Chapter Text
Chapter XXV
Star of the Sea
Daenerys Targaryen
Dany didn’t know what to make of the visions she had seen in the House of the Undying. They lingered in her mind like whispers in the dark, vivid yet incomprehensible.
She had seen the Battle of the Trident, her prince brother riding valiantly against the Usurper, and falling with the name of a woman on his lips. But it wasn’t Rhaegar’s face beneath the visor of his helm. It was her own.
That was not the strangest part. Moments later, she stood on another battlefield, before a colossal blackened ruin she knew from books and tales: Harrenhal. The castle loomed in the distance, its scorched towers like fingers clawing at the heavens. Her ancestor Aegon’s wrath had left its mark here, yet the castle endured as a monument to folly and ruin.
On that battlefield, she saw a warrior clad in nearly same armour as Rhaegar wore moments earlier, riding against Robert Baratheon. This time though, the Usurper fell, his great warhammer tumbling from his hands as his lifeless body collapsed into the mud. Yet the victorious knight also fell, surrounded by a field of blue roses. The air was thick with their sickly, sweet scent, as though mocking the moment.
When she lifted the knight’s visor, she saw no face, only a shadow.
Other images came in a torrent. Rhaegar and Elia, their hands clasped as they welcomed their son into the world. Her brother’s voice, solemn and distant, naming the child the promised prince. A phrase repeated: there must be another. A wave of cold, the crackle of ice, and a landscape veiled in snow. The throne room in King's Landing, with the great roof shattered, snow falling through the cracks.
She saw more, so much more, but the meaning was buried beneath riddles. Words whispered in her ears, by Quaithe, Kraken and Dark Flame, Griffin, Son of the Sun, and Mummer's Dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying.
Was Quaithe friend or foe? Her warnings offered no clarity, only more confusion. Your destiny is not here,she had told Daenerys, but in Westeros.
But what did she know of her destiny?
These thoughts swirled in Daenerys’s mind as she walked through the port of Qarth, her bloodriders flanking her like shadows. She had just left the brass merchant’s stall when a Qartheen man stepped into her path.
“Mother of Dragons,” he said, dropping to one knee. “For you.”
In his hands, he held a small box of carved wood. Its mother-of-pearl lid was inlaid with jasper and chalcedony, gleaming in the sunlight.
Daenerys hesitated but took the box. “You are too generous,” she said cautiously.
The man only lowered his head.
She opened the box to reveal a scarab, carved of emerald and onyx, its surface glinting like polished glass. It was beautiful. She thought it might fetch a handsome price to aid in her journey west.
But as her fingers moved to touch it, the Qartheen whispered, “I am so sorry.”
Dany saw a sinister black face, almost human, and a curved tail dripping with venom....Then the box flew out of her hand in pieces and tumbled over the other side. Sudden pain twisted her fingers. As she screamed and squeezed her hand, the brass merchant let out a shriek, the woman screamed, and suddenly the Qartheen began shouting and pushing each other.
She saw black flags waving in the air. The harbour was suddenly filled with people who looked completely out of place, who were not from the Free Cities.
They looked like Westerosi.
Ser Jorah walked past her and Dany fell to her knees. She heard the hiss again. The old man slammed his sword into the ground, Aggo ran over the egg seller's stall and jumped from his saddle, Jhogo's whip cracked overhead, Ser Jorah hit the eunuch over the head with a brass plate, sailors, whores, and merchants fled or screamed or both....
"Your Grace, a thousand apologies." An older man with a kind face knelt before her. He wore silver armour that was completely inappropriate for the temperatures that prevailed here. She blinked when she saw what was on the breastplate of his armour. "It's dead. Did I break your arm?"
She clenched her fingers and croaked. "I don't think so."
"I had to push him away," he began, but her bloodriders caught him before he could finish. Next to him appeared another knight in the same armour, the white cloak hanging from his back.
Aggo let go of the first man's sword, and she saw that the man had allowed it, though he did not look happy about it. Jhogo grabbed his shoulders, forced him to his knees, and put a dagger to his throat. "Khaleesi, we saw him strike you. Do you wish the colour of his blood?"
"Release him." Dany finally rose to her feet. "Look at the bottom of his sword, blood of my blood."
Ser Jorah was knocked off his feet by the eunuch. She ran between them as the arakh and long sword flashed from their sheaths. "Put down the steel! Stop it!"
"Your Grace?" Mormont lowered the sword only an inch. "These people attacked you," he said.
"They were defending me." Dany snapped her hand to shake the sting from her fingers. "It was the other one, Qartheen." When she looked back, he was gone. "He was a Sorrowful Man. There was a manticore in the jewel box he gave me. He knocked it out of my hand."
The Brass Merchant was still rolling on the ground. She went over and helped him up. "Were you stung?"
"No, good lady," he replied, trembling, "or I should be dead by now. But it touched me, aieeee, when it fell from the box, it landed on my shoulder."
She saw that he was dirty, and no wonder. She gave him a piece of silver for his trouble and sent him away before returning to the two knights. "To whom do I owe my life?" She asked as she looked at them. She understood what their clothes meant and who they were, but she didn't understand how it was possible.
She saw that similar soldiers surrounding them, blocking access to anyone who tried to approach them, were dressed warmly, too warmly. On their chests were mermaids. They too are from Westeros, she frowned at the sight.
What is going on here? she wondered.
"You owe me nothing, Your Grace. My name is Ser Barristan Selmy, a member of your father's Kingsguard," he gestured to the other man, "and this is Ser Oswell Whent, the Black Bat.” Though Jhogo let him go, the knight remained on one knee. Aggo picked up the sword, swung it around, cursed the Dothraki in silence, scraped the remains of the manticore onto the stone, and handed it back. The man looked at her with a sad smile. "You look like your mother Queen Rhaella, Princess, if I may say so," he said.
"We've been looking for you for a long time, Princess," the other knight added, nodding slowly.
"Lies," Ser Jorah said sharply, touching her shoulder and pushing her back. "Nothing but lies. Ser Barristan serves in Robert's Kingsguard, and Oswell Whent died in Dorne at the hands of northerners."
"Lies?" scoffed the man who claimed to be Ser Oswell. He shook his head, "rich, coming from a man like you."
"We must go, Khaleesi," Old Bear said in her ear, pressing harder on her shoulder. "These people are liars, assassins paid by the Usurper to kill you. We must go to safety."
Safety? She scoffed at the thought. She hasn't known safety since Ser Darry died and she had to wander the Free Cities with her brother. There is no safety for her.
She looked at the men who had just saved her life, they looked real and their expressions were sincere.
Why would they save her from certain death only to kill her a moment later? It didn't make sense.
She will trust them for a moment, she owes them for saving her, and she will listen to the words they address to her. Then she will decide.
"You say you are who you are," she said in a tone that was polite, but the words were cutting. "You had many years to come to me and my brother, and you are only here now. Why?"
With a guilty look on his face, the more fearsome of the two spoke up, finally rising from his knees. "We will explain everything to you, Princess, but this is not a conversation that should take place here."
"Aye," the other white knight nodded. "Aye," Ser Jorah always says, he told her, they say that in the North where he’s from. "It's not safe here. We have a ship with the things we need to give you, we can talk there in peace."
A ship? She needs a ship. Even if they are not who they say they are, she will be able to use their ship. So she nodded at her words, "Then lead the way." She heard Ser Jorah disagree with this course of action, but she silenced him and turned to Aggo, "Bring Irri and Jhiqui to me with a new dress, this one is dirty." And she moved behind the two knights, the rest of the warriors who had come with them surrounding them and escorting them to safety.
The ship she found herself on was finer than any she had seen that day, a rarity amidst the chaos of Qarth's harbour. The sails were pristine, the deck well-kept, and the air lacked the sour stench of rot that seemed to follow most ships in the port. Its crew, remarkably sober and deferential, bowed politely as she passed, their gazes lowered but their manner not servile. It was a strange sight. She had grown accustomed to scorn or slavish obsequiousness but never this, something in between.
At last, they entered the main cabin, a space fit for a queen. Lavish tapestries adorned the walls, depicting rolling seas and distant castles. A sturdy oak table with intricate carvings sat at the centre, surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in rich green velvet. A soft rug lay underfoot, and shelves lined with brass fixtures held books, maps, and curios from across the known world. Nothing seemed to be missing. Fit for a queen, she thought, allowing herself a small smile.
This ship would be hers. If these knights turned out to be liars, she would take it anyway, let them try to stop her and her dragons.
She sank into a chair at the head of the table, her gaze lingering on the two knights in silver armour who stood before her. Ser Jorah lingered near the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the tension in his shoulders palpable. He did not trust these men. Neither did she, but something about their bearing, their armour, and the way they carried themselves gave her pause. These were not the desperate men of Essos, grovelling for coin or glory. These men had a purpose.
“Well?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
The knights exchanged a glance, one deferential to the other, as if uncertain who should speak. At last, the older of the two stepped forward, his voice steady but tinged with hesitation. “During our journey here, Your Grace, we heard the news.” He paused, as though weighing his next words. “We were saddened to hear of your brother’s death. Our sincere condolences.”
The words struck her like a knife to the chest. Viserys. Her brother's name always brought a storm of conflicting emotions, love for the boy he had been, hatred for the man he became. She thought of the cruel whispers, the mad rages, the promises of a throne he would never sit upon. But she also thought of the boy who had cradled her when she cried, who had sung her to sleep with songs of dragons and valiant kings.
Her fingers tightened on the armrest of the chair. I am alone. The last dragon.
“If you’ve heard that Viserys is dead,” Ser Jorah growled, his voice sharp, “then you should also know that Daenerys Stormborn is queen. Not princess.”
The knight bristled, his eyes flicking to Ser Jorah with barely concealed disdain. “We mean no insult, Ser. We are here in the name of our king.”
The words turned her blood to ice. The King of Westeros was Robert Baratheon, the usurper, the butcher, the man who had hunted her family to extinction. Her hand went to the dagger at her waist, a reflex. Jorah stepped forward, his sword half-drawn, and Jhogo’s arakh gleamed in the candlelight as he unsheathed it. Even her bloodrider, who spoke little of the common tongue, understood enough to recognise a threat.
“So,” she spat, rising to her feet, “after all your words of loyalty, you’ve come to kill me. How much did Robert pay you for my head? What did he promise you?”
The older knight raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his movements slow and measured. “Your Grace, you misunderstand us. We are here in the name of the King, it is true, but not Robert Baratheon. We serve King Aemon, your nephew.”
The words hit her like usurpers hammer. Nephew? The air seemed to leave the room. She stared at the knight, her mind refusing to process the absurdity of what she’d just heard. “Nephew?” she echoed, her voice cold and sharp. “I have no nephew. My family is dead. All of them.”
“We tell no lies, Your Grace,” the knight said solemnly.
“If this is true,” Ser Jorah interjected, his voice low and dangerous, “then where has this hidden Targaryen been all this time? And how did he survive? Everyone knows what happened to Rhaegar’s children.”
The younger knight, Ser Oswell, stepped forward now, a small, tight smile on his lips. “He lived in Winterfell,” he said simply. “You may have known him, Ser Jorah, before you fled the North. He was raised as Jon Snow.”
Jorah stiffened, his mouth parting in shock. “Jon Snow?” he muttered, as if the name alone carried weight. Then, suddenly, he laughed, a bitter, disbelieving sound. “Honourable Eddard fucking Stark. Of course. The bloody man hid a dragon in his wolf’s den, right under Robert’s nose.” He shook his head. “I’ll be damned.”
Daenerys’s mind reeled. The Starks were the usurper’s allies, the ones who had helped destroy her family. Why would Eddard Stark, of all people, protect her brother’s son?
Ser Barristan’s voice broke through her thoughts, calm and unyielding. “Why are you surprised, Ser Jorah? Eddard Stark was always a man of honour. His sister’s son would not be safe in any hands but his, certainly not in Robert’s had he knew, wouldn’t you agree.”
Daenerys’s head snapped toward him. “You said you had proof,” she demanded, her voice trembling with the weight of hope and disbelief.
The knight nodded and produced a small satchel. He drew forth two letters, sealed with red wax and marked with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He offered them to her. "There's also a letter from your uncle, Maester Aemon, brother of King Aegon V, he was Maester of the Black Castle, but King Aemon has relieved him of his duties, he can't wait to meet you." Ser Barristan added quietly, looking at her.
She stared at the seals, her heart pounding in her chest. Her fingers brushed the wax, almost afraid to break it. It seemed too beautiful, too impossible, to be true.
Aegon V's brother? "He must be old," slipped out of her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hand, but couldn't hide the blush from her face that easily.
Ser Oswell laughed out loud, "The king reacted the same way." He smiled at her, "We know it's a lot to take in, we'll give you a moment alone to read it and decide if you believe us."
The two knights started for the cabin door, but she stopped them, "Who owns this ship?"
"Lord Wyman Manderly lent us this ship and its crew for this expedition at the King's request," Ser Barristan replied.
She nodded absently, still staring at the letters. “Which is which?” she asked.
“The one on top is from your uncle. The other, from the King,” Ser Oswell said.
Her voice hardened. “Jorah. Jhogo. Leave me.”
They hesitated but obeyed. Alone at last, Daenerys broke the first seal and began to read.
Dear Niece,
It warms my heart to know that you are reading this letter. You don't know how much. When the rebellion began, I was too old to do anything. All I could do was sit and read the letters describing how my family members were dying one by one.
Children, even the youngest children, were killed.
When I learned that you and your brother had escaped Dragonstone, I rejoiced and prayed every day that you would survive.
Now I am even older.
But you are young. You need to stick together and fight together. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.
Your nephew Aemon is fighting a war now because Robert found out about his existence. He is fighting so that you can all live safely in the Seven Kingdoms again.
Be brave and come back, I look forward to the day when I can hold you in my arms.
I hope you and your brother are well.
Your uncle, Aemon
She had tears in her eyes when she finished reading the letter. She held it tightly in her hands, afraid it would disappear at any moment.
Family.
She had a family waiting for her. She had a living family waiting for her.
With trembling fingers, she put the letter on the desk and picked up the other one, written by her nephew, whose existence she did not know, whose existence no one had known for a long time.
Aunt Daenerys,
Ironic, isn't it? You are younger than me and yet you are my aunt. What a family we all make.
I've been writing a lot of different words these last few hours because I couldn't find the right ones.
But if Ser Oswell gave you this letter, it means Uncle Viserys is dead. I hope he was a good brother to you, and if he was, I'm sorry he died, I hoped to know him.
But if he was too much like Aerys... I'm sorry, I hope you didn't have to suffer too much, more than the conditions you were forced to lived in made you suffer.
I hope you will forgive me for not coming for you personally and for not doing so sooner.
Until a few weeks ago, I was just the bastard son of the Lord of Winterfell. Suddenly it turns out my whole life was a lie, and my father is Rhaegar Targaryen and my mother is Lyanna Stark.
I promise you, if I had known sooner, I would have come for you. At least I hope so.
As I write this, I’m in Moat Caillin, if you don't know where it is, ask Oswell or Barristan, they'll tell you. You can trust them, I trust Oswell with everything or I wouldn't have sent him to you.
Tomorrow, I leave for the south to defeat Robert, I hope I will not fail where my father fell.
I promise that I will win this war, no matter what the cost, so that you can return to where you were born and where you should spend your whole life, not running away and looking over your shoulder to see if the assassins are behind you.
I will win this.
I have no wife and no child. You are the heir to this realm, the Princess of Dragonstone. If I die, you will be queen. If I die, do not be sad, for I will be happy that you no longer have to hide.
If I live, I will wait every day until the ship arrives at the port of King's Landing, and with Uncle Aemon, we will be there to welcome you home.
Come home, dear aunt.
Aemon
Daenerys stood there, holding herself steady amidst the whirlwind of emotions crashing over her. Home. The word resonated with her, deeper than it had in years. For so long, "home" had meant the house with the red door and the lemon tree in Braavos, a fragile fragment of peace in a childhood filled with fear and flight. But now, another image unfurled before her, a land of rolling hills, Dragonstone spires, a red tall towers of Red Keep. A home she had only dreamed of but never truly known. A home she could now claim.
But now she could return to the home she had dreamed of all her life.
That's why she was looking for a ship today to take her to where she could find an army so she could return to Westeros. Now she can do that and meet the family that is waiting for her.
It was all too good to be true.
I'm going to war, her nephew said.
Now she understood the other vision. It was him. It must have been.
He must live, she thought angrily. She won't let him die now that she has just learned of his existence. She forbids it.
I promise you, if I had known earlier, I would have come for you immediately. At least I hope so. Aemon wrote, and she wondered if this was how a real family behaved, one that cared unconditionally for other family members. She smiled at the thought.
What she didn't understand was what he meant by his words, about her father. She would have to ask one of the knights.
"I told you your destiny is not here," a voice she recognized said, making her jump.
She looked up and saw that, by some miracle, Quaithe was also in the room.
"What..." She wanted to ask, but couldn't because the other woman interrupted her. "Wipe your tears, they'll be back soon."
She put the letter down slowly, careful not to destroy it. And she wiped away the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. She still couldn't believe it. She had a family!
The presence of the masked woman stopped her joy, however. She said, "You were talking about the Mummer's Dragon.”
The door to the cabin opened. The Kingsguard raised their swords as they saw the additional person inside. Before Daenerys had time to tell them she was in no danger, something crossed their faces and they lowered their weapons.
Oswell narrowed his eyes and asked, "Are you a woman named Quaithe?"
Although Dany couldn't see it, she was sure that a smile appeared under the woman's mask. "If I am, so what?"
"King Aemon has a letter for you as well." The White Knight said and Daenerys blinked in surprise. A letter to Quaithe? How did he know of her existence?
"Oh?" The woman asked, amusement in her voice. "I am known," she laughed. "What did he say?"
"He said that a star of the sea should not hide her eyes behind masks." Ser Oswell replied, and Dany felt as if the temperature in the room they were in had dropped.
Quaithe rose swiftly from her seat, "Bring me the letter," she commanded. "Is there a raven near the boy?"
The knights nodded, and Oswell, after a moment of snooping, pulled another letter from the bag he was carrying. Reading it, Quaithe swore loudly. She sighed, "Since he knows, I see no point in hiding any longer.” She took off the mask she had been wearing all along, and from underneath it flew silver hair, the same as she had before it burned in the fire, and eyes of two colours, dark blue and light green.
"How can this be?" Ser Barristan asked, looking at the woman with wide eyes.
"You should ask your king how he talks to the long dead," Quaithe replied oily, though her words interested Dany. The woman looked at her, "My name is Shiera Seastar," a smile appeared on her face. "Your aunt and it seems that the king has summoned me to his court. Very well, we'll sail there together."
"You're my aunt?" she finally managed, her voice almost a whisper. Many of her family came from shadows today, it would seem.
Shiera inclined her head, her expression faintly amused. "In blood, yes. I was your great grandfather's daughter, though not from the wife he wed in the eyes of gods or men." Her smile turned wistful. "Long haven’t I seen my dear nephew Aemon.”
Shiera nodded to herself, "but you’ll need more than your dragons to navigate the court of King’s Landing. You’ve been shaped by survival, niece, but I will teach you how to survive this pit of vipers. Your dragons shall not be enough."
Daenerys arched an eyebrow, her lips pressing into a firm line. "I haven’t decided if I’m going yet," she repeated, though the fire in her voice had dimmed slightly.
Shiera smirked, her mismatched eyes gleaming. "Perhaps not, but your heart has. I see it in the way your hands clutch those letters. You’ve already chosen, Daenerys Stormborn.”
The truth in those words made Daenerys falter, but she squared her shoulders. Her people came first. She turned to Jhogo, her bloodrider, her gaze steady. "You will cross the poisoned water with me?" she asked again, though she already knew his answer.
Jhogo did not hesitate this time. He stepped forward, bowing his head deeply. "We will blood of my blood. We will follow you wherever the Great Stallion take us, even across the poisoned sea."
Daenerys allowed herself a small smile before shifting her attention to the knights. Ser Barristan was studying her with a mixture of awe and respect, while Ser Oswell seemed both wary and intrigued. The mention of her dragons had clearly rattled them.
“Dragons?” The two knights turned slightly pale and their eyes widened comically. "You truly have dragons?"
"Yes," she said firmly, addressing them both, "I have dragons. They will sail with us, as will my people." She gestured to Jhogo, and by extension, the rest of her people. "If the crew of this ship cannot handle that, then they are not worthy to sail under my command."
Ser Barristan’s brow furrowed, though not in disapproval. "You truly are Rhaegar’s sister," he murmured, his voice soft with reverence. "Your brother would be proud of you. You’ve brought his dream to life."
Daenerys closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. She pictured Rhaegar as she had always imagined him: noble, tragic, and unreachable. She had never known him, only the stories Viserys had told. Now she could learn more, form the knights that knew him.
Her eyes snapped open. "I’ll need to gather my things," she said decisively.
The knights nodded, though there was a flicker of unease in their eyes. The mention of her dragons had clearly unsettled them, but Daenerys didn’t care. She had led her people across the Red Waste, birthed dragons from stone and flame, and survived trials that would have broken lesser men. These knights would learn soon enough that she was no ordinary woman.
Daenerys nodded, satisfaction blooming in her chest. She turned to Jhogo again. "Prepare the others. We leave with the tide. Tell them to gather their belongings and be ready for the journey ahead."
Jhogo bowed again before leaving to carry out her orders. Daenerys lingered for a moment longer, glancing at the letters she had placed carefully on the desk. Her nephew’s words echoed in her mind, filling her with a determination she hadn’t felt in years.
I will wait every day until I see your ship on the horizon.
She picked up the letters again, holding them tightly. "I’m coming," she whispered. "I’m coming home."
She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined the proud look in her eldest brother's eyes.
I'm going home, you, see? I'm coming home. She repeated in her mind for Viserys to hear.