Letters Home (Where We Came In) / Moments In Transition
*/ “Showtime (Piano Refrain)” Malcolm Brown Homestuck Vol. 1 (2009) /*
FWSC Carefree Victory (AGS-3172)
Winterfell, Westeros, FSC-29294 III
21 August 391 UEC
Dear Mom, Mama, Dad & Everyone,
Kongou is just about close enough that I can finally start sending compressed text over subspace and not have it come out as garbage. That means I can write you directly and know that you'll get the letter, instead of having to trust to some random First Federationer I'll never actually meet face to face. At least now if the message gets corrupted I can blame the Fleet's censors. (As an aside to the censors, assuming you're reading this, please don't wield the markers of doom on this letter. I'll get you all ice cream and beer when I get back to Federal space, promise!)
I'm writing to you from Winterfell this time. You remember Winterfell from my first letter, the gigantic castle sitting out in the middle of a boreal forest? It's kind of become my center of operations since the last time I had a chance to write you. It's been a weird couple of months, let me tell you.
For the record, I'm still alive (obviously). I'd say “and well” but... well, it's a long story. I'm neither on fire nor on the run, which is about as well as I can be at the moment. Things out here are escalating in ways I didn't expect seven months ago when a hunting party stumbled over me and the ship. I finally found out what happened to Victory to cause me to crash-land here, and that's opened some pretty big cans of worms.
Remember the trees I wrote about? That's pretty much where it starts and ends. The notes on the Tanis Map entry I followed all the way out here were about the trees. It turns out they're a Builder project, or part of one at least. I'm still putting it together—psionic gestalt images are a real pain in the ass to sort through—but apparently the trees were here but pre-sophont before the Builders arrived, part of a symbiotic pair with a local humanoid species. Anyway, I guess the Builders saw the potential in the trees and their symbiotes and decided to uplift them. That thought just... wow, right? We've uplifted all sorts of animals in our time, primates, parrots, sehlats, but uplifting plants? I don't think even the maddest genetic engineers from the bad old days would've thought of doing something that crazy! I suppose the trees' psionic potential made it a little easier but still, wow.
The tree uplift wasn't the whole of the project, either. According to the trees, Planetos (and no, I didn't name it!) is close to something they call “the Shroud.” I think that's the dimensional brane where psi energy originates? It's hard to tell—the trees obviously don't speak human, and they're given to poetic metaphor as a matter of course. I think they might've picked that bad habit up from the Builders. Anyway. So the source of all psi energy is, like, half a degree away on the zorth axis from normal space-time around Planetos, which is why the place feels like it's crackling with psi all the damn time. Mama, you'd love just soaking up the psi around this place. I've gotten used to it over the last couple months but if I stop and concentrate I can feel the energy just sort of coating everything like mist. It's... there's no good way to put it into words, really.
But (and there's always one of those) therein lies the problem: the proximity of this Shroud to Planetos is why the Builders set up shop here, and they managed to provoke something on the other side. I'm still not sure exactly what it is when it's at home, to be honest. The Builders called them “the Unbidden,” the human locals call them “the Others.” They didn't seem interested in giving me their names the first-and-so-far-only time I've talked to them. At this point all I know is that they're psionic (naturally), they're hostile, hungry and really interested in leaving Planetos. According to the trees, the Builders fought them, managed to trap their scout force in some kind of prison in the northern polar regions... and then they abandoned the planet not long after.
I know, right? I guess they decided the locks were secure and the trees, the symbiotes and the humans could handle the situation if they needed to. And I suppose they weren't... wholly wrong? According to my research and the trees, about eight thousand years ago the Unbidden started to slip out of their cages and ran riot and a coalition of the species managed—barely—to shut the whole thing down before everything got too far out of control.
But that was a long time ago. The trees' numbers have dwindled, the original symbiote species seems to be all but extinct and the human populations have forgotten pretty much everything they need to know. All the relevant information's changed into myth, legend and religion. And the Unbidden are starting to break free again. Some of them already are free, but not (yet, I think) in enough numbers to push south from the poles. The trees were desperate; they needed a Builder, and they've been gone for who-knows-how many years.
Enter yours truly and her trusty ship. Victory entered the system at just the right moment. I'm no Builder, at best I know what their stuff looks like and how to maybe make it safe for study, but I guess any old doofus in a starship is going to look like a Builder if you're desperate enough. They brought me down using a focused psionic strike to the engines, in just the right place that I'd put enough of the pieces together that I'd initiate contact and we'd be off to the races.
(Admittedly, I don't think they intended to kill the ansible along with the warp drive. That was probably a mistake, but I'm not 100% sure of that. I know that if I needed Builder assistance I wouldn't want to stop with just one. But that's just me.)
That in and of itself would be bad enough. Actually no, there's no reason to pussyfoot around it: this is exactly bad enough that I've declared a Section Three intervention over the whole clusterfuck. Like, formal record of intent before the court martial and everything. This is some industrial-grade shit I've found myself in. And to make things worse, I stepped in a big pile of it that isn't covered by Section Three guidelines.
I've been making friends since I've been here. I told you about some of them in my first letter. They're good people, they really are. Primitive compared to anybody back in Federal space, yeah, but you don't have to have some kind of advanced space-brain to have a good heart. Besides, you know how I always end up collecting strays, right? Some—well, most—of these friends move in Planetos's upper class, and they have enemies. I'm not trying to offend anyone, but I admit that I haven't been as diplomatic as a Starfleet officer ought to be in situations like this. I've done my best to maintain a certain level of distance from the ruling class, no loaning the ship or anything in my toybox out to help maintain the status quo or anything, but that in itself is considered mildly impolite by my hosts. And in the end my tendency to make friends screws me over more than anything else; in a feudal society who you know defines you almost as much as what you can do, and my landing zone locked me into a space in local politics I didn't really grok until it was way, way too late.
Long story short, the king of Westeros died about a month ago. His heir... isn't one of the best people in the world, if I'm going to be honest, and he either wanted my total loyalty as a vassal or my head on a stick for treason, depending on the time of day. And while I was gallivanting about talking to the psionic trees and learning about the Unbidden, it turned out that members of the nobility had concerns about the crown prince's legitimacy and were moving to unseat him. He moved faster.
One of the people I'd befriended was one of the people he had imprisoned, her and her father. For various reasons she had one of my communicators and called for help. I've never, never been able to refuse a damsel in distress. After all the times you had to bail me out in primary and secondary you know that more than anyone else. When she called, it didn't matter to me that I was potentially about to blow a huge hole in General Order One and the other contact regulations. I was on autopilot: the only thing that mattered to me was making sure she was safe. So I did what I do best, I went in, saved the damsel and blew a hole in the contact regs big enough to fit Canaveral in.
My heroic rescue set things in motion I didn't understand in the moment, but the longer this goes on the bigger and uglier it gets. There's a civil war in the offing; I console myself that the civil war was probable even if I hadn't gotten involved, but that's cold comfort. I'm a known associate and counsellor of one side, which limits my ability to move and get things done in the middle of the Section Three intervention.
I'm... not okay. I'm almost completely alone here and this thing with the Unbidden is bigger than anything I've ever had to deal with. If I screw this up, it's not impossible that these things will get out and threaten the entire galaxy, and until Kongou gets here it all falls on me. At the same time I have to try and diplomance my way through a bouncing baby civil war, try and get everybody on the we-don't-want-to-all-die page and hopefully do it without smashing down any more Federal laws in the process. There's no way in this world or any other that I am anywhere near “okay.”
But I'm coping. I'm not completely alone: I have Al, and Thoros, and Mel and a small gaggle of kids who look at me like I'm the biggest, baddest hero in the whole world. I still have Victory and most of the toy chest. Kongou and her squadron are on the way, even if I can't stop it myself all I have to do is hold the line until she gets here.
This thing is huge and it's scary and if I spend too much time thinking about it I kind of want to curl up in my bunk and wait for it to go away... but I will be fucked sideways with a cactus before I let this goddamn thing beat me. I am a Starfleet Ranger, and this is the sort of thing they trained us for at the academy. Well, not this exactly but this kind of scenario. Mostly. They covered it in a couple third-year seminars, at least.
I think I'm gonna be okay. Eventually. Someday.
I love all of you. I'd tell you not to worry but I know better than that, so just remember that I've got every intention of coming home alive and intact, and if these Unbidden bastards are going to stop me they're gonna have to work for it. Give all the littles a hug from me and tell them I'll be home as soon as I can.
Love,
Jadey
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*/ “Project Monarch” Henry Jackman Kong: Skull Island (2017) /*
Illuminati International Productions
in association with Braavos Films, Ltd.
presents
THE WESTEROSI II
SUBPRIME DIRECTIVES
----------------------------------------------------------------------
*/ “Project Monarch” Henry Jackman Kong: Skull Island (2017) /*
Illuminati International Productions
in association with Braavos Films, Ltd.
presents
THE WESTEROSI II
SUBPRIME DIRECTIVES
----------------------------------------------------------------------
TYRION
Tyrion Lannister groaned as the horse beneath him swayed and bobbed, reminding him with every step how much he truly loathed travel by horse. At least the gold road was in better condition over the pass and down into the heart of the Westerlands than the kingsroad had been anywhere in the North. He rode with a small gathering of redcloaks, men Jaime had gifted him with when he departed King's Landing. A thoughtful gesture, that, and the men themselves had been pleasant enough company for commoners. The entire trip had the feel of a grand excursion, riding for some days them stopping at the nearest inn to have some (usually) palatable food, perhaps spend some time at the local brothel if there was one, then back onto the road home. Now, finally, they were approaching the Deep Den, warden of the gold road pass and the final stop before they entered the golden farms of the Westerlands.
As they drew near to Deep Den, all of a sudden the road seemed to be filled with men at arms. A good two hundred Lannister men stood encamped along the road and outside the walls of the mountain keep. Weariness drained from Tyrion and he spurred his horse onwards to the gate, leaving his companions behind. At the gate two men wearing the badger of House Lydden stopped in front of him. “Who goes there?” the taller and uglier of the pair demanded.
“Tyrion Lannister, son of Lord Tywin,” Tyrion called out. The guards looked at him—I do have a distinct profile—and silently opened the gates. Tyrion rode in to find more Lannister men mingling with Lydden's household guards, and in the middle of all the activity his lord father glowering at something in the middle distance.
That glower fixed itself on him, and Tyrion flushed a little. Reining to a halt and carefully dismounting, Tyrion met Lord Tywin in the bubble of activity around them.
“Tyrion,” Lord Tywin said cooly.
“Father,” Tyrion said with a respectful nod. “For a moment I thought something had gone wrong with our lord of Lydden. Hunting bandits?”
“What are you doing here?” the old lion demanded. Tyrion blinked in confusion.
“I was returning to Casterly Rock from the capitol,” he said cautiously. There was an odd energy in the courtyard. A sense of restrained violence tinged the air. “I believe I sent you a raven about it when I departed.”
Tywin snorted. “And no doubt prolonged your trip by stopping at every inn and whorehouse on the road.”
“I was in no great hurry to return home.”
“And what news have you heard?”
“News?” Tyrion's brow furrowed. “Nothing since we entered the mountains several days past.” The sensation pricked again at his scalp. “Why?”
“King Robert is dead,” Lord Tywin said. Tyrion stiffened, then sighed. Well, that was faster than I had anticipated. “Killed in a hunting accident, by all reports. Joffrey has been crowned and I ride to King's Landing to take up my post as Hand.”
“Congratulations, Father,” Tyrion said, and half meant it. He looked around. The Lannister men didn't have the look of an honor guard escorting the new Hand of the King. They seemed to have a considerably rougher cast to them. No doubt part of that was due to hard riding on the gold road and yet there was still something terribly off about the situation. “I feel like there's something more I am missing here, though,” he said finally.
Lord Tywin Lannister's moods rarely strayed from grim even at the best of times. From the clenching of his jaw and the narrow slits of his eyes, Tyrion could guess that the lord of Casterly Rock was absolutely bloody furious. Which didn't make much sense; Robert was dead, his grandson was king and he about to take up the Handship again. What cause would he have to be angry? Lord Tywin reached into his surcoat and pulled out a scroll. “Read,” he ordered, thrusting the scroll at Tyrion.
Tyrion took the scroll and did as he was bid. The message was from Pycelle, he recognized the Grand Maester's spidery handwriting, and made very little sense. Chaos in the Red Keep, a warning from the master of magic and the king was being... reluctant about something. “I take it things have not gone well, then?” he asked.
“Robert's pet witch appeared not long after His Grace's coronation,” Tywin replied, scowling. “Shouting some nonsense about grumkins and monsters from beyond the Wall.” He pulled a small bundle of similar scrolls from his coat and waved them in Tyrion's face. “Then the madwoman defied the Iron Throne, allied herself with the Starks and humiliated my son!” He threw the scrolls at Tyrion. “You suggested we ally ourselves with this creature, and now it's turned against us.” Look at what you've done now he all but shouted, the implication hanging thick and greasy in the air between them.
“Aye, I thought we might make the witch our friend,” Tyrion said absently, thumbing through the scrolls and taking in all the reports of what had happened: almost all the Kingsguard defeated, their pride sorely beaten, the Mountain slain by dire sorcery—and what a terrible shame that was—stopping to wince as Pycelle described the injuries Jaime had taken. “I also feared that something like this might happen,” he continued. “Robert used a soft touch on the woman and successfully kept on her good side. Joffrey was eager to have a court sorceress, mayhaps too eager. I daresay he tried to push and Lady Hasegawa pushed back to the court's detriment.” Tyrion looked thoughtful. “We might still be able to salvage this.”
Lord Tywin's glare could have burned all the Westerlands to ash in that moment. “No,” he said with finality. “There will be no salvaging. This foreigner has dared to insult the throne and House Lannister at the same time with her actions. Do you intend me to grovel at her feet for her favor?”
“This is not some upjumped merchant from the Free Cities trying to haggle over spices and cheese, Father,” Tyrion argued. “You haven't seen what the witch has at hand and what she can offer, I have. We cannot make her bend the knee to Joffrey or to our house, there is no force on this earth that can make her do that.”
“A pretty Dornish mummer girl flutters her eyes at you and you abandon your family,” Tywin sneered. “Is a foreign cunt all it takes to turn you?”
Tyrion flushed with anger. “You've not seen the ship, my lord,” he said stiffly. “A hulk of white metal as big as the largest dromond in the Lannister fleet, perhaps bigger, floating in the air like a cloud. What coin is there in all of Casterly Rock—in all the world—that could make a mummery like that? My lord father, you needs understand that the only coin worth anything here is our good will. If we arranged a meeting, or even an exchange of letters, apologize for Joffrey, at the very least listen to what she has to say—”
“Enough!” Tywin barked. “I will hear no more of this talk from you or anyone else. I don't need a drunken dwarf or an old fool muttering in my ear at all times about witches. The woman Hasegawa will be attainted, declared outlaw and subject to the king's justice as soon as I reach the Red Keep, if not before.”
Gods damn everything, has your pride finally overtaken your sense? “Do you think that matters, Father?” Tyrion said quietly. “The master of magic still has her ship and her abilities. How much do you truly believe she cares about titles, or being named outlaw? Robert stepped lightly with her—as far as Robert could step lightly—because he saw that he couldn't press without losing control.”
“A sufficient reward ought to remove her ship from her,” Tywin replied. “Enough golden dragons to make a man wealthy for the rest of his life. Perhaps a keep somewhere, should the victor be landless. There are enough greedy men in Westeros to make it possible.”
“You're trying to chain a dragon with paper rope, Father,” Tyrion warned. “Joffrey tried to press his advantage and all he got for it was a court full of battered knights.”
“Joffrey is a boy,” Lord Tywin said. “She'll find defying a man a more difficult task. And I will not brook any defiance, not from this witch or from my children.” He leveled a glare at Tyrion. “You will stay here until my party departs, then return to Casterly Rock. Do not leave until I summon you.” The proud old lion turned and walked out the castle gates, back to the road and the soldiers waiting thereon.
***FLASH TRAFFIC***
TO: KIRK, Cpt. Winona, cmdg. FWSS Kongou CA-314
SUVOK, Cdr., cmdg. FWSC Kirkwood Gap R-1821
SH’QESRIR, Cdr. Vroli, cmdg. FWSC Hiroko Ai R-1209
OLAYINKA, Cdr. Temitope, cmdg. FWSC Soval Variations R-1104
FROM: HASEGAWA, Cpt. Jade, cmdg FWSC Carefree Victory AGS-3172
A big Planetosi hello going out to my rescue party! Direct communication that’s more than 140 characters a burst transmission, ain’t technology grand? Even if this is compressed to hell and back, short plaintext messages ought to be okay until you get close enough that we can start using compressed video.
Right now, you’re still too far away to be of any physical use, more’s the pity. But you’ve got bigger & badder library computers than I do and working ansible links to all the data. So you guys can be my plucky research team assisting the noble heroine as she attempts to unfuck this situation, okay? Great. Let’s get started.
Psionic defense is the key here, so let’s start digging into the all data we’ve got on blocking psi energy. Sort it into two piles: one for anything that looks feasible for a grade-1 sensitive to accomplish using the resources of a Triumph class scout with a busted warp core. The other pile is for the big, ridiculous schemes, the bigger and more ridiculous the better. I might not be able to use them now but there’s a non-zero chance the Builders left a bunch of other toys behind on this rock. A silly scheme might be able to leverage that better than a serious one. Or I could just be talking out my ass, that’s a possibility too.
Next on the agenda is diplomacy. I’ll be sending a staged text dump over the next few days containing everything I’ve been able to get my hands on regarding Westerosi law. From that, I need somebody to go over it and use that to build a “let’s not kill each other because ice monsters are coming” treaty. I know, it’s kind of a long shot but if you can get me something that works within the confines of Westerosi law and custom I have a better shot at making the intervention work than if I just bully everybody into submission. I mean, I’m pretty sure that might work but it’d make my life way more difficult than it really needs to at this point. Also, I don’t want to have to find a desert island to operate from if the bullying plan falls through.
That’s about all I can ask for at this point. Clear skies, guys.
—Hasegawa
THE CHEESEMONGER'S PALACE
Illyrio Mopatis sat in his courtyard, staring at the image of his old self. The young face stared back wordlessly. He wondered, now and again, what the young bravo would think of his station. The life of a Pentoshi magister seemed so far away at the time. Would he be pleased that he'd reached the pinnacle, or dismayed by everything that climb had cost him? Now, the magister sat, nibbling on dates and cheese as his oldest friend in the guise of a household guard relayed current events from Westeros.
“I fear I lost track of her in the confusion,” Varys admitted. “The queen regent sent parties after her but failed to catch up before the ship arrived. Ser Gregor reportedly got the closest but lost his head in the process.”
“Martell will be pleased by that,” Illyrio grunted. “Or not; who knows with that one. Mayhaps he wanted to see to Clegane personally.” He waved a chubby hand. “It is no matter. Tell me more of this threat the witch made towards the king.”
“No threat,” Varys replied. “To threaten implies a personal connection. No, this was a warning clear as day. She believes that the Others of legend are alive, awake and marching south towards the Wall as we speak. And she had the head.” A faint shudder rippled through the large man's body.
“You saw this,” he half-asked.
Varys nodded. “I did. It was a most convincing scrap of evidence.”
“And this was no mere mummery? I can think of men in the Free Cities who could make such a thing appear to be real. This Ulthosi witch might be skilled, but how much is real and how much fake?”
“I know, old friend. This would be so much easier if it was mummery and puppetry, but the world is not so simple as all that. I had a chance to examine the head closely, after the lady departed but before the king took possession. If this was a puppet or some kind of mechanism it is so far beyond any kind of trickery we are aware of that I cannot tell the difference.”
Illyrio pounced on the last statement. “But there is a chance,” he said.
“There is,” Varys said. “But I do not give it much credence. I find no motive in creating such a thing and then acting the way the former master of magic did. The head makes an excellent tool for insinuating herself deeply into the new king's counsels, but then she assaults a dozen men, grievously injures the Kingslayer and flees with the Starks in tow. There's no obvious gain in doing this, yet she did. Madness? Perhaps, but it is a very consistent and compelling madness. Also, my little birds in the north sing that the northmen at the least take her warnings very seriously. No my friend, I believe we must take her claims—and her evidence—as what they appear to be.”
Illyrio sat silently, looking at his former glory and nibbling on dates without thinking, for a long time. “This complicates matters,” he said finally.
“To an extent,” his old friend replied. “But not perhaps as much as you might fear.”
“I wish I had your confidence, old friend,” Illyrio said. “The Dothraki are marching, but young Viserys is not among them. My agents tell me he finally crossed the khal one time too many and, well.” He sighed dramatically. “I told the boy he should stay as my guest. A pity. Still, the khal is heading south but we have no clear idea on where he's headed or when he'll turn his eyes westward. Or even if he will, for that matter. Without the khal...”
“I urged you once to put the khal aside,” Varys said in reply. “Again, we must do so. If the khal turns west then we may add him back to the playing board but for now it doesn't matter what he does. The time for waiting and delays is over, my friend. Events have finally overtaken us; this matter beyond the Wall overshadows everything, but there's still an opportunity to be had.”
Illyrio raised an exquisitely dyed eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Joffrey may wish to move north to answer the insult given him, but the old lion will prevent him from doing so whilst the Baratheons are against them. Lord Tywin would prefer to let his enemies weaken each other before he moves to eliminate them with one bold stroke. If the Starks take the warnings seriously they are not likely to move south whilst the Wall is threatened. The Vale is closed to outsiders, the gods only know what the ironborn will do, Stannis and Renly cannot make common cause and Dorne will not follow any of them. In this stalemate we have an opening, but it will not last long. Letters need be sent; to Connington, to tell him to prepare the boy, and to Strickland, to secure his men.”
“I think I see,” Illyrio mused. “We attack the weakest party and secure our position? Strickland's men ought to be able to take the capitol whilst the other players are paralyzed. A risky gambit to be sure, but...”
Varys shook his helmeted head. “You misunderstand,” he chided. “Joining the fight in the south is the losing move. The players are paralyzed, as you said, and that paralysis means the upheaval we need is not present. The winning move is to the north. Our prince and his army must join with the Starks and aid in the defense there.”
Illyrio stopped chewing, openly staring at his longtime accomplice in disbelief. “Has this dead man's head made you take leave of your senses?” he demanded. “You propose to send him to the Starks? How could you even think for an instant they'd accept him?”
“Think, Illyrio,” Varys said in a low, urgent voice. “None of the southron lords will send more than a token force to the Wall, assuming they don't simply laugh away Stark's attempts at convincing them. Stannis might send more, but with his brother and the Lannisters to fight even he cannot send away too many men. Tales are already starting to spread of the witch and her warning; the people begin to wonder if the lords are squabbling whilst the realm is threatened. What better moment for him to appear, standing with the northmen at the Wall defending the realm against legendary foes? Ned Stark will bend the knee out of sheer gratitude in that event.”
“What of the witch?”
“We needs sway her to our side, or at least sway her to neutrality. Sending the boy north will help in that—it shows we take her seriously. The rest... it will be difficult, she flits about Westeros like a demented raven, not staying for too long in one place. Preparations need to be made; she seeks to unify Westeros against the threat, but she cannot be allowed to unify it behind anyone other than our prince. Perhaps the Dornish could be our intermediaries in this cause. I must find the new pattern before we start throwing more balls in the air.”
“I know not if I like this plan, old friend,” Illyrio said, frowning. “Too much is left open to chance, and factors we cannot control. If we send the boy to the North, if we gain the witch's favor... if, if, if. Too bold, too bold. What happens should the Starks see him as a threat? What happens if he fails?”
“If he fails...” Varys shrugged. “The witch claims that this is a threat that will swallow all of Westeros, possibly the entire world. If the prince that was promised cannot stand against such things, what hope do any of us have?”
***FLASH TRAFFIC***
TO: HASEGAWA, Cpt. Jade, cmdg. FWSC Carefree Victory AGS-3172
FROM: KIRK, Cpt. Winona, cmdg. FWSS Kongou CA-314
We’ll get right on that, Captain. Also, be advised that all communications from this point will be going on record as part of the Section Three investigation. You might want to remember to moderate tone in official communiques from here on out.
—Kirk
***FLASH TRAFFIC***
TO: KIRK, Cpt. Winona, cmdg. FWSS Kongou CA-314
FROM: HASEGAWA, Cpt. Jade, cmdg. FWSC Carefree Victory AGS-3172
The part of me that was seriously concerned about decorum in communications broke off and burnt up somewhere over Westeros, I think. Got way too much to worry about than policing my language when speaking (typing? Whatever) to my fellow Fleet officers. Besides, I might as well give the people who end up transcribing this mess into the official record something entertaining to read while they’re doing it.
—Hasegawa
DAENAERYS
They rode out of Vaes Dothrak at dawn, the shadows of the Horse Gate pointing long towards the west. Khal Drogo led the khalasar under the bronze stallions out of the sacred city and turned south, keeping the rising sun on his left. Dany followed dutifully on her silver, escorted by Ser Jorah Mormont. The morning light caught off of Drogo’s long braid, causing it to shine like burnished obsidian.
The light also caught on Dany’s newest gift, an odd ring of blue-veined gold, joined to a bracelet of the same material by fine golden chains. Her sun-and-stars had found the ring somewhere deep within the markets of Vaes Dothrak and brought it back to her. Or perhaps it was one of her khas, or the bloodriders? She wasn’t sure. It seemed odd that a khal, especially as mighty a one as Drogo, would go hunting for trinkets in the marketplace. But that was apparently what happened.
The ring was Valyrian, that much she was sure of. Of her heritage Dany knew little in truth, mostly what her brother Viserys had been known or was willing to teach her, along with some extra reading in the rare times they had secured the patronage of a man with a library. One of the few things Dany knew was the dragonlord script, and this was inscribed along the inside and the outside of the bracelet.
The inner track was in High Valyrian, a language Dany knew a little of. She could make out the words dragon and master and that was about it. The inscription on the outside of the bracelet was older, the script more worn but still cut deeply and cleanly into the gold that it might be readable after many centuries, and the words made no sense to her. They seemed Valyrian, but were unlike anything she’d ever heard before.
“Zlaldimandenak zalzeh nilar pehsehbh bihzihseh mbiredh,” Dany murmured, stroking the cool metal. In response the metal warmed under her fingertips for an instant. She felt something flicker in her breast, then flutter down into her swollen belly. For a moment she could feel something inside her and around her, flames licking around her hands as the world shifted just a little and she could see… blue and gold and red and green flowing all around her and Drogo.
“Your pardon, Princess?” Ser Jorah’s voice came from behind her, breaking the moment. The colors vanished from Dany’s sight as she turned to see her lone loyal knight looking at her with great concern.
“Ser Jorah?” she asked.
“You said something aloud I didn’t quite catch,” he explained.
Dany blinked. She had said the inscription aloud, hadn’t she? “I was just… thinking about this bracelet my lord husband gave me,” she said, raising the encircled arm to show Ser Jorah. “It’s Valyrian, I think. I wonder how it came to Vaes Dothrak?”
Ser Jorah shrugged. “Who knows, Princess?” he said. “It’s said that most of the dragonlords’ treasure vanished with them in the Doom, but they ranged all across Essos in their time. It may be that one khal or another picked up the trinket in the years after, when the Dothraki established their domains over this land.”
“And then it came to me,” Dany said, absently rubbing the golden bracelet. This time, it remained cool to the touch. “I wonder if it’s magic?”
“Who can say for certain, Princess? It’s known the Valyrians used the dark arts as much as they used dragons.”
“Aye.” Dany rubbed the bracelet again, tracing the shape of the runes beneath her fingers. She could feel the colors start to lick at her fingertips again as she did so. “And where did my ancestors learn these arts, Ser Jorah?”
The knight shrugged again. “The dragonlords kept their secrets well. I doubt even your family knew much of anything about their origins. No Targaryen ever said as much after the conquest, at least.”
Dany made a small noise of disappointment and let the ringed hand drift over her belly. The ring warmed a little, pulsing in time with her heart. It might’ve been her imagination, or some trick of the rising sun, but the colors seemed to flash around the ring, as if it was waking up from a long sleep.
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Fun Tyrant's Notes: Ere we go ere we go ere we go...
Welcome to Act II. Please settle down and make yourselves comfortable, the show's about to begin. Questions will be answered in the order they are received. Let's get back on track, yeah?
xoxo,
The Fun Tyrant
