Chapter Text
"And then the abominable Usurper raised his great warhammer and brought it down on our noble Prince Rhaegar's chest", he spoke as if unconsciously, drifting in and out of thin sleep. King Viserys (Third of His Name) sat against a wall, head resting on still warm stones. He closed his eyes and instantly regretted it: dearest baby sister pulled at his shirt and started shaking him rather violently.
Ah, you can't be allowed to sleep until Her Targaryen Highness gets her favourite tale, huh?
But he wanted to sleep, he did. Gods damn magister Onqorro - the old, the new and the Valyrian ones for good measure. And let him have bloody flux, pox and cock rot for his "cannot provide our hospitality anymore". (Which meant: "cannot keep you in semi-comfortable prison with two meals a day", Myrish hospitality be also thrice damned.)
"Did our brother suffer?," Dany asked.
"Yeah, he did," he yawned.
He was quite sure he had suffered. Mom said, when she'd heard of the Trident: "Praise the Father, the madman is dead, we have some hope now". She said the same about Father's murder. The Usurper deserved to burn in Seventh Hell, but for those two deaths--his only two good deeds--Viserys would've agreed to be lenient and send him to the Fifth one.
"And there was much blood?"
He had thought her having a sort of Targaryen madness, but one good, if rather loose woman taught him all little kids are fascinated with gore and horrors. That's what their home has fallen into: kings learning princess-rearing from whores. Well, at least whores were kind and knowledgeable, and readily shared their knowledge! The magisters, let the Black Goat gore their arses, were no help at all. Never gave them a maester, nor books. Only some food (admittedly, delicious), some drinks (somehow, strong)--and some choice words when they grew tired with perfectly reasonable demands and chased Lawful King in Exile off from their houses.
"His blood spattered around, bright as rubies from his armor...", he told this story so many times he almost hated it.
Ser Willem was fond of this ruby detail, but not good old Albyn Sand. Not one to badmouth the late Prince, he still would grumble about those bloody idiots, who decorate their armor with gems thinking its main use is for a dashing look and not for protection. Being proudly Dornish, ser Albyn then went on badmouthing Tyrells, famous for this very tradition.
"Blood", Dany splashed in the mud, "Blood everywhere!"
"Princess of house Targaryen is not to prance idly in the mud. She is the one to keep her body and soul clean", he reminded. Kings, not so much.
"Idle prince", she parroted. Well, at least it wasn't something...worse she could learn here in the harbor. He sure had his Bastard Valyrian thesaurus greatly enriched.
"Is The Usurper ugly?", she asked.
"Sure."
"With big eyes?"
"Sure. Big eyes. Like blue fire", he stifled a yawn.
It was in poor taste to sleep in the mud, but he had no money to rent a room. Earning them was beneath King's station, and he had sold enough of Mom's jewels for that ill-fated affair with Gold Company.
*
It was in this moment, when he was between sleep and reality, seeing imaginary Usurper in all his wile glory--giant black humanoid with shining blue eyes and breath cold as Winter itself--when The Seven showed their mercy and sent him a sign.
It was voice of gods he heard, right behind the tavern wall:
"And there's no cold in Stark castle in no winter, yeah. That's because o' dragons, see?"
Dragons was a magic word that made him wake with a shudder. He was all ears, listening as behind the wall drunk sailors quarreled whose master was the best. One was a Sisterman, two served house Manderly...he listened to sounds of his native language, to names and places he could easily picture on the giant map of his ancestor's Painted Table. He could easily imagine Mom showing them to him on Dragonstone.
"Targaryens don't cry, brother," Dany slapped him out of his revery. We do not. We listen, and we act.
The guy from White Harbor continued with his praises towards lord Stark, The Usurper's best friend and rabid dog, and it should've been the mention of dragons, or maybe it was his utter exhaustion, or gods' will, but he had a brilliant idea.
He loved having brilliant ideas.
"Dany", he said, "I need your smallclothes".