"In Valyria, Targaryens were a House of little renown," Daemon says. It is known (hah), but almost never spoken of aloud, for fear of retribution from the ruling powers that be. "We loved our dragons too much to be economic forces. We bonded with them as deep as children, as deep as lovers, instead of only using them as cudgels. Husbands and wives ruled the House side by side, hand in hand."

There were wars of annihilating subjugation, there were dragon-roads of immense trade, and the Targaryens were only footnotes, if that. It was the work of a woman—

(legend says she had a dream, but Daemon believes she was a fucking geologist and this horrid Westerosi influence has made a competent woman into a mystic)

—that spared them, when their peers were too egotistical. Her name was Jor-El.

"Valyrians came to have dragon's blood one of two ways. Either they used magic, or they forced slaves fuck monsters. Which do you think is more likely, I wonder."

Caraxes stretches; the sound of the ocean mingles with the sound of his breathing, a dull, rhythmic roar.

"Lions will return. And she is your princess."