Chapter 52
DAENERYS TARGARYEN
It had been three moons since she had left the protection of her brother. She had thought it impossible, for Viserys had her surrounded by guards and servants, and she could think of no way of leaving the place.
But then tragedy had struck, and a war had broken out between her brother and Illyrio. Unlike her brother, Daenerys had often wondered why Illyrio was so kind and generous to them.
He called himself a loyalist to the Targaryen cause. He named Robert Baratheon a usurper and protected them from killers and assassins, yet the man was not of Westeros.
He was Essosi, and he would admit himself that he had been to Westeros only a few times, so why was he so loyal to their family and cause? The truth was more gut-wrenching than she could have ever imagined.
He was not. The truth was that Illyrio was no different than the dozen liars and swindlers they had met before him. She would even say that he was worse than them, for while those people simply wished to take advantage of them, Illyrio's plans were far grander.
Blackfyre.
It was a name she only knew from the histories. The line of the pretender King who had once tried to wrest the Throne from her own family. Her own father had fought against them, and the world had thought their line ended.
But that was not true. The male line may have ended, but few could trace the pretender's line through his daughters. Somehow, somewhere out there, one of his descendants had survived and had found herself wed to a rising merchant by the name of Illyrio.
He had found her in a Lyseni pleasure house and had been so enamored with her that he had wed her, much to the anger of the Prince of Pentos himself, who was a cousin of Illyrio's first wife.
By then, she had long shed her family's name for both safety and protection, but she had told Illyrio the truth of the blood running through her veins. Then she had died giving birth to a son, a young boy they would name Aegon.
The pretender's line was alive once more, and so, with the aid of Serra's brother, Illyrio would hatch a decade-long conspiracy to overthrow the Targaryen line and replace it with his wife's blood.
All these years, he had fooled Viserys and her into believing that he was a Targaryen loyalist, while in truth he was perhaps the greatest traitor to their family. While she and Viserys had slept on the streets with empty pockets and emptier bellies, Illyrio's son had been training with knights and sellswords, being prepared for the day he might sit on the Iron Throne.
It was a conspiracy that spanned years, and the truth of it was hidden behind so many lies and secrets that it would have been impossible to uncover if the Gods themselves had not shown her their favor.
Illyrio's son had taken on the name of Young Griff to hide himself within the Company, and only a few of the captains knew the truth of his heritage. Illyrio had presented the boy as her nephew, Aegon, the son of Rhaegar and Elia, to give his claim more legitimacy, for he knew himself that there was little love for the Pretender's line within the Seven Kingdoms.
But for a son of Elia and Rhaegar, the realm would rise. They would fight, but all those plans were turned to dust when the boy was killed in his sleep by assassins, destroying years and years of work in a single night.
Illyrio mourned his son and plotted retribution over the whole affair, but while he mourned, the secret he had kept hidden for so long was uncovered by her brother's closest aide. Lord Petyr Baelish learned of the secret and became aware of the magister's treason.
In his rage, her brother ordered his armies to march on the magister's manse, and war broke out. Illyrio was able to escape the chaos somehow and believed her brother and Lord Baelish to be the ones responsible for the demise of his son.
With only revenge on his mind, the man poured his gold into hiring the Golden Company to exact his revenge on those he believed had killed his son. The Prince of Pentos had still not forgotten the insult levied against his family by the Cheesemonger, and so he came to her brother's side, along with a dozen magisters.
Civil war came to Pentos, and by now thousands had died, and thousands more had been sunk into the sea as her brother tried to finish their father's work and rid the world of all those who would dare name the Pretender as their King.
It was all chaos, but chaos favored her. This was what allowed her to leave Pentos on a merchant ship, and now, after sailing for days and days, she had finally reached her destination.
By now, her belly had begun to swell, and she could feel the babe kick and punch around in her womb. She had cried hard the first time she had felt a sign of life, for until then, her heart had been gripped by the fear that she might have lost her babe to the moon tea forced upon her by her own brother.
But the Gods had been merciful, and the babe had survived. The morning sickness had been bad enough, and the sea had only added to her suffering.
But Daenerys was willing to bear it all and much more to protect the child in her womb. Ser Jorah had been deeply fearful for her and had kept her confined to her room for the initial part of the journey lest she be captured by Illyrio's or her brother's men.
But once they had sailed for a few days, he would take her onto the deck, and Daenerys enjoyed the light sea breeze and the vastness of the waters around them. It calmed her mind and helped her forget the treachery she had committed against her own brother.
"That is the Titan of Braavos," Ser Jorah told her as they passed between the legs of the massive statue. It was one of the Eight Wonders of the World, and to this day she found herself wondering how men could build such a thing.
"I know," she answered with a gentle smile before she turned to face the man.
It had been years since she had last set foot in Braavos, yet the land did not feel foreign to her. Her earliest memories were from this place, and so to her it felt like she was coming back home.
To Viserys, King's Landing and the Red Keep had been home, but for her, the first home she remembered was that small house with the red-painted door. They sailed to the Chequy Port.
Braavos had two other ports, but they were meant for the Braavosi merchants and the Sealord, respectively. The Chequy Port was the one used by most foreign traders, and it was filled with ships from all over the world. She eyed their sails, and the most common were the purple sails of Braavosi merchants, but her heart stopped as she spotted a dozen ships bearing the sigil of a stag crossed with a lion on a field of gold and red.
"That is the royal sigil," came a gruff voice from behind her. It was the man who had given them this passage. He had black hair and a strange accent.
Ser Jorah was not very fond of the man and kept her away from him, but being trapped on the same ship meant that they had some interaction at least.
"But isn't the King a Baratheon?" she questioned, and the man nodded.
"Aye, but he is also a Lannister on his mother's side. He wanted to differentiate the Royal House from House Baratheon of Storm's End," the man added with a scoff, and so the King had made a new sigil.
"The sigil may not be the last change. There are rumors that he might even take up a new name just to spite his old man." And that was strange.
"How do you know all that?" Ser Jorah questioned sharply as their ship drew up to the dock.
The man met Ser Jorah's gaze and did not back down.
"Just as I know that your brother has just won the war in Pentos." Her heart skipped a beat as soon as she heard that.
"Viserys has won?" she asked, and the brown-eyed man nodded.
"Aye, though it was a bloody affair. The Golden Company sank many of his ships, and the fat merchant would have won if it were not for the arrival of the God's Eye." She frowned at the mention of that title, yet for some reason Ser Jorah's face paled.
"Euron!" he gasped suddenly, and the man used his dagger to pick his ear.
"Aye! After the Starks kicked the man out of the North, the King used the Royal Navy to erect a blockade of Pyke and the Iron Islands, hoping to crush the bastard between the Northern and the Royal armies." Now the smuggler snickered.
"But the Greyjoy bastard simply sailed his ships to Pentos and burned up half of the Golden Company's ships. In the end, Strickland was forced to retreat, or he would have lost the entire company." And so her brother had won.
He was safe, and that was some solace.
"If Viserys has won, will he not chase after us?" she questioned, and the sellsword shrugged.
"Maybe he will, maybe he won't." That was not an encouraging answer for her.
"No, he won't," Ser Jorah added, making her turn towards the older man.
"No fleet can compete with the Braavosi fleet, and trying to come after you would mean inviting the wrath of Braavos. If he wages a war against Braavos, then he won't be able to wage a war against the usurper's son in King's Landing." There was some logic to his words.
"I believe he will first turn his gaze towards King's Landing before even trying to capture you." And so, for her own safety, she would have to pray for her brother to fail in his campaign against the usurper's son.
The ship docked, and she walked down the ramp behind the smuggler. Ser Jorah walked beside her; both of them wore thick cloaks to hide their faces, and she had already dyed her hair a dark brown to hide her own identity.
For the egg she had given him, the smuggler had promised them both safe passage and a home. He led them through the streets of Braavos, and she felt a sense of familiarity as they turned through the narrow alleys and passed various shops.
"Where are you taking us?" she asked the man leading the way.
"You asked me for a home, and so I have arranged one," he countered, and when they turned the next corner, her heart began to hammer as she found the street all too familiar. It had been years since she had last set foot in this place, but she was certain of it.
This was the street where she had first lived. This was the street with the house with the painted door, and only a few people knew about that.
She leaned closer to Ser Jorah, who caught on to her nervousness as the man finally stopped. She stilled as she saw that painted door, and Ser Jorah's eyes had narrowed now as well.
She saw him reach for his blade as the smuggler turned to face them both.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned, and dread filled her heart as she realized the folly of her desires. This was a trap.
"Who are you?" Ser Jorah questioned sharply, and she finally noticed the six men surrounding them on all sides.
"I told you, I am Bronn. I am a sellsword and a smuggler," the brown-eyed man answered with a smirk.
"Who do you work for?" Ser Jorah demanded. The man gave three knocks at the door as he took out a flagon and began to drink from it.
"Now you are asking the right questions," he answered with a glint in his eyes.
"There is no need to be so nervous, Mormont." The door opened to reveal two figures who stood above them, while Ser Jorah stood between her and the strangers.
"I mean you no harm," the smuggler assured her, but she was not so certain.
She felt Ser Jorah go still as he looked up at the two people in front of them. One of them was a woman with fiery red hair and deep blue eyes. The man beside her was much older, and his armor was white and silver, much like his hair.
"Lady Catelyn," Ser Jorah gasped at the woman, and she knew that name. She had heard her brother curse it many a time.
Catelyn Stark, née Tully. She was the wife of the Usurper's friend, Eddard Stark, and the Lady of Winterfell.
"You have grown old, Mormont," the older knight beside the woman answered, and he knew of Ser Jorah.
"Not as old as you, Ser Barristan." Her eyes widened at the mention of that name, for there was not a child alive who had not heard it.
Barristan Selmy. He had been one of her father's Kingsguard. A knight with no equal, and she noticed how his gaze softened as it landed on her.
"Princess," he called her, giving her a small bow.
"What are you doing here?" Ser Jorah questioned.
"It is not a discussion to be had in the street," the older knight answered back as he stepped aside and offered them a path inside.
"Come inside, and let us speak in comfort." But Ser Jorah still did not move. He glanced between her and the older knight.
"Be assured, Mormont, we mean neither the Princess nor her child any harm," Ser Barristan answered back, and Ser Jorah bit his lip before he finally spoke up.
"Do you swear that on your honor?" he questioned.
"Aye, I swear it on my honor." With that, Ser Jorah's hand finally shifted from his hilt.
"I know of no man more honorable than Barristan the Bold. If he swears it on his honor, then he truly does not mean us any harm," Ser Jorah told her, and her hesitation must have been obvious.
But nonetheless, she nodded and slowly stepped forward, wondering if she would ever be able to leave this place alive again.
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In Pentos, a victorious Viserys looked down at the battered form of the traitor, Illyrio.
"Where is she? Where is my sister?" he questioned with a roar, and the older cheesemonger shook his head.
"I do not know. I swear on the Gods, I do not have her." For all his wealth and plots, Illyrio was a weak man, one who could not bear any pain at all.
"Is that so?" the Prince questioned, and the hulking former magister nodded.
"Aye." He lifted his head towards Viserys.
"Water! Water!" he begged, and the Prince walked towards the table, picked up a flagon, and emptied it over the man's head.
Illyrio tried to drink, but the strong spirits spilled all over his body, soaking through his clothes.
"Thank you. Thank you," Illyrio gasped as he lapped at the spilled liquor on the ground like a dog. The Prince picked up a torch from the wall.
"If you do not know where my sister is, then I have no need of you." Illyrio saw it too late as the prince threw the torch towards him.
"NO! NOOO!" he screamed, but his soaked clothes caught fire in the blink of an eye, and soon enough the entire manse was filled with the screams and wails of a dying man.
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