Ancestral Recall - Part One
Pairing: Baelor Targaryen x Elza Zaldrāelza (OFC) Warnings: Angst, deviation from canon. Word count: ~3.5k
Summary: Elza is the great-great-granddaughter of a dragonkeeper who lived in service of the Targaryen family. When the last of the dragons died, their keepers were left to wander without purpose. Ezra has remained tied to the Targaryen family, eager to hold them accountable for the poverty she and her family have been forced into. When given the opportunity to confront an actual Targaryen prince for the misdeeds of his house, she finds herself unsure how to handle the head of the dragon when it's the one that approaches with logic and reason.
Author's note: Splitting this in half, because it's long. Part two coming later this week. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications if you'd like to be kept up to date with my writing.
“You were not meant for a life cramped in a hovel down some piss reeking ginnel on the mainland, my girl,” Ezra’s grandmother told her, the brass bangles on her wrist tinkling quietly as she raised a bronzed and bony finger, “you are descended from a long line of proud folk who once inhabited the Fourteen Flames, living freely among the dragons. Over a hundred years ago, the women of our family felt the breeze of the beat of dragon’s wings upon their cheeks, and the warmth of volcanic ash beneath the bare soles of their feet.”
Ezra giggled, her toes wigging as her grandmother reached out, tickling her heels to emphasise her point.
Her giggles stopped as she startled awake, the grass damp beneath her cheek and Brāedāzma’s velvety muzzle snuffling at her soles. The dreams of her grandmother and dragons she had never seen with her own eyes had become more frequent since departing the capital. She sat up abruptly upon the hillside, watching as the men she had been following for the last seven days exited the inn below, and climbed back up onto their horses once they’d been retrieved from the stables. The sun, a russet sliver peeking out from the horizon, had just begun to rise.
“Fuck!” Ezra swore aloud, scrambling to her feet.
She would not even have time to splash water upon her face if she hoped to keep pace with the travelling party she was trailing — she had overslept. Prince Baelor Targaryen and his son, Valarr, had departed King’s Landing for Ashford Meadow a week ago, alongside Prince Maekar and his sons. Ezra had followed. When she thought deeply enough about it, she could not give any tangible reason for why, other than she had always tracked the movements of the Targaryen family closely. She had grown up hearing tales from her mother and grandmother about how her ancestors were brought to Westeros from Valyria during Aegon’s conquest, charged with caring for the mounts of the noble house that survived the Doom, and brought the Seven Kingdoms to their knees. Her great-great grandmother had served as a dragonkeeper, charged with the care of Syrax, Sunfyre and Dreamfyre in the dragon pit of King’s Landing, then later Seasmoke, Meleys, Silverwing and Vermithor upon Dragonstone. Ezra had been told the tales of how her people had once lived freely among the dragons, only to see them enslaved by nobility, taken to lands they were never meant to inhabit, and fight in wars which eventually led to their destruction. Ezra had no fondness for House Targaryen, how could she when they destroyed her family’s entire reason for being? The dragons had died, and those that had kept them cared for had been left to scatter to the winds, forgotten by the conquerors they had served so loyally for over a century. When the last of the dragons had fallen, most of their keepers had returned to Essos, and the surrounding free cities, wanting to be as close to their ancestral homeland as possible. Ezra’s family had remained, existing in poverty in Flea Bottom. She had never asked why, but she assumed they remained rooted by the same resentment that burned like embers deep within her — a desire to keep their enemies close in the hopes that one day they would see them fall to the same ruin that they had inflicted upon those they ruled over.
With her family all gone — her mother had passed away five years ago — the only thing Ezra had left in the world was Brāedāzma, her horse. He was a copper coloured stallion that her father had brought back from the markets when she was fifteen years old. He had been a sickly, gangly legged foal, not expected to survive the night, and so had been discarded like rubbish by a merchant selling livestock. Ezra and her father had nursed the foal back to health and named him the High Valyrian word for bronze. He was now large and strong and healthy, and there had been many times when those who meant well had advised Ezra to sell Brāedāzma — she would fetch a handsome sum for a horse like that — but Ezra never would. He was all she had left in the world, the only thing untouched by the influence of House Targaryen.
Ezra had become proficient at evading the guards posted around Aegon’s Hill and the surrounding areas, which meant she spent her days riding along the shore of Blackwater Bay, or keeping to the shadowy depths of the Kingswood. She saw all the comings and goings of the Red Keep, and so had seen the arrival of Prince Maekar and his sons from Summerhall two weeks ago, and had seen them depart again a week later with his brother and nephews in tow. She had heard talk of a tourney being hosted in honour of Lord Ashford’s daughter’s thirteenth name day, and had decided to follow, for no particular reason than the Red Keep would be far less interesting to watch without the presence of the princes that usually resided there. A few days into the journey she had noticed that both the eldest and youngest sons of Prince Maekar were no longer a part of the travelling party, and wondered if their departure had been planned. She judged from the subsequent urgency with which the remaining princes rode that it had not been. Ezra had spent the last week following from a distance, careful enough that if the Targaryen host were to turn and question her motives she could innocently state that she too was making her way to the tourney, without arousing any suspicion. So far, she had gone unnoticed. When the procession stopped to rest for the night inside of inns and taverns, Ezra went to sleep beneath the shelter of trees and upon grassy hillsides. To stay in the same establishment as them each night would draw attention, but she did not have the coin for lodging either — the royal travelling party only took shelter within the most lavish of lodgings, after all.
“The horses will tire faster if we continue at this pace,” Baelor advised, casting a sidelong glance at his brother, Maekar. The younger prince’s jaw was clenched, spine rigid as he kept his gaze fixed ahead, and though his hands were gloved, Baelor knew that if he could see his knuckles they would be white with the intensity of the grip he held upon the reins of his mount. “The more frequently we have to stop to rest them, the longer it will take us to reach Ashford.”
Maekar’s eyes rolled as he exhaled heavily through his nose. “Spare me the fucking lesson in equine care. Your son rides at your side, does he not? The other sits safe at home with his mother. I am missing two of mine, I will ride as bloody fast as I please!”
Baelor pressed his lips into a tight line, swallowing down his frustration. Maekar was foul tempered at the best of times, but his mood had soured further since Daeron and Aegon had disappeared from their travelling party. They were still three days’ ride from Ashford, and to continue at this speed was unsustainable, and the atmosphere between them was becoming intolerable. Baelor’s expression softened as he looked over at Valarr to his left – the boy looked uncomfortable, clearly saddle sore, and yet he uttered no complaint, just continued to ride diligently alongside his father.
“We have dispatched riders east and west to track the boys down,” Baelor reassured Maekar, “they will be found, if they have not reached Ashford already. Perhaps next time, you might reconsider entering Daeron into the lists – you know he holds no fondness for competing in tourneys.”
“Aegon wished to squire,” Maekar replied wearily, giving the subtlest of tugs upon his reins to slow his horse fractionally, “if he did not squire for Daeron then the only alternative…”
Baelor followed his brother’s line of sight as he trailed off, looking over his shoulder, eyes settling upon his second eldest nephew, Aerion, who rode several paces behind them. The silver haired youth sat slouched in his saddle, a bored and sulky expression upon his face, bottom lip protruding slightly. He straightened abruptly, schooling his features, clearly feeling the gaze of both his father and uncle upon him.
“It is just as well they disappeared,” Aerion offered unhelpfully, “you know Daeron would only embarrass himself, he was never any good in a joust.”
Baelor sighed in exasperation, looking ahead once more as he heard Maekar swear under his breath in quiet anger.
“You know we’re being followed?” Aerion piped up again, “There’s a rider back there, they’ve been behind us for days.”
Baelor spared a quick look back, seeing nothing that raised any sense of alarm. “There are many others besides us headed this way for Lady Ashford’s name day.”
“Well, they should travel where I don’t have to see them,” his nephew reasoned haughtily.
Baelor felt his back teeth grind reflexively, and his heels pressed into the sides of his mount. Perhaps a quicker journey was not such a bad idea after all.
“I’m sorry to bother you, do you know where I might find a place to sleep?” Ezra asked, stepping towards the redheaded young woman who stood outside of a large bell tent, her heavily ringed hands upon her hips.
Ezra had arrived in Ashford, trailing after the Targaryen travelling party, keeping a safe enough distance so as not to rouse suspicion as the fanfare of trumpets blasting and their house banners being unfurled signalled their arrival. She hadn’t thought about where she might lay her head once she arrived — the royal host had turned away from the field, to enjoy the hospitality of the castle for the duration of the festivities. That wasn’t an option for Ezra, and now as she looked upon the sprawling expanse of tents and pavilions, she realised with sobering clarity that sleeping beneath the stars as she had been doing on the journey here would no longer be possible. Vagrancy was frowned upon when in the presence of lords, ladies and smallfolk alike.
“Bit foolish to come all this way without a tent,” the red haired woman said, drawing back to look Ezra up and down — she was almost half a foot shorter, yet still managed to make her feel small beneath the sharp scrutiny of her gaze.
“I realise that now,” Ezra replied, clutching Brāedāzma’s reins in one hand and smiling apologetically, “and I find myself at a loss.”
“She can have my bedroll,” a much taller, olive skinned woman with plum coloured braids in her hair offered, pushing open the tent flap and stepping out. “I’ll be in Ser Manfred’s bed each night, I expect, so won't have need of it.”
“Presumptuous, aren’t you, Beony?” the red haired woman scoffed. “What if he wants me instead?”
Beony shrugged, smirking. “Then she can have your bedroll, can’t she? Not safe for a woman to be on her own without canvas over her head, especially once the ale starts to flow.”
“You are most gracious, thank you,” Ezra smiled, bowing her head.
“A bed don’t come free,” the redhead said, folding her arms, “you’ll have to pull your weight — help out with the cooking and all that. You can tie that horse of yours up outside too, makes us look more…prestigious…means we can charge more.”
Ezra watched as she shot a wink over her shoulder at Beony before turning back to her. “I’m Red, and this here’s Beony. You’ll find Daisy inside. What do we call you?”
“Ezra,” she answered before looking up at Brāedāzma’s bronze coloured snout. “And this is Brāedāzma.”
“What’s a whore need a horse for anyway?” Beony asked, settling her weight onto one hip, her dark gaze filled with curiosity.
Ezra blinked, startled by the question, pulling her wool travelling shawl tighter around herself. “Oh, I’m not…I’m not a whore. I followed the Targaryens here.”
She felt stupid for admitting it the moment the words left her mouth, as both Red and Beony guffawed with laughter.
“Well, best of luck with that then,” Red told her, eyes still crinkled with amusement, “I’ll be putting supper on soon, if you’ve no prior engagement to dine with Lord Ashford?”
Beony sputtered again, and Ezra turned away in embarrassment, busying herself with unbuckling her bags from her horse’s saddle.
Baelor was glad to be out in the fresh air. Two of his nephews being absent upon their arrival at Lord Ashford’s estate had created an uncomfortable atmosphere — not from the reception they had received; Lord Ashford and his daughter had been most gracious, but Maekar’s behaviour had been affected by the sourness of his mood, and he had been discourteous to their hosts — coarse language, barked orders to servants, and clipped, irritable responses when asked questions by those hosting them. That was not the lasting impression that he wanted to impart, especially when so much work had been done by both himself and his father to win back the favour of the people to House Targaryen, to make them see that they weren’t the incestuous savages that their forebears had made them believe.
He had departed to the tourney field as soon as he was able, to oversee the erection of the Targaryen pavilion alongside Valarr. As the black banners, emblazoned with the red three-headed dragon, were hoisted high above the peaked roof of the tent, Baelor watched with pride as his eldest son polished the grooves of his armour. With the shock of white in his dark hair and his mismatched eyes, Valarr reminded Baelor of himself in his youth, when he had received his first proper suit of armour, and how excited he’d been to wear it for the first time. He could see from the care that the young prince took in a task he could easily have delegated to a squire, that he harboured similar feelings of anticipation.
“If only your mother could see you,” Baelor said softly, thumb stroking across the signet ring which sat upon the index finger of his left hand, “she’d be so proud,”
Valarr scoffed, gaze lifting momentarily from where he moved cloth across steel plate to look incredulously at his father. “She’d fret and worry, and force me to stay at home with Matarys.”
Baelor hummed in acknowledgement, gaze softening at the reminder of Jena’s protectiveness. To her, the boys would always be babes that clung to her skirts no matter how much taller than her they grew. “It is a mother’s place to worry, but if she saw you as I do now I am certain she would be heartened that she need not.”
“Has word been sent to Aunt Dyanna about Daeron and Aegon?” Valarr asked, carefully setting aside his breastplate and lifting his helm into his lap.
“No,” Baelor admitted, “Maekar and I had hoped to find them before that was deemed necessary. We do not wish to worry her unnecessarily.”
Turning away from where his son worked fastidiously, he swept his gaze across the field, freezing when it settled upon a navy blue riding cloak — he had seen similar upon the road to Ashford when Aerion had mentioned someone had been following them. The woman wearing it locked eyes with him, halting her progress between two pavilions like a deer pausing in a forest to assess danger. She was tawny skinned, slender and of medium height, with wide doe eyes and black ringlets spilled from beneath the hood she wore. Baelor wondered if she had indeed been following them after all, but before he could give voice to the thought, the woman turned and scurried away, and his attention was pulled back to Valarr, who had asked if perhaps his helm was too snug of a fit. Baelor assured him it wasn’t.
Ezra laid upon the makeshift bed which Beony was supposed to occupy, huddled beneath a thick, woolen blanket. Though the “bedroll”, as it had been described to her, was little more than a few cushions placed upon the ground, it was surprisingly comfortable, and yet still sleep eluded her. The sounds of Ser Manfred’s groans of pleasure and Beony’s giggles filtered through the gauzy curtains that separated the master sleeping space from where the rest of them lay, and Ezra sighed, shifting beneath the blanket.
“Don’t worry,” Daisy whispered in reassurance, hand reaching for hers beneath the blankets and giving a gentle squeeze, “he doesn’t usually last long.”
“Aye,” came the hushed voice of Red from across the tent, “it’s his moaning about his gouty toes once he’s finished that’ll keep you up.”
Ezra huffed a soft laugh as Daisy giggled beside her. If only the reason for her restlessness were so simple. Her mind kept replaying the moment she had locked eyes with Prince Baelor Targaryen — hand of the king, heir to the Iron Throne. Ever since she was a child she had imagined all of the ways in which she would scold a Targaryen, to make them see how they had made her people suffer, if ever she came face to face with one. Now, today she had, and she had frozen and then run away, too startled to say anything. She felt ashamed, and it gnawed at her insides. If the opportunity presented itself again, she would not remain silent.
Ezra rose early, fetching a pail of fresh water for the tent’s occupants before slipping away for an early morning walk. She left her shoes behind, enjoying the softness of the dew kissed grass beneath her feet as she watched the sun peek slowly above the horizon, promising another cloudless day. She wandered until she reached a tall oak tree, its mighty boughs offering a protected space to sit beneath. Gathering her skirts, she was about to sit when the gentle clearing of a throat gave her pause. She straightened, turning slowly and felt her stomach drop as she was once again brought face to face with Prince Baelor.
“Apologies, I did not mean to startle you, my lady,” he offered politely, “I intended only to make my presence known before you sat, so it would not feel as much of an imposition.”
He was dressed plainly — black tunic and trousers. The only aspect of his dress that would have drawn attention was the hand pin fastened to his left breast.
Ezra swallowed thickly, jaw setting in defiance. She would not shy away this time. “I did not anticipate such courtesy from someone of your house.”
Baelor blinked. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I am Ezra,” she said proudly, unwavering, “Ezra Zaldrāelza.”
“Zaldrāelza,” he repeated, as though tasting the word upon his tongue. “Dragonkeeper?”
“Yes,” she replied with a curt nod, “my great great grandmother was.”
“What was her name?” he asked, head tilted in interest.
“Zahrina, she was keeper to Syrax and—”
“And Meleys and Vermithor upon Dragonstone,” Baelor finished for her.
Ezra’s lips parted, brow furrowing in confusion as she stared at the man before her — his expression was soft, a mixture of fondness and mild amusement, and she hated that it dissipated the anger that she longed to cling to. “How do you know that?”
“She is written about extensively on the third page of the records I keep back at the Red Keep’s library. She was caretaker to the mount of my own great great grandmother, so it is my duty to know who she is.”
Baelor toyed with the ring upon his index finger, and Ezra watched, chest heaving with indignation as she thought carefully about her next words. “So you know the poverty that she was driven into once your ancestors snuffed out the last of the dragons?”
He pursed his lips, before opening his palms in a gesture of supplication. “It is my understanding that the dragonkeepers fled across the Narrow Sea when the last dragon died.”
“Not my family!” she spat, taking a step towards him, trembling with rage, infuriated further when he did not retreat back from her. “My family remained, living in the filth of Flea Bottom, while your family continued to feast and enjoy the comforts of your conquests, forgetting all about those who had served you so loyally.”
His brow furrowed, mismatched eyes meeting hers. “And what is it you seek now? Reparations? Gold to put right the poverty you find yourself in?”
“A typical prince, offering coin to dispatch with a problem you don’t want to deal with!”
Ezra stormed away before he could say another word, throat dry with the effort of her breaths, fury burning hot through every vein. It had unnerved her how calmly he had spoken to her, how reasonable he had been. But what unnerved her more was that for the question “and what is it you seek now?” she had no answer. She didn’t know.