Chapter Text
Dayana held the sack over her shoulder with little difficulty, and even less hurry.
It had been her duty for nearly a fortnight now to check the fish traps, take what she could find, and then bring them back to the castle to be gutted and prepped by the fishmongers and then taken to the Kitchen Keep. She did her duty with great boredom, and felt no great compulsion to do her job especially well. Everyone knew that it was just an excuse to have her out of the castle. Over the past month, it had become important to send her across the rickety old bridges that connected the cliffs and islands, down the steps, and to the beaches that many rarely frequented.
Much of the fish eaten were caught from ships, anyhow, with the traps connected to the island or beach run down and scarcely used. There were plenty of fish in the ocean, after all, and if The Greyjoy genuinely wanted to use her for cultivating food he would have sent her to the main farm island with the Thralls.
She paused as she examined her next destination, simultaneously stunned by its beauty and thankful for the low tide.
The tide pools were one of her favorite places to explore.
As she walked, graceful despite the uneven terrain, she ran her fingers along the jagged rocks that steadily grew taller and taller the deeper she went. The waves of the ocean lapped gently against the stone, too low to reach her, though she was still wet by the mists. The cool spray felt nice against her burning skin.
Thankfully, she had the control not to run hot enough to turn it to steam.
Dayana continued down to the rusted metal cages (which were the ill-thought idea of one of her uncles) and peered into the slits.
Nothing, except for rotting seaweed.
The traps in this area hardly yielded anything especially exciting, but many of her sisters enjoyed the creatures she brought back with her from the actual tide pools. Recently their thanks had been reduced to wobbly smiles and tearful sniffles, as the young girls expected her to be found dead or go missing any day now.
In this second life, she would likely never have been much of an afterthought, if not for that wretched dragon.
It insisted, with great desperation, on trailing her on her daily duties. Its eyes shimmered silver and cerulean in the mists, watching her with a tangible hunger. It was frankly unfathomable that such a beast would fly across possibly three kingdoms of Westeros just to linger on the outskirts of Pyke. Many of the Ironborn reavers had been unsure on what to do—but one thing could not be denied.
The thing was after Dayana.
On one hand, it made her life rather easy. She was removed from her responsibilities in the household, allowing her to escape the lecherous swats and paws of The Greyjoy’s vassal men, and even some of her own cousins. She was also somewhat lucky, as her looks were too ‘handsome’ and ‘mannish’. Not very comely to the rapists at all—and though she was only the daughter to one of The Greyjoy’s salt wives, she was still his. Many of the men thought twice about harming her, though not much of the laws against bleeding and killing applied to her, as a woman.
One of her father’s wives, the only one who halfway cared about Dayana, had pleaded with a priest to bless her with some protection. The withered old man had taken one look at her and frowned, taking a deep swig of his salt-water. He’d offered to send her to the afterlife easily, with a quick drowning, but when The Greyjoy caught wind of this he’d asked the priest to wait.
“If the girl deserves to be welcomed in the Drowned Gods halls, she will be.”
“A rare thing is a woman who enters his halls unassisted.” Warned the priest, stroking his long, unkempt beard. His eyes were serious, though he’d been all too happy to go off on his merry way after a few platitudes by The Greyjoy. The priest probably hadn’t cared too much about Dayana's fate, in truth, but had paused because of her name.
Dayana was the oldest of four daughters with four different salt wives, and The Greyjoy only had one rock son. It was likely that soon she’d be taken to rock wife by sons of The Merlyn or The Tawney. It was the rock daughters that became the most sought after rock wives, but a salt daughter would do in a pinch—as long as he gave her husband sons. Besides that, a rock wife needn’t be anything else, not pretty, or amiable, or even very interesting. Apparently men were pickier in the other kingdoms, but many Ironborn had claimed it was because they couldn't have more than one wife.
Dayana was dissatisfied with her lot, of course. But there was little she could do about it without giving away what she was.
She, to the disappointment of the drowned thing in the sea, was reluctant to use the gifts she inherited from her past life. She’d known it was a matter of time before He Who Dwells Beneath The Waves became annoyed by her. Not only had his chosen champion been utterly passive for the many years she’d lived, she was mostly disgusted with the laws and traditions of his people—and, even worse, she was a woman.
The dragon in the sea was likely a reminder of her purpose, that she ought to at least attempt a clash with the ruling family of Westeros. She refused this, however. Her soul did not belong to him. She was on a loan, so to speak, and even if she drowned in his domain he would not be allowed to keep her.
Originally, the Drowned God had attempted to push her soul into the body of The Greyjoys firstborn son. This had not worked, and instead Dayana was born fifteen years before the boy.
The game, for the god she temporarily belonged to, was rigged right from the start. She could not blame him for growing angry, or impatient—but she did have to wonder exactly where he’d managed to get his hands on a dragon.
Said dragon watched her from far out, and through the mists she could see the shadow of its wings—rapidly fading as it disappeared from view, likely to go off and hunt.
Behind her, she heard the shifting of weight against gravel.
She knew without looking it was Dalton, the only child of her father’s rock wife. The boy was only six, and already he had joined his father and uncles on their journeys. Though he’d only been rowing for a year, it was no secret he had his eye on bloodying his first man soon enough. The Greyjoy was adamant that Dalton continue his rowing, sparring, and swimming before properly reaving. Perhaps the first responsible thing he’d ever done for any one of his children.
Regardless of his thirst for blood, Dayana could not help but feel a fondness for him. The boy had taken to following her around the moment he could crawl, always indignant at being left behind.
“If your father learns you have been here, he’ll cane you something fierce.” She said into the open air. If the circumstances were normal, she likely would have played along with him—but she had been sequestered to an area on Pyke that had little in terms of game or people for the protection of the other islanders.
It was an especially bad idea to be tailing her, now.
Dalton jumped from behind a rock, glowering at her. “He don’t have to know,” he said, his voice heavily accented. His eyes, so black they hid his pupils, glowered at her. There was a purple-green bruise around one of them, likely a punishment doled out by one of their uncles or another boy.
It was common enough to see, but it tugged at Dayana’s chest anyway—and wordlessly she held a hand to him.
Eagerly, Dalton rushed forward and pressed his face against it, nuzzling her warm palm and sighing in relief.
“Fighting again?” She mused, thumb brushing against his pale, near-blue skin. Her dark fingers contrasted against him greatly—another feature of hers that made the men wary of her, despite her status. It was likely she would be propositioned to be a rock-wife by only the desperate, considering she was already one and twenty. “Get this from another rower or a reaver?”
“Reaver,” he admitted, “though you should see him, Yana. Knocked his teeth straight from his mouth, I did. Did ‘em a favor too, they were so rotted.”
“That you did,” she agreed. “What did he say?”
Dalton scowled. “Nothing. Just felt like it, is all.”
“Dalton.”
He grit his teeth, his hooked nose scrunching. Still, he did not jerk himself away from her, instead pushing his face deeper into her palm. His rock-mother may have loved him, but it was of an abstract kind. He was her duty to birth, nothing more. And many of the thralls who’d cared for him as nurse maid and caretaker had been dismissed after his first time rowing.
“Said... said you’re to be thralled, soon enough.”
“We both know that is not true,” she reminded him gently.
“Still shouldn’t have been saying it.” He said grumpily. “No Greyjoy is thralled. Salt-child or no.”
“Suppose I can’t blame you for handling it,” she said mildly. “You paid the iron price for his teeth, is all.”
Dalton grinned, wide and unrepentant. “Right!”
She felt it then, a pinprick through the fog. “Best get going,” she said, still easy and unworried. “That dragon that’s been around has found me again.”
“That thing won’t hurt me.” Dalton said, perhaps unwisely. “I’m with you, aren’t I? And the way I see it, that thing don’t wanna eat you. I bet it’s decided the Targaryen’s are too craven. It needs the blood of the Drowned God to be well whipped into shape.” His expression became dreamy, suddenly. “Can you imagine reaving on one of those things?”
“Ironborn are of the sea, not sky,” she reminded him. “Best not let The Greyjoy hear you saying that, nor any priests for that matter.”
“We can reave together, if you claim that dragon.” Dalton sniffed, reaching up and pressing a small pale hand to her wrist. He was tiny at that moment, but Greyjoys tended to be tall adults, it was only a matter of time before he sprouted like a weed. “You won’t be thralled, or made some foul man’s rock wife. You can rule the seas by my side.”
“Only Targaryen’s claim dragons, Dalton.”
“That’s not true,” he retorted hotly. “There were all sorts in Old Valyria, and even now—there’s those Velaryons, right? The Prince-Consort, he’s got Seasmoke.”
“How do you know all that but never pay attention to your tutors?” Dayana wondered out loud.
“Father wants me to know all the proper fleets in Westeros,” said Dalton. “He mutters about the Velaryons a lot—and the Redwynes too.”
She was unsurprised. “Not the Manderlys?”
“Not made for fighting,” he explained. “They pay the gold price, like cravens. Good crop though, easy targets... especially with the North so divided right now, and the whispers of famine. Father says we might get away with taking a ship or two from their fleet.”
Dayana frowned. She’d heard the rumors of Northerners starving, but a division? “Lord Stark—”
“Just lost his second born son,” said Dalton conspiratorially. “They say Lord Bennard had something to do with it. Or that he was lax with the boy's care, and he died ‘cos of that. Or that he was rough about it to his brother. I dunno if that’s true, because the lot of the men are gossips, but it seems they’re on the outs.”
“Is really that enough to divide the North?” Dayana wondered.
“It is when some of the lords like Bennard better.” Dalton grinned. “If there’s more divide, father may soon take me off rowing, and I’ll be a proper reaver!”
“You’re six namedays,” said Dayana, feeling unimpressed with him. “It’ll be some years more before father puts an axe or sword in your hand.”
He jerked from her touch, glowering. “I’m no child.”
“Perhaps not,” she grinned, “but can you even lift a proper man’s axe?”
“I—”
“And are you big enough to run about in decent armor comfortably?” She continued. “The master-of-arms has only been teaching you for a year or so, if I remember correctly.”
He scowled harder. “I’ve got daggers, and I’ve got a bow!”
“Can you carry this bag of fish without falling over?”
Dalton growled, flashing his teeth—all a little sharp. It reminded her of a shark, and it was something sometimes seen in the houses of the Iron Islands.
Dayana herself was the same.
She smiled. “What’s got you in such a hurry to reave, huh?”
Dalton said nothing, turning his face away from her and angrily kicking at some of the pebbles beneath his feet. It was silent for a long moment, the only sound was the wind nipping at their cheeks and the water crashing against the rocky beach. He turned back to her, face almost... solemn.
It was a peculiar expression for a boy of six to have, and it struck her deeply.
It was times like this she wished she’d gone through with it, killing their father, taking Dalton, and running. But it was almost too late now, and it would mean leaving all her sisters behind. Her brother worshiped the Drowned God and his ways with a fervor that shocked her. He took to the Greyjoy name like a fish to water, and his piousness and determination were rapidly gaining him allies on the islands.
To them, he was everything an heir should be.
And Dayana, chalk full of first world sensibilities, was disgusted by it.
You do not choose who you love. She told herself.
“Yana,” he began, “I—”
A loud crunch.
Dalton blinked, going utterly still.
Distracted, both had forgotten of her warning.
The dragon pushed its snout to her back, a low sound rising from the back of its throat. It was—it was cold, not warm like she might have expected. How could something that felt such a chill, have fire stored in its soul? How could something like that burn entire castles to ash, cook men in their armor?
She turned, and got her answer—blasted backward by a sudden onslaught of water.
Dalton screamed—running toward her, but she was back on her feet soon enough, ignoring the scrapes on her face where the pure pressure of the water had cut her. The bag of fish had been sent flying from her grip, landing against the gravel with a sick squelching noise.
“What the fuck,” she gasped.
“Did it spit at you?” Dalton asked, confused. “Like it was drinking, and decided to jape about?”
“I—“
The dragon spit water again, and though she flinched she realized that it was not aiming for her. It continued to soak the beach for near a full thirty seconds, before it stopped—the water slowly tapering off. The puddle it created was practically a pond, now—the pressure of its mouth carving a hole into the ground. Dayana blinking in shock, watching as some rocks—strong and striking just a few moments ago—crumbled to dust.
Dalton scrambled toward her, staring wide eyed. “Sea dragon.”
“Sea dragon?” Dayana muttered. “No proper sea dragon has wings, Dalton.”
“What else could it be?”
“I’ve no clue.”
She should have expected something like this. Of course a creature sent by the Drowned God would—would be like this.
Dayana took in the sight of the creature, marveling at its fine, shimmering scales. The dragon's colors, though bright enough to distinguish up close, did much to hide its presence in the fog and sea, silver and a deep, marvelous blue. Diana could not help but stare, for vibrant color was not oft seen on Pyke unless it was blood red crimson or the gold of The Greyjoy's kracken. It had been no wonder that one of this size had remained silent and tucked away, as long as it dived and remained in the fog, there was no reason for it to be seen unless it wanted to be.
The dragon continued to stare at her, almost amused, and lowered its body—gesturing expectantly.
“What are you waiting for?” Dalton asked, shaky with fear and excitement. “Climb!”
And, unsure of what else to do, knowing only it could mean her death, she made to obey him.
She reached out first, carefully hovering and hoping the dragon would not tear her limb from limb for her insolence. Her fingers touched an ocean blue scale, and a peculiar tingling shot up her arm—burning her hand. Dayana froze, gritting her teeth as a feeling like ice cold water shot through her body. Her blood, usually so warm, felt as though it had frozen entirely.
She could feel it, suddenly. The dragon. She was amused by Dayana, impatient to be ridden, desperate to speak.
Dayana, heart in her throat, moved forward to mount her.
“My mother was white-haired.” Dayana said.
“What are you on about now, girl?” The Greyjoy asked, not looking up from where he was sharpening his dagger.
“My mother,” she said with more force, “was white haired. If anyone remembers anything else, they are misinformed.”
He looked up at her, frowning. The Greyjoy, though he was lecherous, impulsive, and repugnant—had a mind that worked fast. He glanced at her, and then out the window—where in the fog the sea-dragon curled around one of his boats. “Aye,” he said faintly. He looked back at her, taking in her windswept curls and fog-wet dress, his mouth thinning at the sight of the tiny scabs on her face. “Her eyes were gray, a sign of our god, and I took her willingly, making her the favorite of my... lovely wives.”
Protection for him as much as her.
“How much time before another dragon arrives on Pyke?”
“Sent the Raven a month and a half ago. It’s likely the King received it maybe a fortnight ago. I doubt he’s aiming to do much about it at the moment, with Prince Daemon in exile and his daughter attending her duties. Especially considering your creature hasn’t harmed anyone." Conveniently, he left out the fact it had stalked her for so long. "I expected there to be an actual response some time this week.” He sheathed his dagger. “Girl... They will not stand for this.”
“I know,” she said to him. “We must send the King another raven—and hastily too. My mother—who can we claim had her?”
“The whore, Saera.” The Greyjoy said quickly. “Now that I think about it, your mother talked often of her father’s time in Lys.”
It was said so smoothly, it was impossible to know if it was a lie. Not that she minded very much.
The less she knew, the better.
“Granddaughter to a princess,” said Dayana, bitterly. “It will still shake them, that a bastard can call dragons.”
“Salt-daughter you may be, but you are no bastard,” The Greyjoy said firmly. His lips pursed, however, when he thought of Saera and her infamous reputation. “The blood is so diluted,” he muttered. “The only queer thing about you is your eyes, silver—and perhaps your...” He looked at her for what felt like the first time. “Handsomeness.” He decided. “You are handsome, though not ethereal—strange and handsome. I had thought it a remnant of the Drowned god in our line, but it can be explained by your mother.”
“I am dangerous,” said Dayana quietly. “My very existence... it calls into question everything. Even here, whispers of Velaryon princes have reached us. What will be said, if a salt-child of the Ironborn rides a dragon? I am little but a bastard to those seven worshiping fools.”
He let out a bark of rough laughter. “Aye. But there is little you can do now, Yana.”
The Greyjoy’s use of her siblings' nickname for her threw her for a moment, but she forced herself to ignore her shock. “There is something you must know,” she said. “That dragon—it breathes no fire.”
“Hmm. Well—”
“It breathes water.”
That, finally, seemed to strike him speechless.
“We can pretend the creature has made away with me, to devour me somewhere.” Dayana said. “It is the safest.” For Dalton. For the girls.
Her father looked tempted, a moment, before he shook his head. “And when whispers of a strange rider on a stranger dragon reach the Targaryens? A creature like that cannot be hidden, cannot be tucked away. It has marked you, girl, and it will follow you evermore. You would be running your whole life.”
“An Ironborn’s home is the sea,” she said quietly. “Open and endless, far from the heavens where the Storm God lurks. If I fly that dragon again, it will be my death.”
“Aye,” he said again. “But so will every other path—and is it not a sign, daughter? A sea dragon for an Ironborn rider.” He paused to think. “The kiss of life,” he murmured. “You will die, and live again, but perhaps in your first death the bond between dragon and dragon rider will be broken. And if not, and if we anger the creature... well. It is water we will be treated with, not fire.”
He means to kill me.
It was insane. It would not work.
She would not have to live here anymore.
It was the fastest path to death. This day would be her last, and she would not have to wait anxiously for the ruling of the monarchy. Dalton would be safe, though likely traumatized—as the rest of the household would be.
Dayana paused. She didn’t want to leave her brother behind, and perhaps it was selfish of her, but… she’d already lived her life. This second one was basically an unwelcome surprise. She owed no one anything, not here, any commitments she’d made had died with her first body.
Most of all, the Drowned God would lose his champion. Perhaps that had been his aim the entire time, to delete this attempt and try again later.
If that was so, she would not fight him.
“I will do it.” She said, firm. Her hands did not shake.
Her father took them anyway, squeezing them once—an action wholly out of character—before releasing her and wrenching the door open.
“A priest!” He bellowed, startling the thralls walking up the steps. “We need a priest! A priest for Dayana Greyjoy!”
The priest had no need to tie her arms behind her back, as she came willingly. The same could not be said for Dalton, who raged and screamed at the sight of his sister being prepped for what could mean death.
Dayana looked out into the sea, meeting no blue eyes, and hearing nothing but the crashing of the waves against the island. The dragon, unfamiliar to all who had seen it, had not seemed to make an appearance for her drowning. This was likely for the best, as dragons had raged and killed when their bonded had been harmed. For a moment, it occurred to her that doing this here, in front of many lords and ladies of the Iron Islands, in front of their thralls, servants, and citizens—was folly. The dragon could not only breathe highly pressurized water, but it had long claws and teeth. If angered, few would be left.
It wasn’t like the crowd knew she’d been bonded. Only her father, Dalton, and the priest knew this information, and it seemed they would not be sharing.
Before she could open her mouth and ask they perhaps watch from the castle, the priest gripped the back of her neck and forced her head under the waves.
She could hear, vaguely, the sound of Dalton screaming louder. An impressive feat, considering all sounds had become muffled. If he kept this up, it wouldn’t be long before their father struck him.
Guilt pierced her heart, though she fought the urge to thrash as long as she could before the instinctual panic rose. She gurgled, pressing her fingers deep into the sand and forcing herself not to rise and shove the priest off her. His grip, like iron, could easily be swatted away by someone of her strength—but she knew it was unwise to fight. There was a sense of rightness to it all, her lungs full of water, the salt stinging her eyes and nose.
She would be home soon.
Darkness crept at the edge of her vision, and she felt the strength leaving her hands and feet, legs and arms, chest and head—and the burning in her chest as she drowned grew worse and worse as she felt less and less.
Soon. Something whispered. Soon.
Though she did not open her eyes, she could see him. In the sea, she floated, while a single yellow eye—larger than all the towers on Pyke combined—stared down at her. She turned away from him, shocked to find that she was no longer burning for air. Dayana opened her mouth, and though she tasted salt water, felt no discomfort.
“It is my turn.” The eye had no mouth, so she could not see Him speak. “Fire’s claim on you is fickle. A thing of the past. In this life, you are mine.”
Then how on Earth did he explain the dragon?
Annoyance radiated off him, and the water began to boil all around her. She looked around, startled, and realized quite suddenly that he was more than just a single eye—though that eye spanned leagues in width and diameter. The rest of his body, blue and green, had blended in with the water, darkening as she peered lower, and lower, and lower—until she realized he stretched farther down than she could see.
“I can do nothing for the dragon. It is yours. It senses what you were, and curiosity got the better of the blasted thing. It has... changed, as you have. I cannot say why. And I cannot say how.”
That... did not sound good.
She tried to speak, and was shocked to find that her voice carried far—even louder than the Drowned God’s. “I—I belong to no god,” she said. “I fought a battle my last life to determine that. I’m supposed to be a free agent.”
“One battle, for one life.”
“That seems very unfair.” Dayana muttered. “What do you even want from me? You know I don’t like your policies. Reaving and raping and slaving—”
“I care little for petty human sensibilities,” said he, “I care for taking, for carving a place into the world for oneself, for paying the iron price—to take is the most precious thing you can do in your fleeting lives. I do not dictate what or who is taken.”
Dayana thought that was really fucked.
“When you were named Diana, you took.”
“From people who deserved it,” said Dayana.
“Nobody deserves anything,” said the Drowned God, “that is why everything must be taken.”
Dayana felt her body begin to float, and she was shocked at how rapidly she was sent toward lighter water.
“We will speak again, champion.”