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mymothershumility · 2 years ago

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neverflownwithme asked: “Are you alright?”

past transmissions || { always accepting }

{ Part 1 } & { Part 2 } & { Part 3 } & { Part 4 } & { Part 5 }

{ Part 6 } & { Part 7 } & { Part 8 } & { Part 9 } & { Part 10 }

{ Part 11 } & { Part 12 }

{ @neverflownwithme }

The air within her solar grows ominously warm.

From where she stands, Laira can hear only the crackling of the fire within the hearth and the sound of her own heart thudding loudly in her ears. Her fingers shift, first about her sword’s grip and then about the scabbard still clutched in her opposite hand. Ahead of her, a half dozen paces from where she stands, the Red Priestess shifts before the hearth.

And, then, high above the castle, Laira hears the cracking of wings and a thundering roar. The ire that she can sense in her dragonmount is as stifling as the heat now emanating through the small space about her.

“Peace, Queen Laira,” the woman speaks, her High Valyrian melodic. Slowly, she begins to shift, body turning until she faces the Queen. “I mean you no harm.”

For a brief moment, Laira’s hold strengthens all the more about Dark Sister’s grip. Recognition slowly descends upon her as she stares across the solar at the other woman, the other’s raven hair and emerald eyes a stark contrast to her pale skin. It has been a time since she has seen the woman. Over a year, in fact, if Laira is remembering correctly. Such an encounter had first occurred only days before Drogon had spirited Daenerys away from the sands of The Great Pit of Daznak in Meereen.

She had encountered the Red Priestess another time as well, though, mere hours before Laira had freed Viserion and Rhaegal from the pit beneath the Great Pyramid and abandoned Meereen on Viserion’s back to search for Daenerys.

“Kinvara,” she finally acknowledges, the name of the other rising quickly in her mind. Her fingers begin to slacken around Dark Sister’s handle. The sword still remains in hand. Familiarity does not mean an absence of threat, after all. Laira has learned such a lesson in the most horrific of ways in recent moons.

The priestess inclines her head, a brief smile tugging at the edges of her burgundy painted mouth. “Your Grace,” Kinvara returns, lapsing into the Common Tongue of Westeros. Her hands fold themselves at her middle, fingers steepling together as the sleeves of her robes slip to cover them. “I offer my sincerest apologies for startling you as I have.”

Such fright and such distrust is well deserved, Kinvara knows. Her Lord has shown her all that has awaited the Dragon Queens since they departed the Cities of the East and landed upon the shores of the Sunset Kingdoms. Deceit and betrayal has befallen each of them in some manner, expertly crafted and executed by the most devilish of mummers.

It is such treachery that has sent Kinvara across the Narrow Seas to these very shores.

“Had you presented yourself to my maids, such an occurrence would not have happened,” Laira points out. High above the castle, she hears another snap of wings and Viserion’s wrothful sounding roar. To hear such a sound from the dragoness is not uncommon about the island. Viserion does not circle so low about the castle often, though. Only to land within the gardens or when she is catching the wind to ascend over the Dragonmont.

Such behavior would alert her husband, and the rest of the castle staff, that there was something amiss.

And Hal, in his protective nature, would come seeking her.

“You are correct, Your Grace,” Kinvara relents. “I assure you my intentions were pure.” Her voice is solemn as she speaks, the corners of her mouth turning down at its corners. “I regret to say that the occupants of this castle and those upon the island hold little favor for the Lord of Light and his servants.”

The tale is not a new one. Laira has heard the whispers among the halls and down among the occupants of the village since she first landed upon the island. Stannis Baratheon had once kept a Red Priestess among his court. The woman had garnered a dark reputation in the time that she had spent upon the island, burning men alive to appease the Red God and to bring favor to the man she had thought to be the Realm’s rightful King.

None upon the island held any favor for her. Most, in fact, feared her and dared not even utter the Red Woman’s name.

“A raven would have sufficed to announce your arrival,” Laira returns. Dark Sister is raised as she speaks and slipped back into the safety of her scabbard. Still, Laira keeps the sword in hand. “I would have known to expect you, then, and would have properly prepared the members of my staff for your arrival.” Better ways were available to her than the one that Kinvara had chosen to use. There is little to be done about it now. The woman is within her walls. Laira cannot very well send her away for an unorthodox arrival.

She cannot say the same for her husband, though. He will not be pleased when he learns of Kinvara’s presence or the manner in which she obtained her audience with Laira. It will take a great deal of convincing to allow the other woman to linger if that is her desire.

“Ravens can be intercepted, Your Grace,” Kinvara reminds. “Given the betrayal that has tormented you and your sisters, I thought it best to keep my journeys well guarded. There are those who would sow seeds of distrust among the High Lords of Westeros if they knew you were holding audience with a Priestess of R’hllor.”

There is no rebuttal that Laira can offer to such an answer… not when the other’s words ring with such utter truth. Betrayal had met Daenerys and her at every turn when they resided within the walls of Meereen.

“As you say,” Laira murmurs. She begins to move, making to circle around the edge of her desk. Her amethyst eyes are ever watchful. Kinvara’s own emerald gaze is much the same, though her eyes seem to crinkle at their corners with some underlying amusement. “You stated that there was much in need of discussing,” Laira continues, referencing the cryptic greeting the other had given when Laira had appeared within the doorway of the solar.

She does not reference the moniker that Kinvara has only just referred to her by.

It is not the first time that Laira has heard the name Daughter of Death. It is the first time that another has referred to her as such, though. The name had been whispered to Daenerys while in the House of the Undying within the famed walls of Qarth. That was what her sister had told her. The name means nothing to her.

“Much and more, Your Grace,” Kinvara concedes, offering another dip of her head. “Would you care to wait for your lord husband?” the priestess asks.

“How do you know of my husband?” the Queen asks. The question is quick and more demand than inquiry. Unease suddenly begins to beat wildly within her heart, fanning out into her limbs and settling deep within her bones.

Upon Dragonstone, her marriage is well known. The staff among the castle down to the occupants of the village know who Hal is and how wholly he is linked to Laira and all that she is. She has never shied away from proclaiming the man for what he is. Her husband. Prince Consort of Dragonstone, much to his chagrin. Protector of the Realm. Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. The small nature of Dragonstone is different from the intricate politics of court among the walls of the Red Keep and beyond, though. And, it is in such delicate settings that both she and her husband have guarded the secret far more.

Not well enough, it seems, when viewed behind the treachery and betrayal they have endured.

All the same, there should have been no whispers of her marriage across the Narrow Sea. Not when she and Hal married amid Winterfell’s godswood with only a septon and young Sansa and Helen as witnesses. And, not when the Spider had seen his own end when Daenerys had ascended her rightful throne.

“The Lord of Light reveals all in his own time,” Kinvara says, turning to cast a look back into the flames dancing within the solar’s hearth. The fire momentarily sweeps upward, thin tendrils of flame reaching out to swirl at the hem of the priestess’s robes. “History has shown that the Wolf always finds his way back to you, Your Grace. The trials and the challenges that await you both always means little to him.”

Her Lord is always certain that his will is done, weaving threads of destiny into a tapestry that even Kinvara herself has yet to be able to decipher. Kinvara has ever served her Lord, though, faithful and devout through the destruction of empires and the darkness of the first Long Night.

And, yet, the meeting of Dragon and Wolf has been an ever constant thread, recurring time and time again in her Lord’s woven work.

Emerald eyes glance about the solar, settling for a moment on the Queen and the Valyrian blade still clasped in her palm. Her gaze moves just as easily, looking to the chests and trunks stacked along the solar’s walls. She has already looked through one of the journals upon the Queen’s desk. The Lyseni craftsmanship is as intricate and as lovely as she remembered it being a century before when it had been freshly crafted.

Even in her youth, the Star of the Sea had always possessed immaculate tastes.

Something in the priestess’s words strikes her as odd, lingers over her in a way that she cannot immediately place. There is a familiarity to them… as if she has heard them before.

“A peculiar thing to say,” Laira murmurs, her amethyst gaze following the priestess’s own about the room. Her eyes linger upon the portrait that had started all of this searching, the very one that still seems to Laira more mirror than painting. Though half hidden by a cotton sheet and cast in heavy shadow, Laira can still spy the likeness of Visenya Targaryen and little Saera looking back at her.

“To some,” Kinvara agrees. Now, she steps, moving around the far edges of the Queen’s desk. She leaves the other ample space, head bowed in quiet thought and hands clasped gently at her front. Her Lord has shown her all she needs to know of this Dragon Queen. She is a stark contrast to her Velaryon and Targaryen half sisters, with her height, her olive skin, and her Jaydian accent. Perhaps mannerisms separate her the most, however. Quiet and reserved where her sisters are not. As lethal on foot with Valyrian steel as she is high among the clouds mounted upon her dragoness.

She is dangerous in the most obvious --and subtle-- of ways. Kinvara knows it is wise to not forget such a thing.

“Perhaps it is presumptuous of me, Your Grace, yet you do not seem bothered by such a peculiar statement,” Kinvara comments, pausing before one of the armchairs that are set before the Queen’s desk.

Laira maintains her own position, eyes still observing the path that Kinvara chooses to take. “It is not the first time another has spoken in such a peculiar manner to me,” she says. There is still something that is lingering over her, something that is now tugging gently at the back of her mind. Some forgotten conversation, perhaps… or a memory. “The City of the Harpy was filled with riddlers and silver tongued wretches alike. They all flocked to my sister’s court, spinning tales to endear themselves to Daenerys and to condemn those that had been stricken from bondage.”

More had come to Daenerys long before then, when her sister had dwelt among the walls of Qarth and before even then among the walls of Illyrio Mopatis’ manse in Pentos. The Pentoshi Magister, Daenerys had once told her, had been the most dangerous of them all. Laira had never doubted her sister’s word regarding such a thing. After all, the Magister had been linked to the Usurper’s Spider, a willing collaborator to see Daenerys slain and some bastard born boy seated upon the Iron Throne in her place. That they had attempted such a ploy under the claim that the boy was Rhaegar’s son, Aegon, had been all the crueler. Nothing good had ever come from the poison and the chaos that Varys and his little birds had spun so deftly among the residents of the Red Keep. Nothing good had ever come from Illyrio’s honeyed words and false promises. Daenerys had been right to see them both ended for their treachery.

“Indeed,” Kinvara relents. “Yet, what need would I have for sweet words or riddles in your presence, Your Grace?” she questions.

“What better way to seek favor from me? What better way to gain something that you desire?” Laira is not fool enough to believe that Kinvara has traveled so long a way to seek nothing of her. Little is done in their world without the desire for compensation.

Someone always desires something in return.

Someone always seeks more.

“And yet, Your Grace, there is nothing that I desire.”

“Everyone desires something, Kinvara,” Laira reminds. “From a Queen, such a thing is all the more true.”

Not even servants to R’hllor are immune from the siren song of greed.

“Of some, such a thing is true.” Kinvara cannot deny such a bitter truth. Their world has been built upon the greed of others. Kinvara has long been a witness to it, an observer since even before the fall of the Great Empire of the Dawn and the first Long Night. The nature of men has only worsened over the centuries, will only worsen until such nature is put to heel by another. Such a chance shall not be granted until the Queens’ enemies are vanquished. It is that very reason that has brought Kinvara to this island of storm, smoke, and salt. “I swear this to you, Your Grace,” she continues, hands unfolding from their place across her middle, “there is nothing that I desire from you. I wish to only see my Lord’s will done, to pass the knowledge that he has gifted to me on to you.”

“And nothing more?”

“Nothing more,” Kinvara answers. “I am a humble servant. Yours to command as you see fit, Your Grace.”

“And these matters that you wish to discuss,” Laira begins, stepping nearer to her desk. Dark Sister is leaned against the wood, still well within reach should the blade be needed. “Do they pertain to Visenya Targaryen and Torrhen Stark?” she asks. “Or Rhaena of Pentos and Corwyn Corbray?” she continues. Beyond the walls of her solar, Laira catches the sudden shift of shadow as something passes before the hearth within her apartments. There comes additional movement out beyond her doors, the sound of booted feet rushing down the stone lined hallway. “Perhaps Shiera Seastar and Donnor Stark?”

As she speaks, she notes the shifting of Kinvara’s expression. Still one of amusement and, yet, one of practical relief as well. Laira has little time to dwell upon such a thing, has little time to dwell upon some sort of vague understanding that continues to take shape inside her own mind. Before Kinvara can offer her own answer to her inquiries, there comes a growl from the doorway of her solar.

Moone appears but a moment later, hackles on end and teeth bared in a rare show of aggression. Her mismatched eyes find Kinvara, her form stalking into the room. There is a gnash of teeth in the Red Priestess’ direction, the she-wolf moving until she is standing between Laira and the other woman. Moone’s head rises to brush at Laira’s middle, her fur damp from where she has been washed and rinsed out among the gardens. Laira can feel the dampness beginning to soak through the fabric of her dress, can smell the soft scent of lemon and lavender upon the air from the soap that has been used to bathe her.

“The Amethyst Empress and the Last Hero,” Kinvara continues, eyes never abandoning the she-wolf that has prowled her way into the solar or the woman that she now stands before as a living shield. It is a show of protectiveness that Kinvara has seen time and time again during the course of her long life. It will be one that she will no doubt continue to see so long as this thread within her Lord’s tapestry continues to repeat. She will welcome it whenever she is granted the opportunity to see it. “As I said, Your Grace. Much and more.”

The names that Kinvara utters mean little to her – more mythological and legendary in their utterance than historical. Or, rather, the Last Hero means little to her. Laira knows them both, knows them as well as she knows the ancient deities of Old Valyria and those of Jayd. Though the Last Hero means little to her in this fleeting moment, Laira cannot say the same in regards to the Amethyst Empress.

Fragments of the journals and tomes she has read as of late spring to the forefront of her mind with Kinvara’s words, pieces that were of little matter on their own now resonating with some new found understanding.

The Five Forts.

The Great Empire of the Dawn.

The Blood Betrayal.

The Long Night.

There comes a sudden moment of clarity, one that strikes Laira just as she hears the rushing of booted feet entering her apartments. She knows, now… Knows the identity of the individual who penned a number of the journals she had skimmed that very morning before she, her husband, and their charges had departed for the coast just below the cliffs of the castle.

The Amethyst Empress. The last true ruler of the Great Empire of the Dawn. She is the one responsible for the recounts of the Great Empire and those of the Dragonlords in Valyria.

Laira knows… though cannot determine how the fabled Empress plays a role in the chaos and the betrayal that has erupted all about her, her husband, and her sisters in recent moons. In all her nightmares and in all of her dreams, the Amethyst Empress has never once played a part within any of them. Neither has the Last Hero.

“Laira!”

Her hand rises just as one of the doors to her solar is slammed all the more open, the wood and metal of it knocking loudly against the polished stone of the wall behind it. Though there had been no panic within her husband’s voice when he called for her, Laira can see the remnants of it in the square of his shoulders and in the clench of his jaw. She can see it in the way his hand has already settled upon the grip of Vigilance. She watches the way his eyes dart from her, to Moone, and then over to Kinvara, still standing quietly before her desk, before coming back to her and her growling guard.

“Hal,” she softly utters, drawing his attention fully to her, his eyes darting up to meet her own as her arm falls back to her side.

Laira does not miss the way that Kinvara’s mouth quirks into a knowing smile at such a reaction… as if the exchange she is observing is one she has been witness to a hundred times over. Perhaps she has. Would such a thing be beyond the realm of possibility given all that has happened and all that remains unknown before them?

“I am unharmed,” she goes on. Though she can see some of the tension leave his face, the line of his shoulders does not lessen nor does his grip upon the sword at his side. “Kinvara served Daenerys and myself in Meereen. She is no threat to me.” A lie, if Laira is truthful with herself. Perhaps Kinvara is no threat to Laira or to her husband in that moment, yet she is dangerous all the same.

Whether a dangerous enemy or a dangerous ally remained to be seen.

Kinvara inclines her head to the Lord of Winterfell as he steps fully into the solar, emerald eyes watching him as carefully as she has the Queen and her direwolf protector. Though the Queen’s temper has always been a difficult thing to rouse in all its fury, the Wolf Lord has ever been quick to anger and even quicker to react. Putting his lady in the way of any perceived danger has always provoked him all the more.

“Your Grace,” the Priestess greets. “As I have already told Her Grace, I apologize for alarming you as I have with my presence.”

“Were we aware of her arrival?” Hal asks, the inquiry aimed to Laira. He knows the answer before she even begins to speak the question. Had Kinvara been an expected guest upon Dragonstone’s shores, his wife would have told him. Given Viserion’s reaction high above the castle, and Moone’s as well out among the gardens and there within his wife’s solar, he knows that Laira was as surprised to find the woman among the walls of their apartments as he is.

“She came unannounced.” Laira will not lie over such a thing. Had Kinvara sent a raven announcing her travels to the island, Laira would have been certain to inform Hal of her coming. There had been no such correspondence, though… a matter that Kinvara has already readily admitted to in her earlier conversation. “The residents of the island and the staff among the castle have a fear of the Priestesses of R’hllor. She thought it best to limit the knowledge of her arrival.”

Once more, the words are anything but a lie. And although Laira can understand Kinvara’s reasoning behind her actions, she still does not agree with them. She can tell by her husband’s expression that he shares her discontent as well.

“Yet stealing into the apartments of the Crown Princess of Dragonstone and her husband is believed to be the more honorable path,” Hal returns, moving so he is able to stand at his wife’s side. He watches her as he draws closer, looking for any obivous signs of harm as he goes. For now, his search comes up empty. And, he sees no immediate signs of distress upon her face. “Such actions can be considered treasonous upon these shores.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Kinvara agrees, her voice solemn as she offers another incline of her head. There is still the ghost of a smile crinkling the corners of her mouth, though, and the faintest hints of amusement reflected in her stare. “I have no defense beyond those Her Grace has already volunteered. Though it may not seem so, my actions were for the good of the occupants of this island and for Her Grace as well.” She turns her gaze to the Queen and then to the Lord of Winterfell. “I saw no need to add additional strife to that which you have both already weathered because of the Golden Roses taking root and overrunning King’s Landing.”

As quickly as the solar had grown warm, bitter cold seems to invade just as quickly. Laira reaches for her husband’s arm at Kinvara’s words, feels the way that his muscles have bunched beneath the fabric of his tunic. The tension in his face has returned, jaw clenched and brows pinching together as he stares down the Red Priestess across from the two of them.

Laira has seen such a look from him before, though only once and in the midst of war. Ramsay Bolton had made the dire mistake of threatening her while outside the walls of Winterfell. When given the opportunity, Hal had taken his head for the threat and for all the other horrors the man had inflicted upon the members of his family. Laira sees the very same look in him now, knows that if given the opportunity Kinvara could very well lose her head for daring to speak of the Tyrells and their plots within the capital.

When Kinvara had mentioned betrayal to her earlier in their exchange, Laira had thought her words were referencing Meereen… had thought she meant the Sons of the Harpy and the shadow games that had been played among the streets and high atop the pyramids of the Great Masters.

How wrong she had been, it seems.

“And what do you know of the Tyrells?” Laira questions, stepping into Hal’s side when he beckons her closer with a hand to her opposite hip. Perhaps the true question she should ask is how Kinvara knows of them.

Once more, there is the faintest hint of a smile upon Kinvara’s face when she begins speaking. “I believe such a question would be better answered among the course of our other discussion, Your Grace.” As she takes in the Dragon Queen and her Wolf Lord, she releases a soft hum. “Perhaps such a conversation would be better suited for the coming day,” she continues. “Your Graces will likely wish to speak with one another and to rest of your day among the shore.”

“Leave us then,” Hal orders, all the patience gone from his voice. There is more that he might say, more that he might order, yet he quiets when Laira murmurs softly up to him.

“I will have Mira prepare rooms for you,” Laira speaks, her thumb ghosting over the line of her husband’s forearm. She hopes that the action will help to soothe some of the anger that is raging just beneath his surface. “We can discuss these matters you have mentioned come morning.”

“I have no need for chambers, Your Grace,” Kinvara assures, offering one last incline of her head before making for the solar’s doors. “I will make myself at home within the library where I am less likely to be discovered by your staff. It has been a time since I have dwelt among its walls.”

When the Priestess is gone, there is only a beat of silence before Hal is turning to Laira. His hands go immediately to her face, palm settling against her cheeks as he looks over her for what feels like the hundredth time. Between them, Moone nudges her head against Laira’s stomach, growling softly.

“Are you alright?” he asks, thumb tracing along the line of her cheek. “Truly?”

Laira nods, smiling weakly up at him. “I am unharmed,” she promises, reaching to set her hand down across Moone’s muzzle. “Where are the girls?”

“Down in the kitchens with Mira and Ser Aeron.”

“Good,” she sighs, reaching to press her palms against her husband’s own. “Kinvara knows about what we have seen,” she says, eyes glancing to the journals and scrolls upon her desk. “She knows.”

“It could be a trick,” Hal reminds. “Some sort of treachery.”

Laira had thought similar things, had thought that the Priestess’ words were meant to gain some sort of favor or to deceive her in some manner. And yet… “I do not believe that it is.”

The remainder of their evening passes slowly, Kinvara’s arrival hanging over the two of them like a brewing winter storm. Laira searches through Shiera Seastar’s favored journal, searching for the desperately desired answers that she and Hal are in need of. Hal begins a task of his own, opening a number of the trunks that they had taken from the room that morning and searching through them. There are no true answers to be found with their searching, only more questions.

“We will try again in the morning,” Hal promises, passing a chalice of mulled wine across the back of the couch to his wife. He is more at ease now than he was hours earlier, much of the tension having faded from him.

“There is still much that we have not looked through,” Laira says, sipping her wine as she thumbs through a journal she can only believe once belonged to the Amethyst Empress. The fire within the sitting room of their apartments has been stoked, the flames dancing among the dark stones of the hearth. Mira had brought both she and Hal a tray from the kitchens a number of hours before, though their food remains largely untouched. Above them, the dark rumblings of thunder can be heard as lightning cuts across the sky and a storm begins to bear down upon the island.

“In time,” Hal murmurs, moving to sit with her on their couch. He leans and hooks his hand beneath her ankles where she’s stretched across the couch, lifting her legs to take the spot on the cushions next to her. “There is still the matter of the Priestess as well,” he mutters, settling her legs across his lap.

“I will send her away if you wish it.” Kinvara’s choice of arrival could be reason enough to see her sent back to Essos. She will not allow her to linger if it is going to make her husband more uneasy than he already is.

“Do you believe her intentions for being here are true?” he questions, leaning to steal the chalice from his wife’s hand. He ignores the scolding, yet amused, glare that Laira casts back at him for his theft.

“I believe that she knows far more than she divulged in our earlier conversation.”

“Do you trust her?” he asked, offering her chalice of wine back to her.

Laira is quick to answer such a question, leaning forward to take her wine back. “After all that has happened to us in recent moons, there are few that I trust any longer.”

There is more that she wishes to say, more that lingers upon her tongue. Yet, her words stall as a resounding crack echoes through their apartments and the entirety of Dragonstone seems to quake beneath them. The chalice in Laira’s hand is dropped, shattering where it strikes the floor. Then, there comes a pair of screams from only two doors away from their own, Helen and Sansa screaming out for both she and Hal. Their cries are soon drowned out by another resounding crack and the shuddering of stone.

She and Hal make for the doors of their apartments, tossing them open just as Sansa and Helen come running down the hall towards them. Beyond the walls of Dragonstone, Laira can see the arch of flaming projectiles as they are launched inland from the water. Through the darkness and the rain, she can barely make out the silhouettes of ships out among the waves.

When a sharp streak of lightning brightens the sky, she glimpses the sails of the ships that have descended upon the island under the cover of night.

The green fields.

The golden roses.

The sigil of House Tyrell is unmistakable.

{ @truetargaryen & @fullrangeofemotions & @thequeenmaker & @xcoatlicuex & @hisvipereyes & @viperparamour & @nolongerhispawn & @shewhoisironborn & @adornishviper & @anunfailingkindness & @ialwayswasthebest & @iveneverbeenagoodgirl & @aladyofwinterfell & @therosesofhighgarden & @arisiarrxb & @alionessroars & @zaldrizo & @fairytalesandstars & @queeniolande & @yrracynrxl & @scaleddoe & @scraniknatu }

[[ I meant to have this out way sooner than now, however I’ve been having some issues with severe anxiety as well as depression over the last several months. Every day is different and some are far better than others. The last few days have been rough, but I’m doing okay. And, I’m very excited for the next few parts of this series. They’re the ones that inspired this whole thing :) ]]

#neverflownwithme #;transmissions #v; fire cannot kill a dragon #otp; you are the light in the dark #gv ;; the dragon must have three heads

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