There were two babes in the Tower of Joy.
Two babes tied so closely to their parents, Ned had to make the decision.
One with hair like raven feathers, eyes as grey as steel, and a face of a true Stark. The other, with hair like moonlight, eyes lik...
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There was a custom in Dothraki that spoke of every important event in a Dothraki's life should be under the open sky; and a wedding was no different. Animal skin tents, hordes of people, and rhythmic drums was not how Rhaenar envisioned her wedding; she imagined a sept, and a beautiful dress, and Lords and Ladies paying their respect. Her indigo eyes drifted to Khal Drogo, his own dark hues watching as yet another person granted them gifts.
Meat was everywhere, people fucking in the open, and killing, but no one seemed bothered. Her attention turned to Viserys, who eyes watched her in turn. She nodded to him, watching as he turned to face the Magister, words exchanged between the pair. Her eyes shifted, focusing as two men fought over a woman, blood being spilled as everyone looked on in excitement before his throat was slit, and his braid cut off. Rhaenar's stomach turned, her hand reaching to cup it.
This was a world away from what she was used to, how would she survive? She glanced at Daenerys, the poor girl looking half sick as she clung to her brother's side, eyes never leaving the men. It was almost savage to watch, but she knew she had to. If she was going to survive this for the rest of her life, she had to get used to it.
Khal Drogo spoke something in Dothraki as they turned to face a Knight; he seemed so out of place here with his pale hair, his plain tunic, and light armour. "A small gift for the new Khaleesi." He addressed, her eyes falling to his. He seemed middle-aged, weathered as he held books within his hands, with light hair, and kind eyes. "Songs and histories from the Seven Kingdoms."
"Thank you, kind Ser." She said, taking the books in her own hands; leather warm beneath her palm as she met his pale eyes. Hos accent was different, more afflicted by something than those around her as Rhaenar frowned, not ready to let him from her sight as she grew curious. "Are you from Westeros?" She asked, noting how different he seemed to speak and appear.
"Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, I served King Aerys for many years. Gods be good I hope to always serve the rightful King." He glanced to Viserys as he spoke. Bear Island was in the North, far from here. Rhaenar eyed him careful, unsure on why he'd be at a Dothraki wedding. Ser Jorah Mormont left as the next person was called upon, two slavers bringing up a chest. Magister Illyrio stood as they opened the chest, Rhaenar's eyes falling to it.
There were four dragons eggs nestled inside, each vastly different from the next. They were like stone, so hard and each with scales lining it. Her hand reached for the black egg, fingers locking around the heavy stone. Her eyes flickered up. "Dragons eggs, Rhaenar; from the shadow lands beyond Asshai. The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful." They felt magical, like the dragons were still beneath the surface just waiting to come out. They were the sigil of her father's house, the proud red three-headed dragon on a black field. Viserys would always wear it on his doublet, ensuring everyone knew how proud of a Targaryen he was.
