░▒▌╳▐ ᴅ ʀ ᴀ ɢ ᴏ ɴ ʟ ᴏ ʀ ᴅ
ENTERING THE ROOM, as it almost always happens, the young man could envision in his mind’s eye the form of his grandfather hunched over a scroll. It’s familiar to him, it’s HOME as much as the rest of the old palace is but glancing back to the woman, there was awe glistening in her amethyst gaze. Is it the first time she gets to witness this sight or another similar? There is only so much he and other valyrians whom have glimpsed through what the glass candles show them know of this Mother of Dragons. They know that she seems to have launched a campaign to end slavery, that she has conquered such slaver cities and now, that her three dragons are grown; and that she belongs to the lineage of House Targaryen. There are very few records to be found here of her family and those that survived, are possibly some that she already knows.
It’s with a muted smile that he focuses on the task at hand and lets her explore to her leisure, only half aware of how she approaches the glass candle. Surely, she must’ve seen one before, her surmises. It’s by showing her the book from where he is to follow the instructions on preparing the balm for the wounded dragon, that he catches her attention once more. Vaedar doesn’t give thought to how it was likely that the written version of their mother tongue was different from what she knew, even though it should’ve crossed his mind—Considering how she does speak the language fluently but with pronunciations. He was more fixated on making certain to do all as the pages of the book instructed for the balm. When she asks after his grandfather, violet eyes momentarily shift to look to her with the tug of a smile curving the edges of his lips.
❝ I trusted him more than my own father. ❞ He confesses, returning to the gathered herbs and putting them into a mortar like bowl in just the right amounts. ❝ Was always closest to him and many respected him—Maeron, was his name. ❞ There is always much PRIDE whenever he admits to having a closer relationship to his grandfather rather than the father, something he doesn’t even attempt to hide. His father, Aeron, wanted to shape his eldest son into the man he wished him to be, and such thought just did not sit well the silver-gold haired man—Who refuses to be controlled or tamed, even by his family. His grandfather never attempted this, albeit Vaedar knew he too would’ve wanted for his older grandson to follow in his footsteps and become a sorcerer. Those musings are quickly dismissed when she answers his own question, once again his gaze meeting hers, where he can see the softness in her voice being reflected now.
❝ It is a fine name then. ❞ The man first comments, not missing the title used for her husband. ❝ You were wed to a Dothraki Khal? ❞ He then adds curiously, the slight tilt of his head that accompanied the doubt displaying it so. They knew of her acquisition of Unsullied but of events in her life prior, there was not much to be known ( aside from her hatching dragons for the first time in over a century ). There’s only so much the glass candles could grant glimpses of with the dwindling magic—Only recently did they start lighting by themselves without having to do so through magic.
Once he hears the water boiling over at the fire place, the valyrian lord returns to tend to the cauldron where he’d placed the herbs and takes the container away. Using a spoon of iron, he scoops the herbs out and into a small bowl, bringing them over to the table again where he adds them to the already mixed herbs in another. With a pestle, he grinds the herbs together in the mortar with one hand and with the other, he takes a vial with a clear but somewhat viscous liquid in it and pours it slowly in between the grinding. It’s during the preparation that Daenerys begins to give voice to her thoughts and now Vaedar too finds himself wondering if there is some PURPOSE to her presence here. The manner in which she states the words leaves little place for doubt that it was all Drogon’s doing, but she had so mentioned something similar previously also.
❝ Dragons have a wisdom and knowledge that can’t be comprehended. ❞ He utters, being done with pouring the liquid into the mixture of herbs, so now the consistency is thick but smooth as a balm ought to be. The preparation itself is nothing complicated but it’s the herbs that hold the specific properties that will help the kind of wound the black dragon suffered to heal, and to so swifter. ❝ I can’t say if that is the purpose of him bringing you here, that is for you to discover and know—If there is to be something truly. ❞ Then he pauses, looking up to her. ❝ I have read dragons are intimate with the emotions of their riders, so perhaps in some way, he has brought you because you needed to be here. ❞ The lord offers in the form of a suggestion, with a light shrug of his shoulders. ❝ It will mostly likely take some days for him to fully heal so you will have time, and I shall help in whichever way I can, Daenerys Stormborn. ❞ Returning his attention to the mortar, he lifts and offers it to her whilst motioning with his head to the doors.
❝ It’s done. You will have to apply it yourself since I doubt he would allow me—You need just cover the deeper gashes with the balm, those are the ones that would require attention. The recipe mentioned it need only be applied once daily, and for the dragon to rest so the recovery is faster. ❞ There is enough of the balm in the large bowl for some days but he will need to find more of the herbs in case it is not, and then there is also the question of Drogon’s diet. ❝ Does he feed on cattle? I can have the animals fetched here. ❞ He adds as they make their way back.
Warmth seeped into the Dragon Lord’s voice, unbridled pride and affection in his grandsire. She wondered if she might sound the same, had Jaehaerys II lived long enough to know her. Not even forty when he died, he passed the throne onto her father, making him king at only eighteen years of age, long before Viserys was born. Ser Barristan had known him, had even offered to speak of him, but she refused, thinking they would have the time in some future spring when all their battles were won. One day you must tell me all, she made him promise, the good and the bad. She prayed they would still have the chance.
Recognition of the Dothraki titles answered her own curiosity well enough. It seemed that while they hid here, at the ends of the Earth, they were not so in the dark when it came to matters outside the barrier. “It...is a very long story, my journey from Westeros to here.” Drogo might have loved her, in his own way, and a part of her might have even come to love him in return, yet she would never forget how their union began -- sold, in exchange for the army that would take back her brothers throne. That same army now marched behind her, alongside the armies of a dozen other khals, united into a single khalasar. They’re strange, the twists that fate holds in store for them, and none more so than the one that’s brought her here to Old Valyria.
Stone against stone the pestle ground, spilling the fresh, clean scent of herbs into the air. Daenerys weighed his words in silence. Despite the death of dragons in his land, Vaedar was knowledgeable, with a certain wisdom in his words she already experienced. Drogon had appeared to her in Daznak’s Pit, when the suffering and cruelty became too much to bear, when she wanted nothing more than to make it all end. Had he sensed her distress? Her desires? They were both blood of the dragon. Who could say how deep their bond ran.
The rough mortar in her hands returned her to the moment, and she offered him a small smile. “Thank you.” Few men would have been so accommodating, without expecting something in return, though Daenerys expected that conversation to come in due time. The magisters and princes of her youth were content to host her and Viserys for a time, but never endlessly, never without a price. Cradling the balm in her arms, she followed Vaedar back towards the courtyard, careful not to spill a drop.
“He will eat any sizable livestock...but they favor sheep.” Out of all the charred bones brought to her in Meereen, real or forged, none were so numerous as the sheep that lived in the farms alongside the city walls or as far as the mountain pass. She supposed even dragons had their preferences. Daylight made her blink once they reached the courtyard. As her eyes adjusted, Drogon appeared to her again, still curled within the safe confines of the castle walls.
One molten eye watched, unblinking, as she approached, stepping over his tail to reach where the gashes raked his side. Daenerys stroked his scales, calming him, before dipping her fingers into the bowl. The balm felt cool, leaving her skin with a faint tingling sensation before she began to dab it across Drogon’s wounds. She heard him hiss, heard his teeth snap together furiously, but with some gentle words and a few breaks, she coaxed him into stretching out further until the entirety of his injuries were coated with the paste. Smoke curled from his nostrils by the time she finished, yet she ran her fingers along his snout all the same, urging him to rest.
“We’ve done what we can, for now,” she said, turning away. All that remained was for him to rest, provided he could find it in himself to lay still for a few days while the worst of his wounds healed. Drogon was the most willful of her children; he would not take kindly to being denied the skies. She could worry about keeping him hidden when the time came. Not much of the balm remained in the smaller bowl. She turned it over once in her hands, then held it out to Vaedar. “Might I see the rest of your castle, my lord...?” She would be remiss, not to make the most of her time here. “I imagine if is anything like your study, it’s a wonder.”
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