean nothing at all.
The words were spoken in twin voices, tiny and melodious to her ears. It was the voices who sang the song that gave her Mothra, her daughter. Sweet and she felt she could trust them with her very soul. Daenerys peered around the palanquin but did not see any small beautiful women such as that night. She was aware of Mothra's low hum of agreement, like a chorus of cicada, emanate from behind the palanquin.
Xaro seemed curious as to her behaviour but instead saying in a mournful voice, "Weep, weep, for the treachery of men."
Dany would sooner have wept for the gold she spent on the bribes she'd given those spineless men. Gold that could have brought her ships, a score of sellswords. Instead all but thrown away for Milk Men who did nothing but gawk or ignore her.
"Suppose I sent Ser Jorah to demand the return of my gifts?" she asked, taking another sip of wine.
"Suppose a Sorrowful Man came to my palace one night and killed you as you slept as my guest," said Xaro. The Sorrowful Men were an ancient sacred guild of assassins, so named because they always whispered, 'I am so sorry,' to their victims before they killed them. The Qartheen were nothing if not polite. Daenerys found it ridiculous and more of the useless flouting of the Qartheen. "It is wisely said that it is easier to milk the Stone Cow of Faros than to wring gold from the Pureborn, even for a gentle queen with a grub."
"I am not a maggot mother," Daenerys said tersely. "My daughter is Mothra."
Queen of the Monsters, Mother of Mothra.
"As you say," Xaro easily agreed.
Her kos surrounded the palanquin as it moved through the streets. Aggo to her left, Jhogo to her right and Rakharo at the front. Jorah was at the back, guarding Mothra. It was strange how easily her little khalasar accepted Mothra but she felt they had the same certainty as she had around her daughter. A strange pull within her bones about Mothra's importance. Something ancient and profound. That she was somehow the sign of a new age. Something beyond dragons and fire. It seemed to tie in with her growing rage the longer she spent in Qarth, surrounded by lazy decadence and slavers and slaves. She hated it ever more, her daughter's ire at the collars rising with each step.
Xaro was not convinced in the slightest to Daenerys' plea, as she again asked for ships and again he denied her. Wealthy merchant he was, she knew he had the means to carry her back to Westeros yet each turn he denied her and instead pressed her again for her hand.
"Give me ships and I will make you rich again once I regain my crown."
"Marry me, bright light, and sail the ship of my heart. I cannot sleep at night for thinking of your beauty."
Daenerys smiled even if it had an edge to it as she replied, "You speak ever so sweetly to me, Xaro, but under your words I hear yet another no."
"This Iron Throne you speak of sounds monstrous cold and hard. I cannot bear the thought of jagged barbs cutting your sweet skin. Let this glorious city be your kingdom, my most exquisite of queens, and let me be your king. I will give you a throne of gold and rubies and jewels if you like. When Qarth begins to pall we can journey round Yi Ti and search for the dreaming city of the poets, to sip the wine of wisdom from a dead man's skull."
"I mean to sail to Westeros and drink the wine of vengeance from the skull of the Usurper."
A single perfect tear ran down the cheek of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, dripping down to the silken cushions below. "Will nothing turn you from this madness, sweet queen?"
She was sick of the man's patronizing and false sobbing so she jumped at the chance to slip from the palanquin to witness a firemage and his act of climbing a flaming ladder. The ladder seemed to be flames of all colour and swallowed him whole when he reached the top, leaving nothing behind.
"A fine trick," Daenerys declared as the crowd applauded.
"It is no trick," and the strange woman Quaithe was by her side. "Strange things have happened, ever since the red comet split the sky. Magic grows wild, ancient winds stir. Strange songs whisper in the ears of those who care to listen."
"What of you, shadowspawn?" Rakharo accused, putting himself between Daenerys and the maegi.
"I am loyal to my queens," the woman replied. Then she bowed to Daenerys before fading into the crowd.
It was a strange conversation, one she thought over that night in her chambers. Mothra had followed her, scurrying up the steps on her many legs. She barely fit through the doorway and Daenerys could have sworn she'd gotten even bigger in a single day.
"I am afraid but I must be brave," Daenerys whispered, pressing her forehead against her daughter's. She must. Despite her fear she must continue on. Must be the strength for her people when their own faltered. Kings and queens were made to protect those who could not protect themselves. She would not wallow in the decadence of Qarth as some exotic pet while her people suffered. The servants who had brought her dinner all had silver collars around their throats. So much for Qarth's civility. She hated the city more by the day and something her child understood and urged action.
I have nothing yet, I must grow strong before I can protect others.
Her daughter hummed in response, the light of stars reflected in her faceted blue eyes.
It was with that conviction that Daenerys traveled to the House of the Undying. An ancient ruin, strange and out of place against the splendor of Qarth. The air seemed tense and hard to breathe, the sun suddenly cold. She had taken Mothra with her, the grub even larger to the point Daenerys could sit upon her back if she so wished. She was as impatient as her mother.
Her kos all urged her to leave, as did Jorah and Xaro. However waiting for her was the blue-lipped warlock, Pyat Pree with his cold hollow eyes and sallow skin.
Pyat Pree spoke to her as she ignored the warnings to instead approach the yawning archway with Mothra scuttling next to her, "Leaving and coming, it is the same. Always up. Always the door to your right. Other doors may open to you. Within, you will see many things that disturb you. Visions of loveliness and visions of horror, wonders and terrors. Sights and sounds of days gone by and days to come and days that never were. Dwellers and servitors may speak to you as you go. Answer or ignore them as you choose but enter no room until you reach the audience chamber where the Undying await you."
She drank the shade of the evening, to help her see what was inside. Her daughter disapproved she could tell, but Daenerys had to drink in order for the warlock to let her within the House.
The House of the Undying was a shade of decadence; the carpet beneath her feet, once lavish with exquisite embroidery now filthy and moth-eaten. Torn tapestries hung upon the walls, things scurrying within the dark. She passed chambers, always taking the door on the right. Some doors shifted and swelled as she ignored them, others reverberated from blows being struck from the other side.
Some doors were not shut and she could not help but look- all showed monsters, creatures wading amidst carnage. A great black beast with glowing blue frills upon its back, vomiting a beam of fire upon a city. A three headed dragon of golden scales devouring a screaming crowd. A thing that looked like a living mass of slime slithering along a bloodstained beach, red eyes wide and wild. A demon with swords for arms, striking and slashing at a beast with a huge spiked back.
On and on she walked, a hand placed upon her daughter's dark brown hide as they moved. Mothra seemed to grow underneath her hand, fueled by the magic in the air as they walked. Until they reached a stairwell, despite the ruins having no further floors. They climbed up until they reached a ornate carved door. Daenerys pushed it open to reveal a great hall where the Undying lurked within. Men and women cloaked in gowns of impossible elegance, sunlight shining through the stain-glassed windows, while melodious music floated through the air.
Mothra clicked her mandibles next to her, Daenerys knowing her daughter saw the Undying as false and spiting them.
A man rose from his throne to greet her in a rustle of robes, "Daenerys of House Targaryen, be welcome. Mothra, Queen of the Monsters, be welcome. Come and share the food of forever. We are the Undying of Qarth."
Lies, Daenerys could smell the stench of it on them. Mothra let out an annoyed chirp at her side before rearing up and spitting out a thick mass of webbing from her maw. It struck the man, sealing him back against his throne and like a strike of lightning the decadence of the hall was gone to reveal the people as shadows which pulsed in time to the blackened heart hovering over the table.
She heard her daughter's urge and Daenerys ran forward, leaping up onto the table. She ran to the heart, ignoring the withered fingers clawing at her ankles, her shins, her hair. She grabbed the heart, digging her nails into the rotted flesh as she began to rip it to pieces
The magic surged in the air as shades seized her, ripping at her clothes, her skin. Dragging raised red lines as she heard Mothra shriek behind her. The Undying seemed to sink into her flesh, cold and robbing her of strength. They needed her, wanted her, the fire and the mental thread connecting her to an ancient goddess of another worlds. She tore a great chunk of the heart asunder, the flesh pulsating in her hand as she fell back on the table. All the strength had left her limbs. She could not move. Even her heart had ceased to beat. And then again, those tiny hands clinging to her fingers. Voices sweet and perfect.
The song, Daenerys realized, the shadows enveloping her in wirling blackness. the rest of the song from the pyre.
Mothra oh Mothra, If we were to call for help over time, over sea, like a wave you'd come. Our guardian angel. Mothra oh Mothra, of forgotten kindness and ruined spirits we pray for the people's spirit as we sing this song of love. Mothra oh Mothra, if we were to call for help over time, over sea, like a wave you'd come. Our guardian angel. The Great Divine Moth.
Then a crack of thunder and the darkness was blasted aside by a great gust of light and wind. The whispers of the Undying turned to screams as the shockwave of rainbow light shattered their shadowy bodies.
Outside, the House of the Undying was blown to pieces as the imago form of Mothra appeared with great shimmering wings glowing like the sun. Fed upon and glutted with the foul magic, forcibly grown until she could do what she must for a foul and suffering world.
Those who witnessed the light were temporarily blinded, the prism of colours swamping their eyes as the uncanny cry of the great moth reverberated throughout Qarth and quieted the entire city.
Below, the human entourage scattered to avoid the sharp legs of the immense being as she beat her wings, brushing aside the remaining stench of the House of the Undying. Lightning forked over the mothy scales, wings gleaming with flaming oranges and yellows, a bright blue shine near the base of her wings like the hottest of fires.
Mothra's antenna twitched, legs digging great gouges in the earth as she turned towards Qarth with her wings spread wide as the jagged light dissipated. Her mandibles clicked in disapproval. She could feel the pain and shadow cast over the world, where slavery reigned free and countless innocents perished. She had seen many worlds and this was another tied in the blood of suffering. Her Shobijin had led her to such a place, searching for those in need of a Goddess' aid for her work was never done. And they had found one young and dying yet ready to move forward, one whose blood was flushed with ancient magic tied to the world, one whose mind was open to her mental connection and that of her fairies. A girl that was clinging to the white fur upon Mothra's head, small hands gripping tight as the Goddess straightened her sharply pointed legs as she spread her wings in preparation for flight.
A girl who called her daughter, despite Mothra being older than this current world. But she did not mind, she could let the girl be her mother as she was her daughter and she would make sure she taught her young mother well with all the ancient knowledge that she knew. Mother and daughter, they could be both to each other.