The first reports came from the East in fragments.
Not declarations. Not treaties. Fragments.
A Qartheen ship arriving weeks late and half-empty. A Volantene merchant complaining too loudly over wine that the old routes through Slaver’s Bay had become dangerous. A Braavosi factor refusing to write certain names in ink. A Lysene trader lowering his voice before speaking the word no one in King’s Landing liked to say aloud.
And beneath all of it, the stranger rumor.
Dragons.
Not one report said it the same way twice. One captain swore he had seen a shadow pass over the sun outside Meereen, too large for any bird. Another claimed that smoke rose from a pyramid after a woman with silver hair walked out of the flames. A third insisted there were two beasts, not one, circling above the Gulf like living storm clouds with wings.
Most men in King’s Landing laughed at that part. Dragons belonged to old bones, black skulls, dead kings, and stories told by nurses when children were too restless to sleep. Men believed more easily in rebellion, plague, pirates, and profit than in the return of fire made flesh. So the dragon rumors were copied into margins, underlined by nervous clerks, and dismissed by men who preferred the world dead in familiar ways.
Slave trade.
In Westeros, men preferred cleaner phrases.
Trade disruption. Eastern instability. Market irregularities.
Anything but the truth beneath it. By the third raven, the pattern could no longer be ignored.
Astapor had fallen.
Then Yunkai.
Then Meereen.
The old masters were dead, fled, crucified, or imprisoned. No two reports agreed cleanly on how many had been taken alive and how many had been left nailed beneath the sun, but every account agreed on the shape of it. The men who had made a market of human agony had discovered that the market could answer. Auction blocks had been torn down. Unsullied were no longer sold like livestock. The Gulf of Grief itself seemed to shudder beneath the weight of something new.
The Small Council discussed it once. Only once.
Rain struck the windows of the council chamber while the Master of Coin spoke of tariffs and expected losses with the solemn grief of a man personally offended by interrupted profit. The Master of Ships complained about delayed cargoes. The Master of Laws called it regrettable instability.
Brynden Rivers said very little. That was usually when wise men became nervous. Bloodraven sat pale and still beside the king, one red eye fixed upon the reports spread across the table. A silver-haired conqueror. A Valyrian witch. A liberator queen. A dragonrider, if the sailors were drunk enough to be believed.
The last title earned a scoff. “She will be dead by winter,” one lord said. No one argued strongly. The East bred saviors the way marshes bred fever. They rose hot and loud and vanished quickly. A woman might take one city through surprise.
Perhaps two through fear. Three through dragons, if dragons truly still existed.
But the dragon rumors would not die. They changed shape instead. One week, the beast was black and crimson. The next, silver. Then pale as moonlight. Then blue-winged. Then there were two of them. Then a Lysene oarsman claimed the smaller of the two was still large enough to swallow a warhorse whole, though no one could explain why a dragon would inconvenience itself with horse bones when men were softer.
Each telling sounded absurd. Together, they became difficult to ignore.
But holding them?
Impossible. Especially with Dothraki. Horse lords were useful as a source of terror, not governance. They raided. Burned. Took tribute, wives, and gold. They did not build. The council expected collapse. The slavers would regroup. The freedmen would riot. The Dothraki would turn. The Gulf of Grief would correct itself.
King Daeron said little. Prince Baelor Breakspear, already Hand of the King, said even less. But he kept the reports. That was his habit.
Some men discarded warnings because they had not yet learned how to bite. Baelor stored them carefully and waited to see which ones grew teeth.
Bloodraven collected different reports. Not cargo tallies. Names. A Tyroshi cousin with suspicious correspondence. A sellsword broker arrested outside Yunkai. Volantene financiers disappearing into new prisons. Yet even those reports had begun to change. Not in content at first. In rhythm.
A message that should have crossed the Narrow Sea in twelve days arrived in twenty. A name came without the house attached. A dock number without the ship. A death without the manner of it. Some of his eastern eyes still wrote, but late, careful, and strangely clean, as though their words had learned to wash their hands before touching parchment.
Others did not write at all. Bloodraven did not need sentiment to understand why. Many of his best informants in the East had been servants, debtors, dockside workers, pleasure-house attendants, scribes no one looked at twice, and slaves clever enough to survive by selling what they overheard. He had given them coin and secrecy.
Kyarina was offering something he could not. Names restored. Wages. Protection. Law. A world in which their children might not need to sell whispers to survive.
Nothing clean enough to present before the council. Nothing certain. But patterns rarely arrived announcing themselves as patterns. They arrived disguised as coincidence.
Then, stranger reports followed. Children learning letters in courtyards where slaves had once been inspected. Former servants sitting behind trade desks. Granaries guarded instead of plundered. Pleasure houses still open, but no longer permitted to own the bodies within them. And from the Gulf itself came the strangest rumor of all: the cities that had once trained Unsullied through torture, mutilation, and terror no longer sold soldiers.
They trained men. Not boys stolen from their mothers. Not children cut and broken until obedience replaced the soul.
Men. Freedmen, volunteers, guards, and soldiers from across the new territories gathered beneath instructors who had survived the old way and refused to reproduce it. Discipline remained. Formation remained. Spear-work, shield-work, endurance, pain tolerance, silent movement, and battlefield obedience remained.
The horror did not. No knives between a child’s legs. No puppies killed to harden the hand. No wine of courage. No names stripped away and replaced like collars. If the Unsullied had once been proof that men could be manufactured through suffering, these new guilds appeared to be an answer written in drill yards and clean barracks:
Discipline did not require cruelty.
Nor were the training cities only military now.
Healing houses had begun growing beside the barracks. Former battlefield surgeons, midwives, bonesetters, herbalists, temple healers, poison-tasters, horse doctors, wet nurses, fever women, and physicians from cultures that had never willingly shared the same room were being gathered beneath common standards. Ghiscari salves, Dothraki wound craft, Qartheen tinctures, YiTish pulse readings, Rhoynish birthing knowledge, Valyrian blood cautery, Myrish lens work, and the plain stubborn wisdom of old women who had kept villages alive with weeds and boiled cloth all found places in the same ledgers.
What worked was taught. What failed was studied. What nearly worked was improved. No one in King’s Landing knew what to make of that. And beneath every rumor, one truth repeated itself:
The ports were stabilizing. That frightened Bloodraven far more than fire ever could. Conquerors were easy to understand. Builders were not.
Prelude to my story: please let me know if I've missed any tags!
Thank you for reading <3
Firstly Dearon's reaction, when Egg rants about the cat, he said "Alright Egg Alright" tells, that one, that Daeron has heard this well story a thousand times, Two I think it's obvious that Daeron wants to keep these problems "In-house" to protect his family's reputation. It's one of the few times you can see how loyal and sweet Daeron is.
Third point - You know from Daeron's reaction, that little Egg has burst into D's room a hundred times ranting about a new conspiracy theory about how his brother killed his cat. And Daeron rolls his eyes, but lets Egg sit down, bc listening to his little brother rant will keep him awake all night.......
Hi everyone, here is a quick look at the story I'm working on. I am looking for a beta reader, as well. Be gentle with me, this is my first time posting anything I write. <3
“My father did not commit a crime. He owned slaves. As did every ruling family in Tyrosh. In Myr. In Volantis.”
A pause.
“As they have for centuries.”
She stepped closer.
“This woman does not get to rewrite the law and then arrest people for breaking it.”
Her accent was thicker now.
Anger bled through her words.
“That is not justice. That is tyranny.”
Baelor met her gaze.
“The enslaved populations,” he said quietly, “did not defend their masters.”
That landed.
Kiera’s expression flickered.
“What?” her voice was confused, not believing it
“When Kyarina arrived,” Baelor said, “the enslaved did not fight for the old order.”
A pause.
“They chose her, they chose what she offered them.”
Silence.
Kiera’s jaw set.
“They were slaves,” she said.
“They had no choice.”
“They didn’t, until she offered one,” Baelor said.
“And they made it.” He was with fanilanty.
Kiera turned away. Still not believing a word of it.
Toward the fire.
Her hands trembled. a new wave of anger rising up, She pressed them together.
“So you will not act,” she said.
Her voice dropped to a hush.
Colder than before.
Baelor did not answer.
Because the answer was already clear.
“You will not send forces to free my family.”
“No.”
The word was simple. Final.
Kiera’s breath left her.
Slowly.
“Why?”
Baelor hesitated.
Then—
“Because if we act militarily to free your father and family—”
He paused.
Let the weight of it settle.
“We are defending slavery, acting against the laws that have governed Westeros for hundreds of years.”
Silence. Kiera turned back to him.
Her eyes, understanding was dawning.
“You are saying—”
She stopped.
Her voice dropped.
“If you send armies to rescue them, you are declaring that Westeros believes slavery is worth dying for.”
Baelor inclined his head.
“Yes.”
A beat.
Kiera’s mind worked through it.
Baelor’s voice was quiet; when he spoke next, it was measured.
“Which means if we send forces to free your father—forces to defend his right to own slaves—we are declaring that our own laws are negotiable.”
He let that settle.
“That slavery is legitimate when it serves our interests.”
Kiera stared at him.
“You cannot act,” she said.
Not a question.
Realization dawning on her.
“Because acting makes you hypocrites.” she was trying not to snear, no matter how angry she was this was still the hand of the king.
“Yes.”
“In your own eyes,” Kiera said. Her voice was hollow.
“And in the eyes of every kingdom that watches.”
Baelor said nothing.
Because there was nothing to say.
Kiera’s jaw tightened.
“So I am trapped,” she said.
Quiet.
Certain.
“I cannot ask you to save my family without making you complicit in what she calls a crime.”
A pause.
“And you will not act because the optics—”
Her voice broke slightly.
“The optics are too dangerous.”
Baelor’s expression did not change.
Because she had worked it out.
All of it.
“My father is not a criminal,” she said, conviction in her voice.
Her voice was hollow, echoing.
“He is a ruler. A legitimate ruler. And she has arrested him for conducting legitimate trade.”
A beat.
“And you will let him rot in a cell because defending him makes you look like hypocrites.”
Baelor said nothing, looking at her, keeping eye contact, waiting for her, seeing if she wanted to say anything else.
But there was nothing to say.
Kiera’s hands fell to her sides.
“My marriage,” she said slowly.
“It was meant to secure an alliance with Tyrosh.”
Baelor nodded once.
“That alliance no longer exists.”
A laugh escaped her.
Soft at first, then bitter.
“So I am here,” she said, “as the daughter of a man you will not defend. Married to a prince. Representing a city that no longer exists.”
Hi all! I was hoping someone might be able to help me find this story I was reading on here. It's a Valarrxoc story so far, and it's about a girl who finds a dragon on Dragon Stone. The whole island thinks she might be mad, but the dragon is actually real.
The idea was so good, and I'm mad at myself for losing it.
summary: (based on this request here!) Valarr ends up wasted and passes out on the street just to wake up to a pretty commoner.
warnings: 🤫
notes: Reader is a single mother and a commoner. (how bad can her life get) might do Dunk next
wc: 1,784!
(Ako ning basura, ako lang ni) (Esta basura es mía, y solo mía)
this is not proofread.
Valarr was out of his depth. He had begrudgingly taken up Daeron's offer to go to a tavern. He was deeply disheartened by Kiera's latest pregnancy which had led to another stillborn. He had hopes this babe would have been born healthy, he had gotten his hopes up too much with this pregnancy. He had believed that the full term would mean an heir, he was met with a boy whose heart did not even beat.
He prayed and prayed, yet it was not enough for the Seven. He downed another beer with Daeron clapping his back. He was doing his best to match Daeron's intake. No one paid them mind since they were both in cloaks and his silver streak was hidden under his hood.
As the night went on, Valarr decided to head back while Daeron wanted to stay. He clumsily landed a hand on Daeron's shoulder who cackled at him. Valarr stumbled out and heaved himself down the roads. He doesn't remember much about what happened next, but he tripped and went down.
— —
You were just walking down your usual trail with your young child, Aden. The young boy was waddling around slowly, but he made effort and you were glad. The sooner he could endure long walks, the sooner he could help you.
You stared ahead and held a small sack in you hand when your son stopped and pointed at a heap of cloth. You furrowed your brows and grabbed his hand gently, "Don't point, Aden." You peered closer and noticed a man with flushed cheeks and you frowned. You glanced around and cursed your nature. "Please do not be evil." You murmured it before handing your small bag to your son and bringing yourself to heave the tall man back home.
You looked to your son as you used all your weight, "Go on, sweet boy. We shall take him home." The boy frowned before leading the way.
— —
Valarr could smell something warm before he opened his eyes groggily. He shot up and breathed heavily at the unfamiliar scene. He was in a small room and he threw the blanket off. His cloak and boots were off. He swallowed hard and slowly brought himself off the small bed.
He tugged his boots on right away, trying to fight his headache. He grabbed his cloak that was folded on a chair and cracked open the door. He peeked his head out and didn't see anyone. He made his way down a hallway and he stuck his head around the corner. He saw you cooking and went wide-eyed, he debated what to do.
Something touched his leg and he jumped. He let out an unmanly noise and a little boy stared up at him with furrowed brows. The boy pointed at him, "Hair." Valarr blinked and smoothed his hair, then realized the boy meant his white streak.
He nodded at the boy who still pointed. Valarr licked his dry lips before putting his arm out to set the boy's arm down. The boy then rushed to you and you let out a small gasp. You then realized Valarr was awake and swallowed hard, "Hello. My son here is the one who found you last night. I thought that you sleeping here would be better than sleeping in a ditch."
He bowed his head awkwardly, none of his princely manners present. "I-I greatly appreciate, my lady." You became a bit flustered, "I am no noble, my lord." He winced at the pain in his head and you instantly went to his side. You then led him down to a chair to sit and he looked to the boy who was wide eyed and eating a piece of bread. He offered the bread to Valarr and you immediately pulled your son's hand away, "No, Aden. You do not share food that has been in your mouth." The boy puffed his cheeks full of bread and plopped himself onto the chair next to Valarr.
You served him salt beef with a small plate of bread and nuts, "I apologize if it is not much, my Lord." He shook his head immediately, "It is enough, my lady. There is no need to call me, my Lord." You tilted your head at him, "Then what shall I call you?"
He hesitated, "Valarr. Just Valarr."
He watched your expression get wary. You stood up straight and you had to muster the courage. You shifted and looked around him to see the white streak in his hair. "You're the prince."
He clenched his jaw and nodded, "Yes, my lady." You wiped your palms on your apron. You genuinely did not know what to do or say. You glanced to the food you made and gave to him. He thought that you believed you had offended him with the food and he shoved a piece of bread into his mouth and nodded as he chewed. He swallowed it down, "Taste delicious, my lady."
You were mortified and so was he. He quickly tried to play it off and ruffled your son's hair after he gave Valarr a smile. You gestured to the boy, "His name is Aden."
He leaned down, "Hello there, Aden. My name is Valarr." the boy smiled happily.
Aden shuffled off his chair to get a cup for Valarr, you said it was tea for his headache.
— —
Valarr started coming back to your cottage, which was at the edge of a village, when he wanted to escape from his royal duties and from the castle's pressure. He would wear a cloak and common rags to take Aden out to the markets. You were in disbelief whenever he would show up with fresh food and toys from the market for Aden. You thanked him profoundly and he would just stay with you. He liked the peace.
You would teach him how to clean the vegetables and how to cook. You even showed him how you would sew Aden's clothes. Valarr frowned when you almost pricked yourself, so he came up with the best solution. He showed up with thick clothes for both you and Aden.
He even carried Aden in his arms as the young child picked out a new toy from the stalls in the mornings. He had let his hood slip a bit one morning and he noticed a royal guard narrow his eyes in his direction. He calmly led Aden to another stall. He did not wish to startle the quiet boy.
— —
Valarr was called to Baelor's study that same night, "And, where have you been this morrow?" Valarr kept his composure, "Exploring the forest, much to see father." Baelor was not convinced, yet let him go after a few more words about political matters. Valarr did his best to stay calm and muster confidence in his lies.
— —
Valarr was surprisingly in his element when he wore older boots and had his trousers rolled up as he washed Aden's clothes outside in a basin. The young boy played with a toy on a thick quilt Valarr had bought a fortnight ago. He had sweat on his brow and he smiled at Aden. You were inside baking bread. He felt content with this lifestyle.
It took Valarr too long to notice the approaching figures. Aden pointed towards the pathway, "Knight." Valarr's heart dropped when he saw a few guards come near the entrance of your cottage. He stood up abruptly and wiped his hands on his apron. He immediately yanked off the apron when he saw his father among the knights.
The older man had a look in his eyes. Valarr could see the disappointment and disbelief, yet he could not care about it. Aden clung to Valarr's leg and tried to hide himself. Valarr smoothed the young boy's hair. "It is alright, go inside with your mother." He lifted him up to place him in the direction of the cottage door. You had already appeared at the entrance and brought Aden in.
— —
The knights stood guard and Baelor sat inside the same chair Valarr sat in when he first ate at the cottage. He fiddled with his ring while you tried your best to tidy your humble home. Aden grabbed a wooden toy and went over to Valarr. You had tried to stop him, but Valarr shook his head at you and picked up the boy. Aden tucked himself into Valarr's chest.
Baelor could not help, but find the sight endearing. Baelor fiddled with his own rings, he only dared to speak when you exited to give space. "Have you lost your senses?" His father still spoke calmly, only for the young boy who was now drifting to sleep in Valarr's arms.
Valarr did not meet his eyes, "You are married. Your lady wife is awaiting for you to grace her with your presence."Baelor did not get to continue, "I do not care for her the way a husband should." Valarr's voice trembled. "I am in love with another." Baelor did not know what to do, Valarr held the young boy tighter.
Baelor stood up slowly, "We are to return back to the castle. At once." Baelor could see the light leave Valarr's eyes. Aden yawned and rubbed his eyes. Valarr made his way back to one of the rooms and slowly tucked Aden into bed. He got up and you were standing at the hallway with teary eyes.
He avoided his father's warning look and headed to you. He exhaled shakily and took off his signet ring. He placed it onto your finger and kissed your knuckles slowly. He squeezed your hand and used his free one to cup your cheek. He pressed a kiss to your forehead and lingered for a bit. He grabbed his cloak and led his father out. Baelor looked to you in pity, he could see the genuine heartbreak in your eyes.
They walked out and the knights followed behind and Baelor tried to speak to Valarr again. The younger prince simply mounted one of the horses without a word and made his way through the village. His face hardened and Baelor had no words to help, not this time.
They finally arrived at the castle and he dismounted with no care for formalities. Kiera was waiting at the edge of the yard and his eyes went dark. He brushed past her and went to his chambers. He threw his cloak off and he headed to the balcony. The wind whipped at his face and it was the only thing that could ground him. He stared out on the distance. He could see your village from afar. He wondered if he would ever see you again.
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