Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11581398.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      To_be_announced, Visenya_Targaryen/Oberyn_Martell, Ned_Stark/Catelyn
      Tully, Jaime_Lannister/Cersei_Lannister, Daenerys_Targaryen/Khal_Drogo
  Character:
      Visenya_Targaryen, Arthur_Dayne, Monford_Velaryon, Varys_(ASoIaF),
      Daenerys_Targaryen, Robb_Stark, Oberyn_Martell, Cersei_Lannister, Tyrion
      Lannister, Tywin_Lannister, Petyr_Baelish, Catelyn_Tully_Stark, Sansa
      Stark, Arya_Stark, Bran_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Female_Jon_Snow, R_plus_L_equals_J, Canon-Typical_Violence, Incest,
      Reincarnation, Somewhat_crack.
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-23 Updated: 2017-10-06 Chapters: 3/? Words: 35234
****** The Dragon Queen Reborn ******
by Daemon_Belaerys
Summary
     Rhaegar always wanted a Visenya for his Aegon, well, be careful what
     you wish for.
***** In the Beginning. *****
 
Author types as sweat pours down his face and neck. A sword of Valyrian steel
resting on his neck in the hands of the captain of GRRM's liquidation squad.
"I 'Daemon Belaerys' author of this piece of fiction, and lurker of the
nethereby decree that anything you recognize belongs to George R.R Martin,
owner of AsoIaF, Master of Prose and Ruler of the Books, The Old Man, Murderer
of Favorites, and Lord of Procrastination"
Ahem, anyway. You can all thank my blasted cousin for this piece, since he was
the one who told me that 'you don't have the fucking balls to write a 'fem-Jon'
fic', so naturally, the fucking egocentric that I am accepted. However, I
couldn't, in good conscience, let him have the last word so I thought, he wants
'fem-Jon- I'll do one better. We all know that Rhaegar wanted a Visenya for his
Aegon, well in this case he doesn't just get a Visenya, he gets The Visenya,
and let's just say, the baddest Warrior Queen in the history of Westeros won't
be pleased to see what has become of her line, or her Kingdom…
Warnings: Sex almost from straight away, violence, cursing, incest... the usual
AsoIaF stuff that you always find, in my fics at least. Also, you all know my
usual writing style. Well, I guess it's more of the same. I've always liked Jon
Snow, even if he is at times an angsty moody… bastard. Well, reading about the
same angsty Jon Snow every damn time loses its appeal. Its bloody fanfiction
for god's sake, try to not always write the characters at the exactly same way
I say, so here you go, a fem-Jon fic where he isn't an angsty bastard. Isn't
lusting for Robb, and doesn't play the 'meek' Lady Snow that we see so often
with fem-Jon, hell, I don't even think that we'll see fem-Jon lust over Jaime
either.
Some High Valyrian is also spoken. Translation is at the authors note at the
bottom.
Oh, and I think I am the first person in fanfiction to kill of a particular
character before that character is even introduced into his/her storyline
according to the books/show. Have fun guessing until you find out which one.
Tower of Joy, Visenya:
Visenya was confused, no scratch that, she was completely befuddled. There she
was, in a room that was not her own. Which was peculiar since she could most
definitely remember retiring early in her bedchambers on Dragonstone one
evening shortly after her seventieth name day because of an oncoming chill
she'd felt for a few days prior.
Even more strange was that she was… formless. She could see neither her hands,
arms, hair or even her breasts. For that matter, it also shouldn't be possible
to see from more than one angle, but she did. She could see from above and
below, not to mention from the sides, so yes, she was bloody well confused, and
at her age, well, the last time she had been confused she had shown the
relatively new and somewhat uppity Master-at-Arms on Dragonstone exactly why
she had had as big a part of planning and executing the invasion as her
brother-husband had. Said man was lucky to escape with nothing more than a
broken arm, though likely his ego would never recover after having had his arse
well and truly handed to him by a woman eight and sixty years old.
So yes, she was confused, confused enough that the couple rutting like animals
in the room was actually a welcome sight as she had something to focus her mind
on. The young woman, barely into womanhood was comely enough she supposed, with
her long raven tresses and grey eyes. A finely sculpted face and large enough
teats to interest a man she supposed, although her hips were still narrow
enough that Visenya, and indeed most who knew of the rigors of childbirth would
suggest giving the girl a few more years to ripen before trying to birth a
babe.
The man she 'recognized' almost instantly. Somewhat at least. While she had
never met, or indeed even seen him before, she knew her brother well enough to
recognize someone of his seed. Furthermore, the utterly effeminate pout on his
lips was so undoubtedly Rhaenys that she almost felt a pang of longing and
sorrow through her.
"Rhaegar, Rhaegar." the girl moaned, loudly. So loudly in fact that 'Senya
almost snorted in disbelief. Either the girl was a whore who didn't know
better, was utterly inexperienced with fucking, or perhaps most unlikely, her
great nephew or whatever Rhaegar was, was a most accomplished lover… which
again she doubted, especially if he was anything like Rhaenys.
Now, her brother Aegon might have visited Rhaenys' chambers far more often than
he'd visited her own, if only for the fact that he, like their lustful bastard
brother Orys, wanted to just pound something into submission every now and
then. Something he never got from her that was sure. Visenya might be one of
her brother's two wives, but she was both his elder, and his superior in the
arts of war, having been the one who introduced him to a blade the first time,
and while she played her part… well enough in public, she never let Aegon
forget just who was the Master, or Mistress if you will in the bedroom. So,
while Rhaenys had him more often, and who knows how many other lovers on the
side, the lustful little imp that she was, 'Senya had never seen Aegon leave
Rhaenys' chambers as exhausted, or scratched or bruised as he'd be when leaving
her own bed.
"Tonight Lya, you'll give me my Visenya." Rhaegar moaned as he, rather
inexpertly in 'Senya's opinion rammed his cock faster and harder into his
lover. A pathetic minute later that left 'Senya bemoaning the pathetic skills
of her something or other nephew it was over. Rhaegar moaned, shuddered, and
collapsed pathetically at 'Lya's side.
"I love you." the poor naive star struck girl whispered.
"I love you too my beautiful wife, my lovely she-wolf." Rhaegar replied in
turn, looking more like a fop than she'd ever seen, and she had seen her share.
Still, he had at least been a man smart enough to marry into former royalty if
'Senya's suspicion was true and that 'Lya' was a Stark of Winterfell, and she
felt a sudden cold creep up her non-existent spine. Had her son Maegor lost the
war against the Faith? He must have if her House no longer cared to preserve
dragon blood by marrying Westerosi of all things. "I pray that my seed has
taken hold tonight." Rhaegar whispered as he laid a soft, pathetic kiss on his
wife's cheek.
And then it happened. 'Senya could feel something pulling her. Pulling her
straight toward the Stark chit's belly in fact. 'No, No NO.' she yelled
ineffectively, even though no one could hear her. 'Let me GO DAMN YOU.' she
screamed with fury, but alas to no effect, and before she could even try to
mount a resistance it was all dark, and warm, oh so warm, not to mention
comfortable, and she grudgingly felt her 'eyes' close and her mind rest…
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
Tower of Joy, Nine turns of the moon later. The Sword of the Morning:
"We leave for Dragonstone." Lord Commander Gerold spoke the minute he laid eyes
on the still bloody and screaming babe.
'By the Gods she has a set of lungs on her.' Arthur thought. "And what, just
leave them here to die? Rhaegar's last babe? His wife?"
Gerold sighed. "Do you think I desire to do so Arthur? We held out here after
the sack on the off chance it would be a boy, but alas, no cock on the wee
screamer, and lest you forget Viserys at least has both a strong castle, and
the mightiest fleet in Westeros with him on Dragonstone, what does this little
girl have?"
"Visenya." Arthur snarled, "Has me, and I am as duty sworn to defend her as
Rhaella and Viserys. I swore an oath Gerold, to my friend, my friend who I
accepted as my King before his father was even close to lying in the ground."
Gerold and Oswell both looked at him with harsh eyes, before finally nodding in
restrained approval. "I wish you good fortune Ser, it has been an honor to
serve at your side."
"No…" Arthur said slowly as he clasped forearms with first Oswell, then his
Lord Commander. "The honor was mine, Ser."
It was less than an hour after the two Knights of the Kingsguard left for
Starfall to seek passage to Dragonstone before the sound of approaching horses
could be heard once more. Glancing at his increasingly paling Princess, who
according to the wet-nurse most likely wouldn't live past the next hour he
walked over to the window and stared down at towards the riders.
"Arthur." Lyanna whispered with a hoarse voice. "Who is it?"
"I recognize your brother Eddard, his friend Howland Reed, and one of Brandon
Stark's friends, Ethan Glover I think." he told her calmly while hurriedly
belting Dawn to his side.
"NO!" Lyanna screamed, clearly putting as much of her remaining strength into
her voice as she could. "You cannot hope to defeat all of them, and my brother
will not harm me."
"It is not your safety I fear for Princess." Arthur admitted as he glanced at
the small silvery blonde-haired babe that was nursing at her mother's breast
for the last time.
"Arthur please… stay. Ned will no more harm 'Senya, than he'll harm me."
Lyanna's eyes were glazed and opening and closing on their own account now
Arthur noted with worry.
"Very well." he spoke with a strange hitch to his voice, even as he stubbornly
refused to acknowledge the tears that ran down his cheeks. In the year or so
that he had known his Princess he had become very fond of her, in a platonic
fashion of course. He had conversed with her, both before and after Rhaegar
left. Listening to her as she spoke with hope and joy of the babe growing
within her, and the possible future she would have.
He had been the one to hold her, and comfort her after she learned what
happened to her father and brother in Kings Landing. And he had been the one
again to comfort her, and swear to protect her and her babe after they learnt
of Rhaegar's fate on the Trident, and lastly, he had been the one to hold her
hand, stroke her hair and whisper encouragement while Lyanna screamed to the
heavens, cursing everyone from the cook in Winterfell to Rhaegar or even the
Gods themselves as she birthed her babe. Probably just as well he didn't go out
to meet Eddard Stark and his companions, not with his hands being as they were,
the left one broken, while his right was no doubt sprained at the very least
because of the she-wolf and her surprisingly strong grip.
"I'll stay Lya." He told her, finally calling her the name she had badgered him
about so many times. Taking a chair, he pushed it right to the head of the bed
next to Lya, unsheathed Dawn and let it rest within easy reach at his side and
then the door opened and Eddard Stark and his men came pouring in.
Seeing the hesitation in their eyes, as well as the pleading looks from Lya,
Arthur stood up slowly and held his hands out in a non-threatening gesture.
Stark nodded once and two burly northerners seized Arthur in a rather
uncomfortable grip, one holding a blade at his throat while another held his
own dagger rather alarmingly close to Arthur's cock.
"Ned." Arthur felt the weakness in Lya's voice hit him like a hammer, much like
the hammer blow that killed Rhaegar on the Trident, a feeling shared by every
single one of the northerners in the room.
"Lyanna." Eddard said with a trembling voice as he took the chair Arthur had so
recently vacated.
"Is that really you? you're not a dream?"
Ned barely held back a sob as he smiled at his dying sister. "No, I'm not a
dream sister. I'm here."
"I missed you, big brother." Lyanna said, her voice trembling from pain, fear,
joy or perhaps all three.
"I missed you too," Ned replied, and Arthur could see the tears start trickling
down his cheeks. He looked around at Arthur and the wet-nurse who was holding
Lyanna's babe. "Get her some water, a Maester, anything." he pleaded.
"We did all we could." Arthur explained. "Nothing more can be done."
"No." Ned let out a broken sob, before Lyanna brought his attention back to her
by clutching onto his arm with what strength remained with her, while also
gesturing for the wet-nurse Wylla to bring the babe.
"Listen to me Ned, this is my V-visenya, if Robert finds out he'll kill her…
you know he will, you have to protect her, promise me."
If Ned had been shocked at first, he was even more so when he laid eyes on the
little girl… the unmistakablyTargaryen girl. "Promise me." Lyanna continued to
whisper desperately. While still alive, if barely, everyone could see she was
already gone, neither words nor medicine could get through to her now, and with
a final 'promise me' she fell still.
"Ned..." one of his bannermen said while trying to hide his sniffles. "What do
we do?"
"You heard what Lady Lya wanted." a man bearing the crossed axes on a field of
yellow of House Dustin grunted. "Lady Lya wants her baby girl to be protected
and the Old Gods and the New hang Tywin, Robert or any other cunt who thinks
otherwise."
A solemn chorus of 'Aye's' rang through the room in reply to the Dustin's
words.
"Thank you, my friends." Ned said with a quiet voice, too broken with sorrow to
put any strength in it.
"Ned…" Howland Reed halted for a moment as he gathered his words. "How will you
explain the girl?" he asked, pointing out the rather obvious silvery hair and
violet eyes.
"If I may," Arthur interjected carefully, wincing slightly as one of his
captors pressed his dagger a bit harder against Arthur's neck.
"Silver hair and purple eyes is not uncommon in my family. My father and I both
have it, while my sister has the eyes, and 'everyone' knows that my sister and
Eddard were… fond of each other since Harrenhal."
"What are you getting at Dayne?" Dustin asked with narrowed eyes.
"Oswell and Hightower left the moment the babe was revealed to be a girl. "I
swore to Rhaegar and Princess Lyanna that I would protect their child." Several
of the men hissed or gaped in astonishment at how he addressed the now dead
sister of Eddard Stark. "Let the Usurper, Tywin, hells, let the whole damn
Realm think that I broke any and all vows to care for my sister's bastard girl…
I'll even stand in the Sept of Baelor itself and lie my arse off if it means
that I can protect what little is left of Rhaegar and Lyanna in this world."
For the longest moment Eddard stared at him, before nodding. "It'll be easier,
and less cruel than to continuously dye her hair at least. You'll have to bend
the knee, swear fealty to Robert." he explained as Arthur's captors removed
their arms and blades from his person.
Arthur spat on the floor in response. "I'll not go near that man lest I forget
myself and try to run him through. I'll send a letter proclaiming my fealty for
whatever it is worth, along with my white cloak, I doubt you want to bring the
girl anywhere near Robert or Tywin at any rate, and I swore to stay with her."
Ned grimaced, "I doubt Robert will accept that Ser Arthur, both he and Jon
Arryn will no doubt argue that the Kingsguard is for life."
Arthur laughed, "If Jaime Lannister felt comfortable enough to push his sword
through Aerys' back, ask Robert and Arryn how comfortable they are with the
idea of Rhaegar's best friend guarding their backs, especially considering the
fact that I am a Dornishman."
"I see your point." Ned conceded. "Very well then, you will ride north to
Winterfell at once. I assume the wet-nurse will not mind following?"
"No, My Lord." Wylla spoke. "I've already received payment for my services."
Ned nodded in approval. "You realize I cannot let you leave the North ever
again do you not?" he asked Wylla who nodded sadly. "I'll see to it that you
are well taken care of after your services are no longer needed, have you any
family that you wish to contact? Or have brought North with you perhaps?"
"N-no My Lord." Wylla denied. "My own girl was st-stillborn, and the father
left us before he even knew of her. Dead on the Trident for all I know."
"And you my friends?" Ned asked. "Can I trust your discretion in this matter?"
Howland was the first to reply by dragging a dagger across his hand to draw
blood. "I swear upon my own blood that I will keep this secret, and the girl
safe My Lord." and one after the other, the Northerners swore an oath of blood,
impressing even Arthur at their loyalty. 'Would that Rhaegar had more men like
these.' he thought, as he placed Dawn back in its scabbard.
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
King's Landing, one year later. Jon Arryn:
It had been a long and tiring year, Jon Arryn mused to himself as he could
finally sit back in his favorite chair and just relax. First Ned had returned
from Dorne, with a dead Lyanna in tow, completely shattering Robert who was
quickly wedded and bedded to Cersei Lannister afterwards on Jon's
recommendation. To make matters worse, he feared that the friendship between
Ned and Robert had been ruined for good when Ned informed them that he had
accepted Arthur Dayne into his service to, in his own words. "Keep an eye on
him, and also to let my daughter know someone of her mother's family at least".
A point that Jon could accept, and understand. With how the rebellion had
ended, a daughter fathered by a Stark would not have been safe in Dorne, and
Ned could hardly take Ashara Dayne with him North, not with him married to
Catelyn Tully at any rate.
Robert though, he had raved and ranted. Ser Arthur had no doubt been there when
Lyanna was captured, and even with Ned explaining to Robert about how Lyanna
had been the Knight of the Laughing Tree and that Aerys had found out and
demanded her head, about how Rhaegar had brought her to Dorne in secret while
trying to find out a way to remove his father from the Throne, even then, it
took all of Jon's skill, Ned threatening to secede from the Iron Throne and
lock down the North, and finally Jon to physically strike Robert across the
face and threaten to put a switch to his rear like he'd have to do during
Robert's boyhood, before Robert finally decided to let things lie.
Robert still doubted the story of Rhaegar though, and refused point blank to
let go of his hatred of all things Targaryen, and his fury at Stannis for his
failure at capturing Rhaella and Viserys when he took Dragonstone had been
terrible. So terrible that Stannis, still not completely recovered from his
near death by starvation during the Siege of Storm's End, had been bedridden
for a moon's turn after Robert was done beating him.
Jon could understand Robert, to a certain degree at least. Had Viserys escaped
with his newborn sister in tow alone and without friend's things would perhaps
have been difficult. But having Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent and Willem Darry
with them was something else. All three of them were formidable warriors, and
in the case of Whent and Hightower almost as much of a symbol of the Targaryens
reign as their charges themselves were, and thanks to Gerold's cunning by
having the Dragon banner flying over more than one keep, and spreading out the
Royal fleet, it had been impossible to find out just where the Targaryen
children had been taken, with ships leaving both Dragonstone, Driftmark and
Claw Isle, each and every damn ship heading to different destinations. And
while the vast majority of the Royal Fleet had been smashed at anchor during a
storm, Jon and Robert still had to contend with the fact that Viserys and
Daenerys had left Westeros, and that there were six and ten different ships and
destinations they could have gone to, the men and women, from Lords to the
blasted smallfolk of those isles would rather consume wildfire than to speak a
word, all of them giving the feeble excuse of 'I don't know My Lord Hand, they
must have left from somewhere else.'
The smug smile of old Lucerys Velaryon, former Master of Ships and Lord of
Driftmark was particularly vexing. Unfortunately, since he had bent the knee
after the Targaryens fled, they could ill afford to punish him too harshly
either. Large parts of the fleet Stannis had constructed had been smashed
during the same storm the sunk the fleet at Dragonstone, leaving Lucerys
Velaryon with more ships than any other Lord on the eastern coast of Westeros,
him being the only Lord not bringing his ships to Dragonstone, no doubt on
Hightower or even Rhaella's orders. Oh, Jon was under no illusions that the six
and ten ships of his that had 'disappeared' with the Targaryens on one of them
had not done so without the express command of the old sea snake, regardless of
how much he bleated and cursed at his treacherous captains with a smile on his
face. Furthermore, Jon wouldn't raise so much as an eyebrow in surprise if old
Velaryon 'suddenly' acquired six and ten new ships relatively soon, alas with
no evidence there was little he or Robert could do, not if they wanted the
peace to continue, or Stannis to survive.
Oh, Robert could delude himself into thinking that Stannis could control the
Lords of the Narrow Sea, and the rest of the Crownlands for that matter by
giving Dragonstone to him, but for all their claims of outrage, Jon could see
that Lords like Velaryon or Celtigar were rather pleased and he knew exactly
why. Stannis was as much of a hostage as Lord Velaryon's son Monford was. But
while Monford would be released after five years or if his father was to die
before that time, Stannis and his eventual family would still be stuck on
Dragonstone. Surrounded by Lords and smallfolk who were almost religiously
loyal to House Targaryen.
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
It was a very… odd experience to grow up a second time. Having birthed a babe
once, 'Senya, or 'Lyarra' as everyone called her, knew that it wasn't a
pleasant affair. And while pushing something the size of a melon out of her
cunt had certainly not been a pleasant affair, being said 'melon' had been even
worse. It had been so damn tight, almost like being squeezed to death, and then
it was suddenly unbearably cold.
The added humiliation of having to wear nappies until she learnt not to make a
shitty mess was unbearable. She was a fucking Queen, a Dragon Rider, Blood of
Old Valyria, and one of the greatest warriors of her age. Certainly, better
than her brother, and while her son had eventually surpassed her if only due to
his prodigious strength, she was the one who had taught him all he knew. All
this she had accomplished, only to suddenly be born again, with all it
entailed.
She had to suckle from a strange woman's teat, she had to learn not to sully
her gods forsaken nappies. She had to learn how to walk again, hells it took
her seven moons just to speak her first word. Though the look on 'Septa'
Catelyn's face when 'Senya called her 'fucking bitch' had almost made all of it
worth it.
Perhaps Septa Catelyn, or rather, Lady Stark as everyone else called her might
have, if not liked her, at least not hated her if she had made a tiny effort to
fit into her role as a 'bastard', well fuck that. This time, she had no brother
who she had to wed, even if she did miss his cock, no father to force her into
anything, and most importantly of all, she had family to avenge. It had not
taken long before she learnt a whole lot more than anyone would suspect. People
talked, and also, Septa Catelyn preferred to have her as far away from her
proper, perfect little trueborn brother as often as she could get away with.
And so long as 'Senya was still small she saw no problem of spending the
majority of her days in Maester Luwin's care, who indulgently read book after
book for her, or let her 'read' books of her own, no doubt thinking that she
was just admiring the drawings. So 'Senya had found out just about anything
that could be found out about what had happened to her House, to the
descendants of her beloved brother and sister, and also how history had come to
view her, and others of her House.
Needless to say, 'Senya was not pleased, at all. Sure, she had never been the
most pleasant of women, preferring a sword, and honest hard truth, over
frivolous courtesies. Of course, she had not been pleased with her brother
taking their younger sister as a second wife, nor that he shunned her own bed
in favor of Rhaenys' as much as he did. But to imply that Aegon had left her in
King's Landing so that he did not have to suffer her presence on Dragonstone,
or that she had made her son Maegor King over her great nephew Aegon, or even
worse, become a kinslayer by poisoning her nephew…
Oh, how she had raged at these discoveries. While she had disagreements with
both her brother and sister, she loved both of them, and would have died for
any of them if it would spare their lives. And true, Aegon left her in charge
in King's Landing, because he knew that she was the only one he could trust to
construct and design the city to his liking. It had been a gesture of trust,
and also a statement and recognition of her own power, rather than a lack of
love between the two.
Her reasons for crowning Maegor had been from the start, her belief that Maegor
was the better choice at that time. The crown was in strife with the Faith, and
Aenys' young son Aegon, had neither the dragon or skill, in either warfare or
politics to fight that war.
The rumor of kinslaying was the hardest to swallow though. For a long time, she
had feared that Aenys, her nephew and stepson would be the only child she would
ever 'have' after the two miscarriages she had suffered, both during the
Conquest, which in hindsight probably explained a bit. Rhaenys had died while
the boy was barely three, and somewhat sickly besides. Now 'Senya would be the
first to admit that she, like her own mother had never been the most warm or
lovable of sorts. But none who knew her well would ever deny that she didn't
love her children, both of them, as since she had practically raised Aenys by
her own with Aegon drowning out his grief over Rhaenys' death, and considered
him to be her son, just as much as Maegor was.
Had she not been the one to crown Aenys after Aegon died? Had it not been her
who sat by Aenys' bedside to nurse him back to health when the Grand Maester, a
personal friend of the High Septon had declared with a certainty that there was
nothing to be done? The fat fool had been right, and 'Senya suspected that it
was he, along with his accursed friend the High Septon who had made sure that
there was nothing to be done.
At least the books were somewhat correct. 'Senya had been far more than a
'mere' dabbler in sorcery. Her skill with her craft had kept Aenys alive for
weeks longer than should have been possible with all the remedies and
physicians in the world, and it was only Aenys' own pleas to her to let him go
and to let the pain stop that she finally gave him up. Hearing him say 'thank
you mother,' on his deathbed had been one of the few times in her life that she
had allowed tears to fall.
At least she got her vengeance. Bringing Maegor back from the exile pushed on
him, had let them strike back against their enemies. The Sept of Remembrance
had been burnt down with the High Septon and hundreds of his followers inside.
The Grand Maester had barely held out for an hour under her own personal
questioning before he confessed to having poisoned Aenys at the High Septon's
request, and hundreds, if not thousands of Warriors Sons had been killed,
either by dragon fire, or the royally sponsored inquisition, that, much like
the Kingsguard, had been both devised by, and staffed by herself, all the while
Aenys' wife and children were kept safe on Dragonstone. Not as hostages, but
from the religious fanatics seeking their death.
But, she couldn't deny that Maegor had gone off the deep end after her death.
While she was alive, she had counselled him, and his brother and father before
him wisely, even if they did not always heed her advice. But why Maegor would
turn into a paranoid witless brute after her death she supposed she'd never
find out, unless there was an afterlife. If there was she couldn't tell, her
last memory being of going to bed the night she had died. Then again, perhaps
there was an afterlife and one could not remember it as long as one was alive.
Why she even was alive again was also a mystery for that matter.
So, with a second chance at life she was determined to make herself known
again, not as someone else's wife, not as a cruel man's mother. No, she would
make the name Visenya Targaryen known for only her own actions, to leave a
legacy that would make the name Visenya Targaryen be whispered in the same
breath as Aegon the Conqueror or the Last Hero for thousands of years after her
death.
It was of course this determination that was the biggest reason why Septa
Catelyn loathed her very existence. It took Robb nearly three and ten months to
say his first word, which to Septa Catelyn's apoplectic fury was 'fuck' taught
by 'Senya herself, who had seemed far smugger than a babe of one year had any
right to be. While it had actually taken both her and Robb just about the same
amount of time to learn how to walk. Senya had stopped using nappies and the
wet-nurse's teat shortly before her second name day, while Robb had not been
weaned until close to his third name day, and still used nappies almost into
his fourth year.
While Robb was still struggling with his sums and letters, Senya was already
putting Sansa and the newborn Arya to sleep by reading them tales in fluent
High Valyrian, a language she was more proficient in than Maester Luwin
himself. Not surprising considering it was her 'mother's tongue', and if only
Septa Catelyn had known just how many languages Senya could speak, read and
write, she'd probably have a heart attack.
Septa Catelyn of course did not take any of this lying down, and fought back
tooth and nail… as well as she was able to at least. She never once attempted
to put her hands on her, the warning glares of Ser Arthur saw to that. Trying
to badmouth her or spread malicious rumors didn't help much either, as the
people of Winterfell, for the most part adored her. She may still be as cold
and reserved, blunt and capable of delivering cruel hard honesty as she'd
always been during her years as Queen, but she was never once malicious, and
even with her hard exterior, people always whispered of what a beauty she would
grow up to become. "Just like winter our little Lady Snow is." people would
say. "Cold and harsh, but beautiful nonetheless"
Truthfully, the only thing Septa Catelyn easily got 'away' with, was to bar her
from the high table, and to refuse her presence her little sowing circle of
gossip mongers, which was just as well. Her new family of Starks was decent
enough. She didn't have them, and reluctantly had to admit a certain fondness
for them, but she had never had the greatest patience with small children,
which was part of why she had been stern, but still fair with her own. And she
was no better now than she had been during the time she raised her own
children, which was probably the largest reason of why Septa Catelyn was almost
tearing out her own hair as Robb, and soon enough Sansa and Arya and Brandon
followed her around like little ducklings.
True, Robb was a boy, he was older, bigger, and would eventually… probably be
stronger, but 'Senya was a Queen. She was used to leading armies, she could
silence fully grown men, who had grown hard as stone after the butchery of war
with naught but a glance. Bending her young, innocent and naive cousins to her
whims was child's play, which considering her current lot in life was truer
than she cared to admit.
When she and Robb were about six her 'father' was called south along with the
rest of the North to fight the Ironborn. It was also the first time she laid
eyes on William Dustin again, one of the men who had accompanied her uncle Ned
to the Tower of Joy. Rather than meet with the Northern host on the way south
he had personally ridden to Winterfell while sending most of his host on their
way to Moat Cailin. Ostensibly so that he could speak with Lord Stark about
fostering his son Brandon in a few years once the boy was old enough, but
judging by how quickly he sought out 'Senya and 'uncle' Arthur she was
reasonably certain why he had come North.
He had smiled at her, praised her beauty, japed about how her 'father' would
have to beat men away with a big stick, grumbled a reluctant greeting to Ser
Arthur, gotten a bit misty eyed while recalling her mother, never mentioning
her mother's name of course, and grumbled a few more words to Ser Arthur,
causing both her and Arthur to share a disturbingly similar roll of the eyes
the moment Lord Dustin was distracted.
The look on Septa Catelyn's face when Dustin whispered a few choice words about
just what would happen should he, or some other choice Northern Lords find out
that she had 'hurt Ned's 'little' girl' had been like having a second name day
in one year.
It was during this year, the year 289 after the Conquest that Arya Stark was
born, that the Ironborn rebelled, and that not even three weeks after returning
home with his Greyjoy ward that 'Senya decided that when she took back the
Throne she had helped her brother forge she would see the line of Greyjoy
extinguished root and stem, and the Iron Isles turned into a scorched wasteland
reminiscent of doomed Valyria.
Not even three weeks after showing up at Winterfell like he owned the place,
the little cunt of a boy had managed to earn the enmity of near everyone in
Winterfell. He ran his mouth constantly, picked fights with others, and only
those younger and weaker than himself. Called her, Visenya Targaryen herself a
whore, cast similar slurs about her mother and offered to pay her a few coppers
for her maidenhead when it was time so that she could 'get some practice for
her future profession'.
Rather than run off to 'daddy' 'Senya exercised the patience that her past self
was so known for. She waited a few moons while Robb was introduced slowly to
the sword, bundled up in large amounts of padding and with a wooden sword in
hand. He had potential, 'Senya would give him that, definitely more than the
Greyjoy who even being five years her and Robb's elder only won due to having a
good deal more strength than seven-year-old Robb.
It was during one of these sessions that 'Senya stepped into the practice yard
and, sadly, picked up a wooden practice sword.
"Let's see how you face against someone who knows what they're doing Greyjoy."
'Senya spat, while giving a truly smoldering glare at Ser Arthur who tried to
put an end to her desire.
Greyjoy, predictably laughed. "You… you think you've got the skills to take me?
You a girl?"
"Rather a girl than a cowardly, talentless cunt of a boy like yourself
Greyjoy." 'Senya bit back with the icy calm that she was so known for.
"You..." Greyjoy reddened while the majority of men in the yard, even old Ser
Rodrick snickered appreciatively.
"Lost for words Greyjoy?" 'Senya drawled. "Or perhaps it's your balls you've
lost, they certainly seem small enough for you to lose them, perhaps we should
find you a gown instead. Gods know I won't need them." Which was true of
course. Septa Catelyn, and every seamstress in Winterfell had conceded by the
time she was four that dresses was something she would never wear voluntarily,
preferring trousers, shirts and tunics instead, she'd wear some ring mail too,
if she could get away with it. Sadly, none in her size was around, and though
she still knew her way around a needle well enough to make her own clothes, she
had never been, and probably never would be, a blacksmith. Her only works had
been the forging of her own sword Dark Sister and the crowns of herself and
brother and sister, and working Valyrian steel had nothing to do with
blacksmithing, and everything to do with the manipulation of magic and dragon
fire.
Angry shouts of warning or to stop filled the yard as Theon lost control at her
taunt and threw himself at her, intent on beating her black and blue, a
distinct possibility due to her lack of padding, but at the same time, as
remote as the chance of someone hatching dragons without instruction.
Theon was big, far bigger than her, and stronger too with his twelve years to
her almost seven, but there was one thing that no one but she herself knew.
From her fifth name day, until her seventieth she could count the days she had
not practiced with a sword or other weapon on two hands with fingers to spare.
Five and sixty years she had spent honing the crafts of war. She was passable
with mace, spear and morning star, good with bow and lance, and a monster with
a sword in hand. Preferring to cloak herself in mail and plate than silk
dresses, she had been a hard and deadly woman. And while her current body was
feebly in comparison to what she had once been, she was still much stronger and
fitter than anyone would guess, having started to train and push herself again
since her fourth name day. Furthermore, Greyjoy was an unskilled arrogant boy,
while she, she prided herself in knowing every bone in a man's body, and how to
break every single one of them.
His first wild swing was ducked under. The following reverse stroke she leant
away from, the furious overhead chop was sidestepped and then it was her turn
to play. With a speed and strength none would have expected she started as
dirty as she could by stepping up close and personal and rammed the pommel of
her practice sword right into Greyjoy's perfect nose. A swift follow up jab in
the throat had him bent over and coughing to regain his breath. Spinning around
to his back a quick hard thrust to the back of his knee sent him to the ground.
To finish it all she grabbed his left arm in a proper grip, utilizing both her
arms and legs she too went to the ground on her back, and with all her strength
and body behind her 'twisted' and broke Greyjoy's arm with a sickening snap.
It was of course at this point that her 'father' finally showed up, shaking
with anger, at herself and the now sobbing Greyjoy. "Call me or my mother a
whore ever again, or slap my brother around and I'll do more than break your
arm boy." She sneered at his whimpering form before turning her hard and
unflinching violet eyes on her 'father'.
He wasn't pleased with her. Neither was Septa Catelyn. Fortunately, according
to him, 'Senya herself thought rather the opposite. Theon would regain the full
use of his left arm. She was then treated to a long and tedious lecture about
how a 'Lady should not play with swords' and no one, not even Arthur could
convince Eddard Stark that letting her train with swords was a good idea, at
least not officially, though he no doubt approved of it privately seeing as how
he had a rarely visited part of the Godswood cordoned off, and told Ser Arthur
that if ever was to take any squires he should practice there, where the Gods
could keep an eye on him and his 'southern ways', which obviously resulted in
Senya and Arthur spending hours there every day.
'Senya, had been most impressed with Ser Arthur. He was as good if not better
with a sword than any she had ever met, including herself and her son Maegor,
and judging from Arthur's look of awe and showering praise he was completely
amazed at her own 'natural' talents. After all, how could he know that she had
a good forty years or so on him? It wasn't like she could just say 'Oh by the
way Ser Arthur, I am the real Visenya Targaryen, wife to the Conqueror and all
that, oh and I also witnessed my own conception, how neat is that?' At best,
she would simply be laughed at and never taken seriously ever again, while at
worst, she would get either the kiss of a blade to the neck or a padded room to
amuse herself with for the rest of her days with slop for dinner.
No, far better to pretend to have an abundance of natural skill, hardly a leap
of the imagination considering her other skills such as language, reading,
writing or even strategy, herself having viciously crushed the ego of Roose
Bolton during the harvest feast on her fifth name day by beating him and
Maester Luwin in two simultaneous games of Cyvasse. The coins she got from the
Lord of the Dreadfort, as well as a share from all the bets made had not gone
amiss either. Although she had to thank Ser Arthur for that last one, if he
hadn't gone into the Kingsguard and then 'left' it to stay with his 'niece',
she suspected that he could have become one of the most famous sellswords in
history, he certainly had a mercenary instinct when it came to games of skill
or chance to make most sellswords green with envy. The fact that he was an
anointed Knight, among the most highly respected ones in all of Westeros
actually, just meant that most victims… men that is, never saw it coming until
it was too late and he was whistling a merry tune while counting out his newly
earned winnings.
A few more years and Septa Catelyn looked to be getting the upper hand in their
little 'game' at last when she briefly managed to turn Sansa against her by
telling Sansa just what it meant to be a bastard. Now as said, 'Senya was quite
fond… very well, she did love the little brats that had become her new family,
and though she loved them the idea of all of her 'siblings' following her
around and/or badgering her all that time was certainly not something she
'enjoyed' exactly, she wasn't about to let 'outside interference' dictate who
the brats she had to admit were cousins could accompany either.
So, she held her tongue, as Sansa suddenly didn't want to play anymore, didn't
want to hear this or that tale about knights and courtly romance, which
truthfully was just as well. The sooner the girl had her eyes opened the
better. Oh yes, 'Senya let it all happen, she didn't so much as flinch or
twitch when Septa Catelyn gave her a smug look whenever Sansa drew away from
'Senya. Perhaps the history books were right after all when they called 'Senya
cruel. Most people would certainly think she was after how she let Septa
Catelyn finally feel safe and victorious, only to have it all collapse when
Sansa received three new dresses for her name day, all sowed and embroidered
painstakingly by 'Senya's own hand, and of a quality that would have made a
seamstress quite a lot of coin in a place like King's Landing or the Reach.
After that Sansa was back to worshipping her big 'sister' who apparently could
be both a Lady, a bastard and a Warrior, all without even wearing a dress.
Sansa almost broke her poor mother's heart even when asking if she could braid
her mother's hair like 'Lyarra always has her hair braided.' She never did get
to braid her mother's hair like 'Lya's', but at least got a consolation prize
of being allowed to do it to Arya's hair instead. Arya and Sansa, being polar
opposites of each other, normally wouldn't even be able to agree about whether
water was actually wet, so seeing the pair of them actually agree on something
and giggle like girlish sisters rather than at the very least near mortal
enemies was as refreshing as it was original, and also provided Senya with some
piece of mind.
Even better, with seeing both her daughters running around trying to emulate
'Lya', Septa Catelyn had sought comfort/refuge with her husband, and
unsurprisingly to some, was now with child again, which to 'Senya was great. A
Septa Catelyn with child meant her attention was elsewhere, Arya, Sansa and
Bran would be ever more occupied with their eventual brother and sister,
leaving Senya with more time to practice with her sword, or sorcery.
Speaking of sorcery, she had to scratch her head sometimes. The Maesters, as
well as just about everyone else spoke of how magic was dead, and how it had
died with the dragons. She had almost given in to temptation to show Maester
Luwin just how 'dead' magic really was the one time she discussed the subject
with him.
Although she wasn't surprised either. The Citadel had been trying to either
control, or eradicate anything to do with magic for millennia, fearful and
envious of its power. Luwin had spoken of how a Maester had to light a glass
candle, of how they had hundreds if not thousands of spells and incantations,
but none of it worked. 'Of course, it bloody doesn't.' she'd been tempted to
shout in frustration, but she held her tongue. Magic was not something everyone
could do, furthermore, unless you had a tutor or the right kind of books, you
had little chance to perform magic, let alone survive dabbling in it and coming
out unscathed.
Now, only some people had the ability to perform magic. Valyrians most famously
had been such experts in it, and used it for so long that it was part of their
very being, how else would they survive with over five thousand years of
breeding only within the family? Magic had been the answer, and it also proved
a possible reason why her House had fallen so far. If knowledge had been lost,
or worse, deliberately destroyed, rites and rituals neglected it was no wonder
why her family had eventually started to succumb to madness, frailty and birth
problems and defects, as with her now dead grandmother Queen Rhaella, who'd
experienced one and ten pregnancies, but only had three children actually
survive more than a year, most of them being miscarriages or stillbirths.
So yes, things went pretty much how it had always done. Septa Catelyn pushed
out her newest babe named Rickon. Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Brandon all continued
to grow, and play, all of them with their specific areas of interest. Bran
developed an unhealthy obsession with climbing, and could often be seen halfway
up a wall, tree or tower in Winterfell, as sure-footed as a squirrel. This was
a blessing in disguise, as it forced Septa Catelyn's focus and ire elsewhere,
giving 'Senya more time to focus on other matters.
Rickon, babe that he was did little else but sleep, shit, drink from his wet-
nurse's teats, and cling to his mother's skirts. Utterly uninteresting, but an
adorable brat all the same. Sansa, as always was living halfway in her own
dream world of courtesies, tales of knightly chivalry, dreaming of the
'wondrous' southern court and the fancy dresses, and dances and musicians that
must frequent them, and no one, not even 'Senya had the heart to burst Sansa's
bubble with a dose of reality. Even when King's Landing was still under
construction, it, and their court had been a nest of vipers, and she doubted
that three hundred years had done anything to improve the nature of the court.
Arya, her own little dark-haired clone did her best to emulate 'Senya as best
she could, begging both her and her father on her hands and knees to be allowed
to learn how to fight. Something that Ned Stark forbid with the same authority
as the harshness of winter, and despite how much she pleaded 'Senya would not
let Arya partake in her own sessions with Ser Arthur. She did however teach
Arya a few moves in the privacy of their quarters. Nothing fancy, and nothing
with an edged weapon, but rather her hands and feet, how to use her smaller
size and speed to her own advantage. Where she could strike a man to do the
most damage with the smallest effort. Besides, it was only a matter of time
before Arya badgered Robb into teaching her a few tricks with the sword.
On her own personal front, she 'plotted' with Ser Arthur. How much her
protector knew, or suspected she didn't know. He never asked, and neither did
she, but they often discussed politics, the various Houses in Westeros, who
they owed their loyalty, how many men they could field, their main source of
revenue, and how many sons and daughters they had.
Arthur who was 'exiled' from Dorne still received a generous stipend from his
brother, Lord Allard Dayne, on the first of every month. It was coin which
Arthur didn't really need, and at 'Senya's suggestion, he spent almost in its
entirety in the North and in the capital and surrounding lands. The various
smallfolk were glad for a little extra coin, and more than eager to pass on
little bits of information in return. For the most part, it was worthless, but
they discovered a little nugget of gold every now and then, such as Roose
Bolton's bastard living up to his 'title', or that resentment was growing
exponentially in the Crownlands.
The Crownlanders cared not one whit for Robert Baratheon, even now over a
decade after the rebellion, since, with the exception of the Darklyns, the
Crownlanders had been, to a fault, staunch Targaryen loyalists for near three
centuries, something that wasn't overturned in a fortnight. Almost universally
excluding them from any position of power or responsibility in favor of
Lannisters and their lickspittles, along with a few Stormlanders and Valemen
certainly did not help the resentment any, and if Baratheon or Arryn thought
that having a single Crownlander on the Kingsguard would placate them, the
Usurper and his Hand were delusional to the point of insolence. That said
Knight, 'Ser' Boros Blount, was a fat craven pig and almost as big a disgrace
to Knighthood as Gregor Clegane certainly didn't help any.
After she had her first moonblood sometime after her eleventh name day things
took a turn for the 'worse' as Septa Catelyn tried to badger her 'father' into
having Senya wed or be betrothed as quickly as possible. It certainly did not
help matters any that she herself had made some discreet inquiries/offers in
the Riverlands either. And the time that a gaggle of Freys had shown up in
Winterfell to 'have a look at the girl before accepting' had been the only time
she had actually seen Ned Stark absolutely furious with his own wife. He hadn't
struck her, he was too good a man for that, but he had coldly informed her that
if she ever sought to go behind his back with marriage offers ever again he'd
send her packing back to Riverrun without her children until he decided to
invite her back.
Of course, by this time it was too late really to salvage the situation, and
other Lords, both in the North, and all the way down to the reach attempted to
organize a betrothal to a second or third son, a nephew or perhaps a bastard
they had a degree of fondness to. And while Lord Stark was dutiful enough to
read each and every one of them, and kind enough to discuss them with her, or
even encourage her to accept some of them, like the one to Harrion Karstark, of
Brandon Dustin, both of them heirs to their House, Visenya refused them all.
A few had even been bold enough to show up in person to ask for her hand on the
harvest feast during her fourth and tenth year, which coincidentally was the
first time the majority of the North learnt that she was a skilled warrior,
after she had sent first Daryn Hornwood, then Asher Forrester and lastly the
Smalljon Umber to Maester Luwin, all of them in need of stitches and bruise
ointment, things calmed down after that, at least with offers from Northern
Houses.
A few short moons later, everything changed. It had started so innocently with
'father', Robb, Bran, Theon and a few guards leaving to execute a deserter.
Upon their return, they brought with them a litter of direwolves, even an
albino runt for herself that Robb proudly informed her was named Ghost, due to
his white coat and silent nature.
That was also when they were informed that the King was riding for Winterfell,
and that he would no doubt be asking 'father' to become the new Hand after the
sudden death of Jon Arryn. 'Senya had actually been relieved when she and Ser
Arthur had been instructed to keep themselves scarce during the King's visit,
and though she could see his point, she didn't think that making herself scarce
really meant 'you'll stay locked in your room for the duration of his visit',
at least she had Ghost, and a few books to read, and space enough to exercise
at least, though the boredom of almost complete isolation was taxing.
It had been almost a moon's turn when 'father' finally visited her long enough
to actually converse and share the news of what had happened. He was going
south to become the Hand of the King, Arya and Sansa would be going with him.
Sansa was betrothed to Joffrey the Crown Prince, Brandon had fallen from the
First Keep and broken his spine and had yet to wake up, and she would have to
marry…
"I'm sorry… can you say that again?" she asked harshly, while Ser Arthur looked
to be close to strangling him.
"I cannot bring you south with me, and while Robb will be the Stark in
Winterfell, he is still near two years away from manhood, and as such Cat will
be acting as his regent."
"And she has made it abundantly clear that I will be thrown to the streets as
soon as you leave is that it?" she asked calmly.
'Father' looked pained as he nodded. "It is either that or accept one of your
many marriage proposals." he said, somewhat exasperated at the thought of all
the proposals he'd received and rejected over the years.
"Very well, Ser Arthur." she turned her head to her 'uncle', "Are you packed?"
"Lyarra?" he asked confused.
'Senya took out a sack and started to pack her belongings that she couldn't go
without, such as the gold she'd saved up over the years, change of clothes,
spare boots and such. "I believe I'll take my chances on the streets." she said
simply as she shocked both of them by drawing a cut in her palm.
"LYARRA!" 'father' shouted as she drew blood and went to take the knife from
her hand.
"Stay back." she hissed as she gave them both a smirk and then placed her hand
inside the blazing hearth. "Māzigon naejot nyke zōbrie mandia." she spoke
harshly as she felt the magic take hold, and with a grunt of effort she
withdrew her hand holding a long slender blade in her hand. The pommel and
cross guard was wreathed in gold in the shape of burning flames with a smooth
ruby set in the center of the cross guard. The blade itself was thin, about two
fingers wide and just shy of forty inches long, with a single fuller running
the length of the smoky, almost black metal, although, depending on the light,
streaks of red like the color of blood seemed to run over the blade every now
and then.
"Wha-Lyarra," Ned gasped with both him and Ser Arthur staring at her in shock.
"Visenya." she hissed to their shock. "What? Did you think I didn't know uncle?
I've known since I was a little girl."
"Ly-Visenya." Ned hiccupped. "I only ever wanted to keep you safe."
"I know." she said with a rare smile, "But you cannot protect me anymore, and
I'll never let myself be sold to any man… No, if I ever take a husband it will
be one of my own choosing."
"But…" he paused, staring a bit closer at the piece of Valyrian Steel she
packed carefully into a few shirts that she had intended to dispose of but
hadn't actually gotten around to throw out yet. "IS that…"
"Dark Sister yes." she smiled grimly, it had felt good to finally have the
blade she had forged from blood, steel magic and dragon fire in her own hand
again after all these years.
"How..." he whispered.
"I am Visenya come again uncle." she said with a sly smile at her intended pun.
"And like my namesake, I too have knowledge of arts thought by most to be a
myth." she held up a hand to forestall him. "I'll say no more about this
uncle."
Her uncle must have read the determination on her face because he let the
matter lie. "And what will you do then? You cannot just wander aimlessly."
She shrugged slightly, "I am certain there are plenty of places I can travel
to, and I'll have Ser Arthur with me. Perhaps the Reach. With their multitudes
of tourneys and generous tourney purses I'm certain that neither Arthur or
myself will starve."
Ned narrowed his eyes at her. "You want the Iron Throne," he said coldly.
"Of course I do." she admitted without hesitation. "It is only a question of
time before war is upon us again. Your friend the Usurper has done nothing to
heal the Realm, and Joffrey will not do a better job than his father, all I
have to do uncle is to wait for the eventual uprising that will come when
Robert or Joffrey goes to far."
Her words seemed to strike him like a dagger to the chest. "Lya-Visenya,
please, please do not do this."
For the first time in her life she sneered at her uncle. "You may be blind to
your friend the Usurpers, faults but I can assure you that I am not." she
almost felt a stab of joy at seeing the pain on his face at hearing the word
uttered with such venom from the girl he had raised as his own daughter. "The
man who climbed over the broken corpses of my own siblings to take the Throne
my family built, and what did he do to the men who did the deed? He rewarded
them. Tywin Lannister, the man who entered my grandfather's city under the
guise of friendship only to rape and pillage it got his wish of having his
daughter as Queen, and he and all his men were allowed to leave the city they
raped and burned with all their ill-gotten loot with not so much as a word of
warning… that is that man you call your friend, for while Robert did not do or
order those things himself, his actions after clearly shows that he agreed and
dare I say approved of the Lannisters actions."
"It was a different time." he said angrily, not really able to summon up a
proper rebuttal.
"Perhaps, and yet the man hasn't changed… but if it will soothe your bleeding-
heart uncle I swear that I'll not be the one to draw first blood, I'll not be
the one who provokes war. Your friend the Usurper or his heir will be the ones
who does that, not me."
"And if I were to stop you?" he asked her coldly.
'Senya snorted. "The only way you can stop me is the one we both know you won't
take, and that is to march back down to the great hall and tell you friend the
Usurper the truth. He'll have my head by the end of the day, or perhaps I'll be
raped half a hundred times first by his Knights before being split in half like
my stepmother Elia, at least I do not have any babes he can murder first so
that I might get raped with my children's blood still on their hands."
Ned winced. "I would never…"
"I know uncle, but it is time for me to forge my own path. You've kept your
promise to my mother, I've grown up safe and loved."
She accepted the big bearhug he gave her. Even returned his 'I'll always love
you like one of my own,' although she'd never in a million years admit that Ser
Arthur was right when he later asked if that was a tear he could see in her
eye. He may technically only be a bodyguard, but he had genuinely treated her
like his own niece, and yes, she was fond of him… but she still had an
appearance to maintain.
Rather than risk getting seen by the King she and Arthur left in the middle of
the night atop a horse each, with a third horse trailing after them on a line
with their provisions. "So where to now?" Arthur asked finally.
"It is customary to refer to your Queen as Your Grace you know," she replied
with a small grin.
"Aye that is true," Arthur admitted with a laugh. "Yet I have spent the last
four and ten years under the belief that you did not know anything… so forgive
my 'Your Grace' for being just a little out of practice."
"Very well." she sighed theatrically. "I suppose I can forgive you, you were
the only one to remain with me after all."
"Aye I was," he admitted softly. "The war was already lost by then, and I for
one would not leave my best friend's child alone to die."
"And I thank you Ser," she said, giving Arthur another one of her rare smiles.
"So, do you truly intend to take back the Iron Throne?" he asked her.
"I do, and I know just how to get it."
"How?" he questioned.
"Well… at first we'll need coin, so that means tourneys, of which we'll find
plenty of in the Reach. I assume you'll not mind riding in the honor of your
favorite 'niece,' Lord Commander?"
If he was at all shocked or surprised at being named Lord Commander of her
Queensguard he didn't show it, not that she had any other candidates lining up
either for that matter. "I believe 'Your Grace' that if we continue our charade
you would be my 'only' niece."
"And therefore, be right there at the top of your favorites." she countered.
"Aye." he admitted when he stopped laughing. "It'll be good to teach those
Reachmen what a proper Knight can do."
"Being wined and dined, for being the Sword of the Morning, and then taking
their coin is just a happy coincidence I'm sure." 'Senya admitted somewhat
drily.
"Aye there is that," he admitted with a smile.
"What do you intend to do with all of this coin then? Raise an army? purchase
the services of the Golden Company perhaps?"
Visenya wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Hardly, but having such a large amount
of coin should be enough to gain you and I an audience with Lord Velaryon. Once
I convince him we need but to wait for the opportune moment."
Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "And how do you intend to convince him to declare
for you? Viserys is still alive, even my words can only do so much while a male
heir of your House still lives."
Visenya smiled at Arthur, a rather chilling smile compared to the warm one he'd
received earlier. "Who do you think Velaryon will declare for? "A man across
the sea with two Knights in his service and nothing else? Or a woman with blood
ties to the largest of the Seven Kingdoms, with a large amount of coin at her
disposal, and lastly a living dragon at her disposal."
"A dragon?" Arthur said skeptically, "And where does this dragon hide itself?
As I doubt you have room in your pockets."
"Fear not Ser, the dragon awaits us beneath the caves of Dragonstone… well as
soon as I hatch it at any rate."
Arthur's eyes widened. "H-hatch it? Ly-Visenya..."
'Senya cut him off right there. "I know that attempts have been made to hatch
dragons several times the past few hundred years, the last attempt at
Summerhall nearly bringing an end to my House, so I ask you Ser… Do. You.
Trust. Me?"
"With my life." he admitted.
Visenya nodded. "Good, trust in me and I can assure you that everything will go
as I have planned. Hatching a dragon is not difficult at all, provided you know
what to do."
"And you do?" he asked. "How, and for that matter there are other things to
that you know that makes me wonder."
"One-day Ser… One day I'll tell you the full truth, but not yet."
"I can assure you, you can trust me," he said.
"I know," she replied calmly. "It is not a matter of trust, it is a matter of
belief, you still have so much to see, so much to learn before you will be able
to even remotely accept the truth. So, until then, I ask you to advise me,
protect me, but most importantly trust me, and my decisions."
"I will, Your Grace."
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
Rather than ride all the way from the North down to the Reach the had journeyed
to White Harbor where Lord Wyman was more than eager to host 'Ned's girl' and
to take their horses off their hands., new ones could always be purchased when
they arrived their destination. To their great fortune Lord Wyman even had
three ships that were destined for Oldtown, ships that according to him always
stopped at first Dragonstone and then Sunspear to pick up provisions and fresh
water, which suited her and Arthur perfectly.
During the nights, they spoke in hushed voices about the future, and in
Arthur's case, about the past. With her now knowing the truth, he felt safer at
telling more about her family, her father and grandfather in particular. While
Aerys would never regain an inch of respect in her eyes, she could sympathize
with him slightly. It could not have been easy for him, with all the misfortune
he and Rhaella shared with so many of their children dying, either from birth,
still in the womb, or a few weeks or moons after their birth. Also having Tywin
Lannister as Hand couldn't have helped.
Normally, she could have appreciated having a man of Tywin's talents as Hand.
But the man had no humility what so ever, he had ambitions far beyond his
station, and did nothing to quell the rumors about his services as Hand, and in
all likelihood encouraged them. So yes, she could see how Aerys had eventually
succumbed to madness and paranoia. Another thing they spoke of often was
dragons, more specifically Arthur's worries. And this evening it was about how
to keep it all hidden.
"Your Grace, dragons are not pets." Arthur protested as yet another of his
arguments had just been shot down.
"Of course, they are not. They are magnificent beasts of war, and almost as
intelligent as women, certainly more intelligent than men."
Arthur rolled his eyes at the jab. "And just how do you intend to keep a dragon
hidden?"
"Easy. We stay off the main roads, travel by night, make sure it is fed. A few
instructions and the dragon will know to keep itself hidden from others."
"But how?" he asked, yet again.
Visenya sighed. "For the first few weeks it will be small enough to stay in a
cage which can be covered up. During this time, it will require roasted meat
five times a day. A moon's turn, two at the most and it will be capable of
flight. At this point it is ready to hunt on its own, it is, from that point on
fully capable of taking care of itself, it will also at that point be
intelligent to understand and obey my instructions, like staying out of sight
unless called for, not to hunt livestock or men when it gets large enough to do
so."
"And how will it stay hidden when it has become that large?"
"Do you have any idea how high a dragon can fly Ser?" she asked Arthur, who had
to admit that he did not. "Dragons can easily fly for hours or days at a time
in the cover of clouds, and then, like a bird of prey it'll swoop down with
tremendous speed and accuracy to snatch up its prey. They are, I think I read
the term 'power gliders' once, in that with but a few beats of their wings they
can simply glide through the air for hours, only really pumping their wings to
pick up speed. So, if when we travel by day it'll glide through the sky, high
enough that anyone who does happen to cat a glimpse will simply think it to be
another bird."
"I suppose there is no dissuading you is there?"
Visenya smiled. "No Ser, I am quite set with my plans."
When they finally reached Dragonstone Visenya was almost giddy. It had been
four and ten years since she had last set foot in her home, and to see the
Baratheon banners sway back and forth in the wind was almost painful. Seeing
the red priestess stand in the town center preaching her vile faith was worse.
"Who is that?" Visenya asked as she pointed out a woman with abnormally large
ears who was listening to the crimson haired priestess with rapture, one of the
few who did fortunately, and Visenya felt a wave of pride and warmth for the
people on the island who still kept faith in only one thing really, and that
was dragons.
"I'd say that is the Lady Selyse." Arthur admitted. "I see no reason for any
other woman to be accompanied by Baratheon guardsmen, and she does have the
Florent ears."
"What game is Stannis playing that he lets a red priestess of all things stand
on this island and preach her vile faith?"
"Stannis doesn't give a fuck, bloody traitor that he is." one of the commoners
spoke as he spat angrily on the ground.
"Aye." another man agreed, "Gone to the dogs this place has, ever since good
Queen Rhaella died birthing her daughter."
"I take it none here are pleased at having a Baratheon ruling the island then."
"Se skoros iksis ziry naejot ao pār? Iksi mirre pazavor naejot se zaldrīzoti
kesīr." one of the men surprised her with speaking defiantly in High Valyrian,
and from his finer clothes and clear Valyrian features, Visenya guessed that he
was probably the town Mayor or another position of authority, he was definitely
a dragon seed, or descended from one, mayhap a bastard uncle, he was too old to
have come from her father's loins, and Aerys had at least had enough mistresses
to make him a plausible father.
"Ñuha kepa's qogron emagon udrāzmi bisa tēgembōñ syt jēdri." she replied
proudly, causing gasps and wide eyes from all around her as people took a
closer look, many whispering with awe or had tears in their eyes, while others
noticed, and recognized Ser Arthur.
"And..." the man swallowed. "And who was your father? What is your name?"
Ser Arthur looked around worry and suspicion, understandable she supposed, but
this was her home these were her people, and she would never show fear while on
Dragonstone. "Rhāegār iksis ñuha kepa. Iksan Visenya hen Targārien Lentor." she
told them.
"Welcome home my Queen," the dragon seed said with a tearstained voice as he
bowed low.
"Rise." she said as she hurried to bring him up again. "I cannot reveal myself
to the Realm as a whole just yet, but one day soon I will return with men and
steel at my back, and then…I will take bake the keep of my fathers, until that
time you all must keep quiet. Bow, scrape and pay lip service to the Usurper's
brother, and know that we will have the last laugh."
A low chorus of 'Aye's' met her ears as men nodded with determination.
"I do have a few questions however." she said with a smile as the dragon seed
led her away from the main square and into the largest building in the town,
which served as both harbor warehouse and census office.
"I will gladly answer all your questions, but first, I am Vaelun, harbor master
on Dragonstone."
"I am pleased to have met you." Visenya said calmly while permitting the man to
place a reverent kiss on her hand. "The priestess." she almost spat the word
out. "How long has she been here on, and where does she lodge?"
Vaelun obviously shared her disgust as he spat on his own floor. "She arrived a
fortnight ago and has been preaching her vile faith in the town square ever
since. A few of the younger lads almost started to believe her but we've set
them straight. Currently she lodges with old Tom, who runs the tap house, but
who knows how longer that will be for."
Explain?" Visenya snapped.
"The Lady Selyse has been completely taken with her, she has even invited her
into the castle itself to dine with her on three occasions this last week."
"Abomination." Visenya hissed in disgust. "That bitch of a Florent who cannot
even produce her own husband a single son, dares to sully the keep of my
fathers with that eastern filth…" she looked closely at Vaelun, perhaps a test
was in order. "If I were to ask, how many men could you mobilize in a day?"
"Perhaps eight hundred men and boys from the town, and half the garrison. Give
me three days and I could have as much as five hundred more from the various
hamlets and little town on the other side of the isle."
"Half the garrison." Arthur asked in surprise.
"Oh yes, Stannis brought a good hundred men or so with him, including a number
of Knights, and his wife brought another fifty Florent men-at-arms. The rest of
the garrison are proper sons of Dragonstone, we know where our loyalties lie."
"Excellent." Visenya told him, "but for the nonce I require an even dozen. Men
who can keep their mouths shut."
"I know just the types." Vaelun said with a proud smile.
"Good, you have until nightfall to gather them. Once you are certain the
abomination is asleep I want you to club her unconscious and bring her to me,
bound and gagged. I myself shall await you all at the mine entrance by the
eastern shore."
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
It was perhaps an hour or two past midnight when twelve men found them near a
small hole in the mountainside, right where the sea meets the shore, and
between them they were carrying a tied-up bundle of red. "You made it, good."
Visenya nodded approvingly as she ignited a torch with a snap of her finger.
Soon after, another five torches were lit and divvied up between them and then
they entered the small entrance to the mine.
It was obvious that the mine hadn't seen any use in centuries, and though it
had been a long time since she herself had been down here she still knew her
way through the winding tunnels filled with jagged formations of razor sharp
dragonglass, which reflected the torchlight into a kaleidoscope of color all
around them. After almost another hour's walk Visenya halted their party in
front of an insignificant piece of cave wall, that is until with a muttered
incantation that none of the others could hear the illusion briefly ended, and
where before it had been just another piece of dirt and razor-sharp rocks there
now stood a thick circular door of steel, with no lock, no hinges nor even a
handle.
With a quick cut to her hand she smeared the blood on the door and to the
complete shock of the rest of the party said; "Come," and then walked right
through the door as if it wasn't even there. Now Arthur had seen a lot of shit
over the years, and he trusted the young woman who he loved as if she was his
own daughter, but to see her just walk through a solid door or wall… Some of
the others didn't share his disbelief, or rather the faith they had in the
Targaryens was so strong it bordered on religious fervor, and seeing one after
another of them disappear through the wall Arthur shrugged and followed.
The Room they entered wasn't large at all. In the center stood a large altar
with a depression in the middle large enough to hold a large man, with three
circular plinths surrounding it. One on each side of where a person's head
would rest, with a last one at the base where the feet would be, and Visenya
was already scurrying back and forth. Two twin plinths both held a censer with
incense that had already been lit, filling the room with a sweet smell, while
the last plinth, which was the lowest of the three, slightly shorter in height
than the altar itself already held a dark red dragon egg.
"Secure her," Visenya spoke with a cold tone that sent shivers down Arthur's
spine. Rarely had she ever spoken with that tone, but when she did, people
obeyed, as was evident as the men quickly put the struggling red priestess on
the altar and secured the human shaped bars over her to prevent her escape.
Arthur shuffled in discomfort. He like everyone had heard tales of the original
Visenya, and his own little 'Senya had admitted to knowing the forbidden arts,
but to bear witness in person… that was not something that he had ever thought
he would do. The hissed incantation that Visenya spoke was such a surprise that
he almost jumped. When the altar let out a blast of red light he actually did
jump, he probably swore as well, and almost returned the fish he'd eaten
earlier when he saw the result of the ritual that had been enacted.
Of the red priestess, there was nothing left but bones covered in ratty red
robes, and a tarnished ruby choker. The rest of her was pouring out from a
small hole at the end of the altar in a continuous stream of blood. Each drop
of the life-giving fluid hit the top of the dragon egg and ran down its side to
pool underneath it in a deep cup that had been carved into the plinth of black
stone. Once the last drop had escaped the altar Visenya stepped closer and
raised her arms before speaking another incantation in High Valyrian.
"Ondoso Perzys Ānogār iksā āzma," she spoke harshly and then blood pooling
beneath the egg ignited in a furious blaze of blue-violet flames. At first,
Arthur thought he was going to die it was so hot, but eventually the heat
disappeared and so too did the flames. Once his eyes readjusted to the darker
light he felt his knees hit the ground as he, like the twelve other men stared
in awe at Visenya, and the red dragon that perched on her shoulder…
AN:
I felt this was as good a place as any to stop. This was supposed to just be a
fun little oneshot/challenge, but ended up to be a monster of over 13k words,
and I definitely like the idea of continuing this, especially since I seem to
just dig myself deeper into a hole with Bloody Wolf, rather than try and climb
back up again.
As alwyas a big thank you to my wonderful beta Tallman7 for keeping up with me.
Translations:
Māzigon naejot nyke zōbrie mandia: Come to me Dark Sister.
Se skoros iksis ziry naejot ao pār? Iksi mirre pazavor naejot se zaldrīzoti
kesīr: And what is it to you then? we are all loyal to the dragons here.
Ñuha kepa's qogron emagon udrāzmi bisa tēgembōñ syt jēdri: My father's line has
ruled this island for years
Rhāegār iksis ñuha kepa. Iksan Visenya hen Targārien Lentor: Rhaegar was my
father. I am Visenya of House Targaryen.
Ondoso Perzys Ānogār iksā āzma: By fire and blood you are born.
Cheers.
Daemon Belaerys.
 
 
For those wondering what I imagine Visenya to look like after she and Ser
Arthur has left Winterfell to visit Dragonstone and the Reach.
[Visenya]
***** 'Senya's Kings, Petyr's Reckoning *****
Attention!
A_priestess_of_the_Lord_of_Light_was_dispatched_to_Westeros_by_his_most
benevolent_High_Priest_Benerro_from_the_Red_Temple_in_Volantis_to_spread_the
Light_of_R’hllor_and_deliver_disclaimers.
 
This_priestess,_recognizable_by_her_red_robes,_long_crimson_hair_and_fervent
belief_in_the_Lord_of_Light_was_last_seen_on_the_island_of_Dragonstone._Rich
rewards_will_be_given_to_any_man_or_woman_who_delivers_credible_tips_that_leads
to_her_discovery.
 
 
Ahem...enough_about_that._On_with_the_story.
 
 
Outskirts_of_Pentos,_The_Old_Bull.
 
“I hope this pans out Your Grace,” Lord Commander Ser Gerold Hightower spoke to
his King Viserys II Targaryen as they watched the brutish horselord Khal Drogo
lead his new and terrified bride away.
 
“It’s not as though I had a better choice Ser,” Viserys snarled angrily. “Four
and ten years I’ve had to dodge the Usurper’s knives, guesting with wealthy
Magisters, Archons, sellswords and Gods knows what else and what have I to show
for it? Two Knights past their prime and half a hundred young fools eager for
gold and glory.”
 
Gerold held in a huff of irritation. Sure he was getting on in years, and
Oswell himself was hardly a young firebrand any longer, but there was a reason
why both of them had been on Aerys’ Kingsguard, the very same reason for why
they even had other men serving the King, or why the King was still alive for
that matter.
 
“You are correct of course Your Grace,” Oswell piped in, which fortunately
cooled Viserys’ anger.
 
“Of course I am,” Viserys stated haughtily. “With Khal Drogo’s army I will
retake my Throne, and rescue my niece from her uncle at the same time, she will
be my Queen,” a light lit up in Viserys’ eyes, causing both Oswell and Gerold
to share a look of concern.
 
Ever since the pair of them had informed Rhaella and Viserys of the existence
of Visenya Targaryen, the daughter born to Rhaegar and Lyanna , Viserys had
been dead set on ‘saving’ her from her dreadful traitor uncle and then make her
his Queen. Rhaella herself, not knowing if she was carrying a boy or girl had
agreed that to wed the pair of them would be for the best.
 
Ever since, he or Oswell had shared what little news could be gathered about
Ned Stark’s ‘bastard’. While the opportunity to gather any information from the
North was slim, they did occasionally meet Northerners, merchants for the most
part, whom, after being plied with some ale were eager to let their tongues
wag, and slowly but surely they had gotten titbits of information about the
sole Targaryen remaining in Westeros, and to be honest, Gerold was not
positive.
 
‘Lady Snow’ was said to be the most beautiful, and cold woman in all the North.
As harsh and unyielding as winter itself, and as skilled with a blade as the
woman she was named after. She was said to have torn off the arm of the Heir to
the Iron Islands before her seventh nameday. Before her twelfth she was said to
have taken the cocks of a dozen men eager for her hand. So beautiful was she,
that men would offer all that they had for but a single glance from her.
 
No doubt boasts and tall tales, highly exaggerated, but every rumour had a
kernel of truth, and the one rumour that everyone seemed to agree with was that
she was gifted with the sword, and that she refused the hand of any man who
could not best her in feat of arms… which boded ill for Viserys. Despite all
the training he and Oswell had tried to put their King through, Viserys just
didn’t have the talent, nor the inclination to learn, for that matter he did
not have the tolerance for pain either, for every bruise he had suffered in the
training yard, he had made certain that young Daenerys suffered the same at his
own hand, which was why Oswell and He decided to end Viserys’ training, and now
the Princess was lost to them forever, sold to a brutish horselord.
 
“I am certain the Princess Visenya longs for the day,” Oswell stated as
seriously as he could, and Gerold made himself a mental note to smack his
younger brother of the Kingsguard at the first opportunity, there was far too
much sarcasm in Oswell’s tone.
 
“Quiet Oswell,” Gerold glared at the Knight. “Your Grace, we should not mention
the Princess where others can hear,” he told his King, while nodding subtly
towards Illyrio Mopatis who was returning to his seat beside the King.
 
“I hope I do not interrupt Your Grace?” Illyrio questioned as he looked at the
three of them with inquisitive eyes. No doubt having caught Gerold’s warning
look, or Viserys’ brief flash of fear at the thought of his ‘beloved’ Visenya
being discovered before she could be ‘freed’.
 
“Not at all Illyrio,” Viserys said with a careless wave of his hand. “Oswell
has had a little too much to drink is all.”
 
“Muh apologies Yer Grace,” Oswell muttered as he swayed drunkenly on his feet,
ever the consummate actor he was, and if he didn’t possess one of the finest
sword arms in Westeros, Gerold suspected that Oswell would have become a very
rich mummer.
 
“Very well Your Grace,” thankfully Illyrio realized the futility of trying to
weasel out anything else. “I have spoken with the Khal’s Bloodriders and if you
are still intending of making the journey with them, the Khalasar will leave
tomorrow.”
 
“I’ll not leave until I have received what I bought Illyrio, Khal Drogo’s army,
for my own sister as a bride.”
 
“Of course,” Illyrio simpered. “And what of your own bride Your Grace? I
imagine there most be plenty of suitable selections for you in Westeros.”
 
“There is only one!” Viserys snarled as the full madness of his father took
hold of him. “And she is none of your concern.”
 
“Of course, of course,” Illyrio bowed and spread his arms wide in supplication,
reminding Gerold of the Spider, Varys oddly enough.
 
“Do not wake the dragon again,” Viserys snarled as he rose from his chair.
“Hightower, Whent, come we must start to plan the invasion.”
 
With a barely restrained sigh Gerold and Oswell both followed their King,
unkowingly sharing the same thought. ‘I should have stayed with Arthur,’
 
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
 
Unknown to his two brothers across the sea, Arthur had similar thoughts, only
he was wishing that he had gone with Oswell and Gerold. Not that he had ever
regretted a single moment spent with Visenya, but these last few weeks…
 
He had discovered a few new dislikes if not outright hatreds in the world.
Since the end of the Rebellion he’d had a fervent hatred for Tywin Lannister
and his dogs, and the Usurper Robert Baratheon was not much better. Now, he had
also discovered and absolute loathing for ships. The merchant vessel they were
on was riding back and forth on the waves, its motions so sickening that
Visenya had actually been forced to keep vigil at his bedside for the past
week.
 
That she herself seemed unaffected was just making it worse. The smirks, and
mocking motherly tone as she fussed over him was adding insult to injury. All
this he could have handled if it hadn’t been for those blasted pets of hers.
The crimson dragon she had named Caraxes after the Bloodworm that Daemon
Targaryen rode during the Dance was constantly eyeing him up like a piece of
meat. His leg in particular seemed to be the young dragon’s focus, and Arthur
had more than once tried to stare the overgrown bat into submission as it
stared unblinkingly at his legs with drool coming out of its mouth, and despite
how many times Arthur protested or warned Visenya she just brushed him off and
then stroked and scratched the winged demon while offering words of praise, and
Arthur swore on his own mother’s grave that the dragon game him smug grins, if
such a thing was possible for a dragon whenever this occurred.
 
The white direwolf wasn’t much better. While it didn’t look as though it wanted
to eat Arthur any time soon, he was more than happy to take any opportunity to
chew Arthur’s boots asunder, and whenever his mistress returned he accepted her
words of chastisement with hung dog eyes and then moved over to Arthur of all
people for comfort. And for all that he told himself to resist, the eternally
silent wolf just had to give him one look of those soulful red eyes and then
Arthur’s hands would be all over him. Scratching his ears and rubbing his neck.
It was pathetic really, he was Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning, Knight of
the Kingsguard and a killer of men, and yet he was held captive by a pair of
animals, and his Queen, the young woman he cared for as if she was a daughter
of his own seed just laughed at his predicament.
 
“There there Arthur,” Visenya’s voice was infuriatingly patronizing today. “One
more day and we’ll be back on land.”
 
“A day that cannot go quickly enough,” Arthur grumbled while grudgingly petting
Ghost, the damn beast had its eyes closed and tongue wagging out of its mouth.
 
“Has it been such a terrible trip?” she questioned with a sly grin. “I know
Caraxes has enjoyed it.”
 
Arthur threw a distrustful look at the dragon that was simply curled up in a
corner, while staring unflinchingly at Arthur’s legs. “One day he’s gonna sink
his teeth into my legs as if they were simply a piece of mutton.”
 
Visenya laughed. “Caraxes knows his place,” she said as she tossed over a slab
of meat at the dragon who consumed it in a single bite. “He is just playing
with you.”
 
“An honour I could do without,” Arthur said with a grunt, while marvelling at
the astonishing rate the dragon was growing.
 
Three short weeks before, when it was hatched it fed on small bits of meat,
half the size of a man’s thumb, and now it was eating slabs of meat as big as
the steaks that Wyman Manderly would consume, and this was five times a day.
 
“How swiftly will it grow?” Arthur questioned curiously.
 
“It all depends,” Visenya admitted. “With the diet I have him on, and as much
time outside as possible he should be large enough to ride in a year and a half
perhaps, if not sooner. Give him five years and the only danger to him will be
another dragon, or a particularly lucky shot.”
 
“Truly,” Arthur asked, “I heard it took decades for a dragon to reach full
size.”
 
“There is no full size for a dragon,” Visenya admitted. “My ancestor’s dragons
grew slowly and much less than they should after they bowed down to the wishes
of the Faith and kept them locked up. A dragon in captivity growl slowly if at
all Ser.” Visenya took out another slice of meat and fed it to Ghost this time.
“King Aenys and afterwards Prince Aegon’s dragon Quicksilver grew most of its
size in the first four years, after that, dragons grow slowly but surely, until
their death.”
 
Where did Visenya have all this knowledge from? Arthur desperately wanted to
know, but remembered his earlier conversation with her on this matter. “So
it’ll be at least five years before you feel that you can safely use him in
battle then?”
 
Visenya snorted. “Hardly. Just because it can be wounded with a thrown spear or
a crossbow bolt does not make it into a less effective weapon of war Ser. A
dragon with a ride on top is a symbol, and what it lacks in sheer armour is
more than made up for in speed and manoeuvrability, and it is still capable of
melting steel as well as stone.”
 
“Forgive me Your Grace,” Arthur said with a nod of deference at the sudden
steel in Visenya’s voice. It was that steel which always convinced Arthur if
ever he had doubts that he had made the correct decision all those years ago in
the Tower of Joy.
 
“There is nothing to forgive Ser, to you dragons are still but tales and
legends.”
 
“Thank you Your Grace.”
 
A long moment of silence followed as both of them were lost in their own
thoughts. Arthur spent his time petting Ghost who had by now finished his meal
and laid his head in Arthur’s lap, while Visenya was fiddling with a long cord
of leather and steel that Arthur suspected would become a whip when she was
done, though he could have gone without the occasional muttered phrase of High
Valyrian, and brief moment of intense heat in the cabin as whatever spell she
laid into it took hold.
 
“Have you decided where we should start?” Arthur asked. They had discussed this
a few times, but Visenya had as of yet to come to a decision, as they had
several opportunities to pursue.
 
“The ship is putting in at Oldtown at any rate so we might as well hope that a
tourney is to be held in short order, if not, Ser Colin Florent’s nameday is
only a week away, and we can easily reach Brightwater Keep in that time, just
remember to have the correct armour,” she finished drily, and Arthur swallowed
a retort.
 
He hadn’t worn armour since he rode north with Visenya, and after four and ten
years one could forgive him for not thinking when he donned his old suit, still
embossed with the three headed dragon of House Targaryen. A mistake that they
caught quickly at any rate, and while he had despaired at doing so he had
packed it away and purchased a simple, but sturdy and functional breastplate in
White Harbour, he had since, at Visenya’s urging painted every piece of his
armour black, and she as his ‘squire’ had done the same.
 
“A mystery Knight winning every tourney he can in the Reach ought to send
tongues wagging,” he admitted with a grin.
 
“One?” Visenya arched one of her delicate eyebrows, dark amusement shining in
her eyes. “I hope you don’t think that you’ll be the only one riding Ser?”
 
“Your Grace… surely you don’t!”
 
Visenya held up a hand to forestall him. “You’ve taught me well Ser,” she
admitted. “And while I’ll need a few years yet before I’ll beat you with a
sword, I am just as fine with a lance as you, and better on a horse.”
 
“Aye that is true Your Grace, but if demands are given to show your face, we’ll
at best lose the tourney purse, at worst we’ll be arrested and hanged.”
 
Arthur watched indignation and fury race across his Queen’s face and eyes,
before, to his great relief she nodded. “Men she spat angrily. Just because I
have a cunt and teats instead of a cock does not mean I am any less able to cut
a man open from stem to stern.”
 
“I know that Your Grace, but men as a whole have other… sensibilities at what a
woman should and should not do.”
 
“Oh I know…” Visenya said darkly. “And one day, I shall look forward to see
each and every one of these fucking Lords humbled before the Iron Throne.”
 
Arthur shivered. While there was no similarity between Visenya and Mad Aerys,
there was something undeniably… Targaryen about her moods sometimes. But while
Aerys had been full of hot raging fire that disappeared at the blink of an eye,
Visenya had an anger in her that was more like slowly burning embers, embers
that could blossom into a roaring firestorm of wildfire that consumed anything
in its path. The same rage, and strength that though carefully hidden,
sometimes showed itself in both her father and particularly her grandmother.
 
Most people fell to the image Rhaella presented to the world, of a kindly soft
woman, demure and terrified of her husband. Those people Arthur knew, were
fools. They had never seen how Rhaella had coldly ordered a washer woman burned
to death for daring to strike Prince Viserys when she thought his mother was
not looking. Had never even heard of the five men in Flea Bottom she caught
raping a young girl, whom she had gelded and impaled alive on stakes, and
though he had only heard the story from Gerold, he knew that when Rhaella had
discovered that one of her Ladies, and the Hand’s own wife Joanna Lannister had
been sleeping with Aerys she had been terryfing in her wrath.
 
Joanna Lannister had been stripped naked before her husband and every one of
the Ladies of court and whipped thrice for each moment of infidelity, and then
shipped off to Casterly Rock with the words, ‘I’ll not suffer whores with
dreams above their station in my court,’ even Tywin had remained silent, not a
one of the witnesses had ever dared speak of the incident ever again, and
Arthur took Gerold’s words to heed, ‘no matter how demure, a dragon is still a
dragon Ser,’ he had told Arthur after that tale, and Arthur saw Rhaella’s
strength and fire in her grand daughter tenfold every day.
 
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
 
Small_Council_Chamber,_King’s_Landing,_Ned.
 
It had taken some time, both to get situated properly into the Red Keep, as
well as to try and get a start on the Crown’s financial expenses, but Ned had
finally gotten at least some headway. He knew roughly to whom the Crown owed
money to, and how much had to be paid annually. Getting Robert to actually come
to a meeting of the Small Council, the second proper one since the day he ahd
arrived proved to be harder, it was only when he promised Robert that ‘Yes, he
would start arrangements for a tourney and yes he would go out hunting with
him,’ that Robert actually agreed to come to the blasted meeting.
 
“Well, we’re all here Ned,” Robert said surly as he took a gulp from the large
pitcher of wine he had before him. “What is so damn important?”
 
“It’s about the tourney Your Grace,” Ned said patiently as he gave a nod to
Janos Slynt, the Lord Commander of the City Watch.
 
“The city is almost in turmoil Your Grace,” Slynt started. “Last night alone we
had five murders, three rapes and a drunken horserace.”
 
Robert looked amazed for a second before laughing. “Who won?” he asked with a
snigger.
 
“Robert…” Ned closed his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
 
“Its all the extra people here for the tourney Your Grace,” Janos protested.
“We simply don’t have the manpower.”
 
“The costs of the tourney must always be discussed Your Grace,” Littlefinger
said.
 
“SEVEN HELLS,” Robert shouted. “Not this again.”
 
For once in his life Ned felt a measure of glee at someone else’s expense as he
gave Littlefinger a rather wolfish smile. “Commander Slynt, where did you say
the prevalent majority of the crimes have taken place?”
 
Slynt started to sweat and pulled at his collar, most eager to avoid answering
the question, but with little choice considering where he was and who he was
with. “Most of them were on the street of silk My Lord,” he finally admitted.
 
“The street of silk,” Ned said triumphantly. “It seems only fair to me Your
Grace, that with the endless amount of extra trouble and customers in these
whorehouses that they should foot some of the costs of the tourney do you not?”
 
Baelish glared angrily at Ned, while Robert nodded thoughtfully. “Explain Ned.”
 
“Well…” Ned searched for the right words. “It is obvious that the majority of
the city’s current woes can be attributed to the whorehouses, as such, perhaps,
for the duration of the week leading up to, during and a week after the tourney
might we not charge an increased tax on the whorehouses, as justification of
putting extra guards on the street of silk.”
 
“Your Grace…” Baelish tried to interject just as Robert slammed a meaty fist
down on the table.
 
“A CAPITAL IDEA,” he roared. “Post a few extra men and take, shall we say a
fifty percent tax? Yes that’ll do it, Littlefinger see to it.”
 
Baelish for a moment looked horrified at the amount of coin he stood to lose,
just long enough for Ned to interject again.
 
“I’ll have my own men see to it Your Grace, with perhaps a few of Lord Renly’s
men if he agrees.”
 
“Oh you’ll have them,” Renly said, his voice betraying his amusement, any
discomfort to Littlefinger was music to Renly’s ears.
 
“Traditionally it is the Master of Coin who is responsible for collecting
taxes,” Pycelly interjected with his weak stumbling voice.
 
“Aye,” Ned agreed as he slammed a book heavily onto the table. “But I’ve gone
over the books, for quite some time back, and it seems as Lord Baelish’s tax
collectors have not done their job’s properly for years.”
 
“What’s this?” Robert snarled angrily as he grabbed the book while Baelish
started grow pale. Quite some time was spent in silence as Robert for once in
his life actually deigned to ‘count the coppers’ as it were, studying the
several lines that Ned had highlighted. “Did you know about these fucking
thieves?” Robert snarled furiously at Baelish as he studied the conclusions Ned
had written down, all of them quite serious. Such as an inordinate amount of
money spent on wine, food, whores, or tourneys. True, everything had its cost,
but not even Robert was foolish enough to believe that a bottle of Arbor Gold
cost the same as a suit of plate armour. Furthermore, the amount of taxes that
had been recorded was significantly less than what had actually been brought
in. “That old fucker…” Robert mumbled, almost impressed when he came across the
last few pages that Ned had deliberately left at the end.
 
“Robert?” Renly asked.
 
“Tywin,” Robert grunted. “Seems like he made himself quite the nice deal during
the time he was Hand to Aerys.”
 
“Yo-Your Grace,” Pycelle started.
 
“Shut it Pycelle,” Robert glared at the old Grand Maester who folded like a
deck of cards. “According to this, Tywin and the entire Westerlands have paid
less in taxes in three decades, than the Reach does in a single year.”
 
“I thought that might interest you,” Ned said. “I’ve tried to do the sums, had
to bring in a few extra to be sure, but we are reasonably certain that the
Westerlands collectively owe the crown almost three and a half million dragons
in back taxes, before interest that is.”
 
Robert laughed, uproariously so. “All this time the old lion has been badgering
me about the gold I owe him and never seem to repay…” he paused to take another
bout of laughter. “I’ll bloody well write him myself, and tell him that he
better pay his taxes before long.”
 
Out of everyone, only Pycelle and Baelish seemed to not like this idea, and Ned
found himself thanking Ser Arthur who had told him of that particular scam of
Tywin’s, Aerys just never cared, which is why nothing was ever done about it.
 
“Now about these tax collectors,” Ned continued, hopefully Robert would prove
as pliable every time, though he doubted it.
 
“They’ve been stealing from the Crown, so take their hands or send them to the
bloody Wall of yours.”
 
“The Wall is always in need of more men,” Ned mused, as much to himself as to
every one else, as he thought about the near two hundred men he had locked up
down in the black cells that very moment.
 
“Good,” Robert said before rounding on Baelish. “I’ve half a mind to just take
your head right this very moment,” he snarled as the diminutive man paled
rapidly, “but I won’t. You’ve proved adept at finding gold, so until you have
made up the deficit that your incompetence has made, you can consider yourself
a close personal friend of mine. So close that I’ll have a few men follow your
every step, for your own good of course,” Robert’s smile was no less shark like
than Ned’s.
 
“Also, I do believe you have a few establishments that can help pay down your
debts that much quicker,” Robert turned to Varys for a moment. “Spider, get me
some men to root through Baelish’s keep, inns and brothels, I want every copper
that isn’t nailed down brought into the treasury.”
 
Varys’ smile was so pleased that Ned actually shivered. “It will be done Your
Grace.”
 
“Now,” Robert rubbed his hands together, as if he hadn’t just ruined a man’s
life. “Is there anything else? Or can we get on with the planning for the
bloody tourney?”
 
“I believe that was everything Your Grace,” Ned admitted. “Now for the tourney
which events did you want?”
 
“Hmm,” Robert scratched his thick beard and multiple chins. “Start easy, Archer
competition on the first day, open for lowborn as well as nobility. A mounted
melee the next day, four heats of fifty competitors with the five best ones
from each heat going on to the final, no official teams of course, and two days
for the joust to end it all.”
 
Ohh,” Varys tittered as Ned dutifully marked down the particulars. “Perhaps the
Black Knight and his mystery squire will grace us with their presence.”
 
“Who?” Robert blinked, while Ned got a sinking feeling in his stomach.
 
“You’ve not heard Your Grace?” Varys tittered.
 
“Some mystery Knight has been tearing up the Reach, winning jousts and melees
all over the place,” Renly said. “Always the same story, he and his squire
arrive the day of the tourney clad all in black, decimate the competition and
as soon as he has the tourney purse in hand they vanish, even gotten a bit of a
following, some odd twenty Knights or men at arms are following them around by
the last time I spoke with Ser Loras.”
 
Everyone dutifully kept from rolling their eyes. Renly and Loras’ ‘friendship’
was so common knowledge that even Ned knew the two were fucking eachother.
 
“And no one knows who he is?” Robert asked amazed.
 
“It’s poor form to ask a mystery Knight to unveil himself brother,” Renly
protested. “Besides, it adds to his mystery, and gives the smallfolk something
to talk about rather than complain about taxes.
 
“And what about this squire then? What makes him so bloody special that he
needs seperate mentioning?”
 
“He got himself a bit of a reputation,” Renly said with admiration colouring
his tone. “Came across three Knights sworn to Ashford beating on Mathis Rowan’s
youngest boy Horas. In the blink of an eye the Black Squire laid into them with
a blade of Valyrian Steel. Cut their armour off of them where they stood and
apparently beat them black and blue afterwards.”
 
Robert laughed. “Sounds like someone we should keep an eye on. Lad’s got a
bright future ahead of him if he can do that to seasoned Knights while still
only a squire, now if we don’t have anything I’m leaving, I need to fuck
something on two legs and drink more wine,” Robert said with his usual
boisterous laugh, “Barristan, stay with Baelish until Renly can organize a
cadre of trusted guards to follow him around, and make it sharpish Renly, I
want Ser Grandfather back before too long,” Robert grinned at his younger
brother as he gave him a harsh noogie that Renly bore with defeated
familiarity.
 
“I am most impressed that you ferreted out Baelish’s game My Lord Hand,” Varys
told Ned with his usual calm effeminate voice as the other members of the Small
Council filtered out of the room.
 
“You have your birds Varys, while I have my own sources.” Truthfully, Ned had
been as shocked as the next man when he suddenly started to receive small
messages and notes from a variety of people, with the vast majority of them
written in Ser Arthur’s hand, messages that had easily followed him from
Winterfell to King’s Landing.
 
“One might wonder how or why the Honourable Ned Stark got himself a spy
network.”
 
Ned shrugged. “Robert has called upon me to serve the Realm as Hand, and I
intend to do the best of it.”
 
“And a fine job you are doing indeed,” Varys agreed. “Let us just hope that you
get to continue to do so.”
 
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
 
“He’s good,” Ser Arthur stated calmly while doing his best to check the straps
of his armour on his own, Visenya having quite forgotten her ‘duties’ as squire
when she laid eyes on Loras Tyrell.
 
“Huh?” she asked as Arthur’s voice finally managed to shake her out of her funk
and almost caused her to swear out loud at her hormones suddenly kicking in. At
least her face was hidden by the helmet she wore so Arthur couldn’t see her
blush.
 
“I said he is good,” Arthur said again, and Visenya almost snarled in anger.
There was definitely amusement in his tone, and Visenya had her suspicions as
to why he was amused as well.
 
“Shut it,” she grumbled angrily while Arthur laughed.
 
“I don’t need to play the worried uncle do I?”
 
‘I want to sit on his face,’ she mumbled to herself as she imagined the young
man beneath her with his tongue up her cunt. Not marriage potential, there was
far too little steel and too much arrogance in him. But he was pretty, pretty
and well built enough that she could easily see the merit of bringing him to
her bed for a few nights to break him.
 
“What was that?” Arthur asked sharply as he turned his glance towards Loras
Tyrell who was chatting with Sansa in the stands.
 
“I said I want you to beat in his face,” Visenya said hurriedly.
 
Arthur looked at her closely with narrowed eyes, though the slight smirk on his
lips told her that he probably heard her the first time. “Aye I can see that.
His dirty trick with the mare cost us the tourney purse, but even so, I would
be hard pressed to beat him.”
 
“Surely you jest!” Visenya stated.
 
“On a horse with a lance, that young man is probably one of the best in all of
Westeros, with a sword however…” he trailed off.
 
“You beat him in the tourney at Ashford,” Visenya argued as she resolutely
turned her gaze away as Loras donned his helmet once more, no man had any
business of looking so damn tempting.
 
“Aye I did, and it was a close thing too as the blood in my stool for the
following weeks proved, probably why he went with the mare in heat this time.”
 
Visenya grimaced, the sudden and wholly unwelcome attraction that had blossomed
towards Loras died a sudden and violent death. Sure he was still one of the
finest examples of a male specimen she had ever laid eyes on, but to be such a
sore loser as to employ cheap tricks in a tourney for mere gold or glory…
Hells, she’d sooner fuck a Dornish Prince than someone like Loras Tyrell.
 
“What in the seven hells is that fool wearing?” Visenya asked suddenly as a
young Vale Knight by the name of Ser Hugh entered the lists. The armor was new
and shiny, no shield or gorget, and his helmet was clearly something suited for
a melee rather than the joust.
 
“He’s not long for this world if he wears armour like that to a joust,” Arthur
agreed, and as if the Gods had been listening Ser Hugh fell of his horse, with
a big splinter from the Mountain’s lance in his throat.
 
“Easy Arthur, we’ll get our chance,” Visenya said as she laid a calming hand on
Ser Arthur, while simultaneously running her mind through all the nasty rituals
and spells she could lay on him if only she got ahold of his blood, or the man
himself for that matter.
 
“I feel as though I should be telling you that,” Arthur replied.
 
“I’ve had years to plot my vengeance Arthur, I can wait a little longer, but if
we ever get a chance to take him… then his life ends.”
 
“I just can’t wait to get out of this stinking shithole, or this blasted armour
for that matter.”
 
Visenya could agree with him. King’s landing truly stunk like a sewer,
obviously Maegor hadn’t finished the city, according to her designs, maybe not
even the Red Keep had been made like she had designed it. A trip to check out
the secret passageways could easily verify that, but until she was in actual
control of the city that would be somewhat hard to arrange.
 
A few more tilts happened until finally the Semi finals came around. The first
round was between the Kingslayer Ser Jaime Lannister against his nephew’s sworn
sword Sandor Clegane, that ended in Clegane’s victory and advancement to the
finals, and then it was Ser Loras facing the Mountain Gregor Clegane. The brute
who had murdered Visenya’s ‘older’ siblings.
 
As he had done against Arthur, Loras once again used his mare, to such a great
effect that Clegane was thrown from his saddle during the first tilt. The giant
threw off his helmet, his cruel face was red with fury. “SWORD!” he yelled
furiously towards his squire.
 
“Arthur,” Visenya said with a feeling of anticipation as she watched Clegane’s
squire come running with a large greatsword, easily as tall as a grown man.
 
Arthur turned to one of the men at arms they had been gifted by Lord Rowan
after Visenya saved his son from a vicious beating. “bow,” Arthur said quietly
and shortly after accepted one while Visenya received another.
 
“We only get one chance at this,” Arthur told her as he laid an arrow on the
string in preparation for the draw, just as Clegane beheaded his own horse and
started to walk determinately towards Ser Loras who was still prancing around
and waving his arm victoriously in the air.
 
“I won’t miss,” Visenya replied as she did her best to control her breathing,
just as Clegane swung his massive sword at Ser Loras.
 
Impressively enough Ser Loras actually managed to react in time and raise his
shield, even though the force from the blow itself sent him right off his horse
and onto the ground. Clegane raised his sword for a second swing, as Visenya
took aim, released the breath she held, and vaguely she noticed that Arthur
released his arrow a mere moment after she herself did.
 
The crowd as a whole seemed to hold its breath as the two arrows flew towards
their mark. Even Clegane himself seemed stunned for just the briefest moment
before his eyes widened in shock, and for probably the first time in his life
fear. His sudden scream of panicked anguish was music to Visenya’s ears. Both
arrows had found their mark, Arthur’s arrow had gone into his jugular while her
own had entered his mouth and gone out the back of his skull. For a whole
minute Tywin’s monster writhed in pain and panic on the ground before he,
finally fell still.
 
Silence reigned absolute before one after another the multitudes of smallfolk
who had showed up to watch the tourney started screaming, clapping and
hollering in triumph. In their eyes, Clegane was a symbol of the horror that
had been visited upon them during the sack. The man who had killed Elia and
Aegon and gotten away without punishment, to the smallfolk, this felt like
divine judgement.
 
“We have to go,” Arthur said worriedly as he could see the reddening face of
Queen Cersei, and the number of goldcloaks who were walking towards them,
spears in hand.
 
“Aye,” Visenya agreed as she jumped onto her horse. “Shame we can’t bring his
head with us.”
 
“Oh leave that to me,” Arthur said with a laugh as he drew his spare sword and
raced towards the goldcloaks, Royal stand and the completely befuddled Ser
Loras. In a move that once again reminded Visenya that Arthur was by far still
the better with a sword between them, Arthur swung his sword and neatly
decapitated Clegane in a single swing, turned his horse around and impaled
Clegane’s head on the tip of his sword before the head even touched the ground.
 
“WE RIDE, FOR FIRE AND BLOOD!” Visenya shouted at their few retainers and sped
her horse through the maze of tourney pavilions, while the screams of Cersei,
the goldcloaks and the usurper followed them.
 
To their fortune the tourney grounds themselves were outside the city, and by
the time the Usurper had managed to rally soldiers to pursue them, they had
already reached the docks, and to their even greater fortune found a Dornish
captain, who agreed to take them before half of his crew had even returned once
he learned what they had done, and exactly whose head they were carrying…
 
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
 
The_Rock,_Tywin_Lannister
 
“Would you mind saying that again Kevan?” Tywin said calmly as he tried to
process what his younger brother had just told him.
 
“Clegane is dead,” Kevan said, still as shocked as he had been when he came
into Tywin’s solar.
 
 Tywin felt his anger roar, if he    ever    found out who deprived him of his
most valuable asses he would make the Rains seem like a mummer’s play in
comparison. “How?” he asked as calmly as he could, even so, his voice still
trembled from his anger.
 
“From what I hear, Clegane lost his wits after Ser Loras Tyrell defeated him in
the semi-finals. He beheaded his own horse first, and then tried to do the same
to Ser Loras, but before he could finish the job a mystery Knight and his
squire killing him with a pair of fired arrows.”
 
 Tywin shook his head. Even he, as a rational man knew that anyone could be
killed, it was still a hard concept to grasp the idea of Gregor Clegane dying
from a pair of fired arrows. “Anything else?”
 
 Kevan shuffled slightly. “The Knight took Clegane’s head with him and fled,
and one more thing…” Kevan hesitated slightly. “The squire shouted Fire and
Blood as they left.”
 
 Tywin frowned. “Targaryen loyalists,” he said angrily.
 
“The King is apparently in full rage, not even Ned Stark can keep him calm.”
 
 Tywin nodded. “No doubt Robert is seeing Targaryen loyalists in his soup bowl
by now.”
 
“What do you want to do My Lord?”
 
 Tywin stood up from his chair and walked over to his window which afforded him
with a view out towards Lannisport. “Put out a bounty, ten thousand gold
dragons for whoever brings me the pair, dead or alive.”
 
 It will be done My Lord,” Kevan nodded.
 
“A fools errand,” Tywin admitted after a brief pause. “Even if they are no
doubt already halfway to Sunspear by now there is no way that the Dornish will
give them up, or reveal their identity, and even if they did… Well, not even
Robert would be foolish enough to call for war.”
 
“So in the end, we do nothing?”
 
“Offering a reward is all we can do at this point,” Tywin admitted reluctantly,
“oh and gather a force of men and take them to Clegane’s keep… I want his men
and anyone else there to be silenced understood? When he was alive Clegane had
them under control, now they are little better than animals… animals that know
things that could prove damaging to House Lannister.”
 
 Kevan nodded, this wasn’t the first time he had done something like this. “It
will be done brother…”
 
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
 
 During the entire trip Visenya had been debating back and forth if they should
turn the ship around. In her mind the Dornish were not to be trusted. They were
the enemy, the one province that no matter how much dragonfire they spewed upon
refused to bend. It was the Dornish that had killed her little sister, leaving
her alone to try and keep the rest of Westeros together while at the same time
caring for a young boy suddenly bereft of his mother, and a husband who was
despondent in his rage and grief, but unlike Aegon, Visenya at least had the
strength to keep going, rather than locking herself away on Dragonstone.
 
 It was also the Dornish who had mutilated her bastard brother Orys and his
entire army. Sure she never held the close relationship with Orys that Aegon
had, probably because she never saw fit to give him her affections, even though
she stringed him on on several occasions, but that was her prerogative as the
eldest, and she liked to think that her early flirtations with Orys had
prepared the man well for his later life when suddenly all manner of men and
women sought his favour for this and that matter. But yes, after Orys’ failed
invasion into Dorne she and Aegon had negotiated in good faith only for the
Dornish to spit them in the face by cutting off the sword hand of every man in
the army before sending them home.
 
 That was her experience with Dorne, however, according to Arthur things had
changed. House Targaryen had been good to and for Dorne ever since Dorne was
finally brought into the fold, with more than one Dornishwoman ending up as a
Targaryen bride in the years after. And even if Rhaegar, and Aerys both had
damaged House Targaryen’s standing in Dorne somewhat, Arthur was still certain
that if it came to war the only outcome Dorne would be willing to stand behind
was a Targaryen restoration, even if it was the daughter of Lyanna Stark.
 
 In fact, her being the daughter would be far more helpful than if she had been
born as a man according to Arthur. As a man she would have been a threat to
Aegon, but as a woman, she would have been seen as a potential wife, or even
second wife to either Aegon, or one of Doran’s own sons.
 
 At least their tourney days were over by now.    They had made quite the tidy
sum, nearly three and twenty thousand dragons in total after nine tourneys, and
though the fifty thousand dragons purse for the Hand’s tourney would have been
sweet, the possibility of an entire Kingdom for a single head was a better
option by far.
 
“  You are certain about this?” Visenya asked for what must have been the
fiftieth time as they stood in a small room just inside the gatehouse of the
Water Gardens, well, Arthur was standing, Visenya was pacing back and forth
angrily while her hand held onto Dark Sister’s hilt, ready to draw the blade at
a moment’s notice.
 
“Your Grace, I can assure you, that even Tywin Lannister would have been
allowed to walk out of here again if he had brought the head of Gregor
Clegane.”
 
 V   isenya ceased her pacing to rub Ghost’s ears, the direwolf that was by now
bigger than any dog she’d seen seemed to know her almost as good if not better
than she knew herself. As was evident by how he had raced after them during
their flight from King’s Landing and jumped onto the ship just as it was
pulling away from the pier.
 
“  They are ready for you,” the voice of a guardsman bearing the symbol of
House Martell on his doublet told her and Arthur.
 
 Following the guard, Visenya was forced to admire the palace that Maron
Martell had built for his bride Daenerys. Constructed out of pale pink marble,
everywhere one could see there were marbled pools and blood orange trees for
shade, that according to Ser Arthur was usually filled with children, both high
and lowborn, but now, the palace was empty with the exception of a bare minimum
of guards. Finally they stopped at the end of the largest pool and Visenya laid
her eyes on the ruling Prince of Dorne.
 
 Prince Doran was seated in a chair with a finely crafter walking stick of
ebony at his side. Though his hair was greying and his face far more lined than
his one and fifty years should be, but there was still strength in the man, of
a different sort. Visenya had met many men in her years, and while Doran
Martell would never again lift a spear, she could see the keen mind lurking
behind his dark eyes.
 
 His brother who stood at his side was a different matter all together. He
seemed far younger than his forty years, with his lustrous black hair that
ended in a widows peak. A finely trimmed beard, and lastly the fiery rage in
his eyes actually had Visenya rub her thighs together unconsciously, there at
last was a man she could see herself enjoying in bed, at the very least the
fury in his eyes upon spotting her should make bedding him interesting.
 
“Ser Arthur,” Prince Doran said calmly. “You sent word from Sunspear that you
needed to speak with me alone.”
 
“  Aye I did, we’ve brought a gift for you,” as soon as Arthur spoke, Visenya
reached into the burlap sack she was holding and withdrew the severed head of
Gregor Clegane and tossed it at Doran’s feet.
 
“Gregor Clegane, dead at mine and Arthur’s hand,” Visenya said with a cruel
smile flitting across her face.
 
 Oberyn almost spat in anger. “Clegane should have been   mine  ,” he snarled.
 
 Visenya narrowed her eyes. “I had as much a right to take his head as you
Prince    Oberyn, and a duty to do so besides.”
 
“Be very careful what you say next   girl   ,” the irate Prince snarled as his
hands shook.
 
“Peace Oberyn,” Doran said calmly, while smiling with as much satisfaction as
he possibly could. While regrettable that Clegane had not been killed by his
own design, it was still justice for Aegon and Elia’s murders, and Tywin
Lannister was furious like he’d rarely been before apparently.
 
“Doran, you can’t mean to… don’t you know who   that    is?” he almost shouted
at his older brother as he pointed a trembling finger at Visenya.
 
“Anyone who spent time around Rhaella or Rhaegar can see who her father is,”
Doran said, still as calm as ever. “But you of all people should appreciate not
punishing   or    judging someone for whom his or her parents are.”
 
“If I may,” Visenya said as she took a step closer. “My father, was a fool who
should have known better than to do what he did, my mother at least had the
excuse of being a naive besotted girl who was desperate to escape her fate with
a known whoremonger, and for their stupidity the Realm bled. My brother, sister
and stepmother   murdered    for no other reason than being the spouse or child
of my father, so believe me    My Prince   , I share your anger towards my
father.”
 
“And now you are here,” Doran said. “Why here? And why now?”
 
“I am making my preparations to retake the Iron Throne,  that   is why I
brought Clegane’s head to you, and why I’ve come in person. To demonstrate that
I am as hell bent on justice for my murdered siblings as you.”
 
“  And why should Dorne pledge its spears to you? Viserys is by law the
rightful King is he not? And how many men do you have?”
 
“In Dorne a woman can inherit just as often as a man, why should the Iron
Throne be any different?” Visenya retorted. “ I   am here, mayhap the North
will pledge their banners to me, and mayhap they will stay out of it. I   can
however guarantee that my own blood will not lead an army against me. The Lords
of the Narrow Sea will flock to me the moment I reveal myself, As soon as I
make my move Dragonstone and Stannis Baratheon will be in my custody, and from
what I remember both the Reach and the Riverlands are crammed full of men who
are still loyal to the Dragons.”
 
 Doran nodded thoughtfully. “That still does not tell me why people would chose
you    over Viserys or even Daenerys for that matter.”
 
 Visenya felt a wicked grin grace her features. “First, I am here while my aunt
and uncle resides across the sea, second, I’ll have Ser Arthur Dayne by my
side, and the Crown of Aegon the Conqueror on my brow,    and then there is
this…” Visenya let out a shrill whistle and with a piercing shriek Caraxes
swept down from the dark sky and landed with a heavy ‘thump’ beside Visenya.
 
“Gods…” Oberyn and Doran’s eyes were wide in wonder as they stared at the blood
red dragon that was the size of a large horse by now, with a wingspan of almost
eight and ten feet.
 
 Just as she had been the one to forge Dark Sister, it was Visenya who had
forged her brother’s Crown, and as she had done in Winterfell with Dark Sister,
so had she summoned her brother’s Crown in preparation for this. Reaching into
the small satchel at her side she withdrew the ruby studded circlet of Valyrian
steel and placed it onto her head. “I am Visenya Targaryen, Dragonrider and the
woman who will be the first one in history to conquer and rule Westeros as
Queen. No King shall I take at my side, so My Prince, will you bend the knee?
Will you swear your spears and services to my disposal? Will you help me take
back my   rightful   Throne?”
 
 Despite his brother’s protests that he should remain seated, Prince Doran
painfully pushed himself out of his chair, and with his brother’s help knelt
before her, with Prince Oberyn copying him a short moment after.
 
“If you  swear   to help bring Elia, Rhaenys and Aegon’s murderers to justice
I, Doran of the House Nymeros-Martell, Prince of Dorne swear my spears to your
cause and proclaim you our rightful Queen.”
 
“Prince Oberyn, help your brother back to his chair,” Visenya waited until
Doran was sat back in his chair again. “You have my word Prince Doran, that
I’ll not rest until my brother, sister and stepmother have been avenged.”
 
“  Then Your Grace, the hospitality of Dorne is yours for as long as you desire
it, and until you have no more need of him, I shall lend you Oberyn to use as
you see fit.”
 
“As I see fit eh?” Visenya said with a sultry tone as she licked her lips, “I
could think of a few things that he is ‘fit’ for at this very moment.”
 
“Your Grace,” Ser Arthur shuffled uncomfortably.
 
“Oh do be quiet Arthur, surely I will be safe with Prince Oberyn?” she gave
Oberyn an innocent look that hinted at   everything   , a look he eagerly
returned as his eyes roamed over her.
 
“Please… Your Grace, allow me to give you a small tour of the magnificent
palace my ancestor built for the first Targaryen to wed into Dorne,” Oberyn
said as he shot a smirk at Arthur.
 
 Visenya placed her arm in the crook of Oberyn’s elbow. “Arthur you’re
dismissed for the rest of the night, Oberyn will, ah, ‘take care’ of me I’m
sure.”
 
 Arthur looked pained, and    this    close to protesting, but eventually
realized the futility and nodded surly at them. “I’ll be damned if that isn’t
Lyanna’s daughter,” he mumbled to Doran, as he watched Visenya and Oberyn
saunter away from them.
 
000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000ooo000
 
Lemon_Warning!_Consensual_sex_between_a_minor_and_an_older_man!_Please_skip_if
this_offends_you.
 
 The tour was so quick that it barely constituted as a tour at all, what with
the brisk pace they kept up, she certainly couldn’t mention anything of note
other than ‘pools, marble or trees’, so it took them barely ten minutes before
they had entered Oberyn’s private chambers.
 
“And this are my chambers when I am here Your Grace,” Oberny said as he leant
casually against a wall.
 
“Hmm,” Visenya let her eyes roam across the room, taking note of the large bed,
the small indoor pool and even the richly carved oak desk and she felt a mental
war rage inside of her as she struggled to decide just   where    she would
fuck this Dornish Prince. “   And your very own indoor pool,” Visenya said as
she looked at him with heavily lidded eyes.
 
 The sultry smirk that Oberyn shot in returned almost had Visenya moan with
desire. “Would you like a bath Your Grace?”
 
“Hmm,” Visenya licked her lips and in a swift move tugged her shirt and tunic
above her head in one swift move, leaving her teats out on display for her soon
to be lover.
 
 Oberyn was pleasantly surprised at her body if the widening of his eyes was
anything to go by. As in her past life she had started to mature early, to
Septa Catelyn’s despair. Her breasts were already quite full for her age, and
the curve of her hips and narrow waist had reduced more than one man to a
slobbering wreck.
 
“Oh My Prince,” Visenya breathed out in mock worry. “I cannot get my britches
off, could you help me?”
 
 She barely got the words out before Oberyn punched on her. One of his hands
started to tug and tear furiously at the laces of her almost too tight leather
britches, while his other hand grabbed her by the neck to turn her head upwards
so that her lips could meet his own descending ones.    For a brief moment she
actually melted, as if she was the soft demure plaything that Rhaenys was, but
in her defence, it had been    decades    since she had last enjoyed a man
fully, and by the gods Oberyn Martell could kiss.
 
 Not that she was going to just submit meekly though, she licked, and sucked
Oberyn’s tongue as if she was a high prized whore that was being paid to do so,
doing her very best to try and wrestle it into submission.
 
 Finally he managed to loosen the laces of her britches and hungrily yanked
them down her legs. “You’re overdressed,” Visenya mumbled in between kisses as
she seized his shirt and tore it open, sending buttons flying everywhere.
 
“  Patience Your Grace,” Oberyn mumbled as he bit down on her neck, sending
convulsions of pain and pleasure through her, while one of his hands, his
gods damned    expert hands started to stroke her cunt softly.
 
“  Fuck you,” she gasped as she gave him a sudden push, sending him into his
pool on his back with a wet splash.    Emerging from beneath the water Oberyn
shot her a betrayed look, that was somewhat lessened by the grin on his face.
“You’re here to please me, not the other way around,” Visenya said with a smirk
as she sauntered over, not at all ashamed at her nudity.
 
“We’ll see,” Oberyn said arrogantly as he waggled his eyebrows.
 
“Yes,” Visenya admitted as she knelt at the edge of the tub, a thigh on each
side of Oberyn’s head. “Convince me, and I might let you lay like you want.”
 
 Oberyn didn’t need prompting twice and almost dove his face into her cunt.
“Fuck… me… you ‘gasp’ are too… fucking good at this.” she moaned and gasped,
barely able to get a word in as Obernyn’s tongue expertly roamed through her
womanhood, licking softly along the edges of her lips or penetrating deep
within her as he lapped at her juices like a man dying from thirst. Every so
often he would knock her off balance by taking her nub between his lips to
suckle at it, or to give her the slightest of teasing bites.
 
 She hadn’t been idle however while he was tortuously bringing her ever so
slowly towards her peak. His chest was already sporting red lines and bite
marks where she had done her best to mark him with her nails and teeth, to show
him that she was the one in control. She had just slipped her right hand into
his leather trousers to grasp his throbbing hard cock in her hand when the two
fingers he suddenly pushed into her rear broke down every single last barrier
she had.
 
 Heat flooded through her as her muscles cramped and twitched in exquisite
pleasure, and she was sure her screams could be hear through the entire palace,
and she only dimly realized that she had painted Oberyn’s face with several
squirts of her juices.
 
 Still trembling she allowed Oberyn to encircle her in her arms. “Well,” Oberyn
said with a husky voice as she laid soft loving kisses along his jaw. “Did I
pass the test?”
 
“Oh we’re just getting started my Prince,” Visenya mumbled as she dug deep for
a new font of energy, even as her body trembled in delectable protest.
 
“Oh?” Oberyn whispered in her ear, “Shall we take this to the bed then?”
 
 Leaning back Visenya smirked before giving him a hard kiss, sucking as hard on
his tongue as she could, the taste of herself on his tongue getting her blood
flowing properly again. “See that?” she asked as she nodded towards the sturdy
oak desk in a corner. “I want you to throw me over that and   fuck   me until I
scream my lungs out.”
 
 The smouldering arousal in Oberyn’s eyes, was a marvel to behold. She would
have liked to ride him into submission, but she had to admit that she was just
too tired to put up a resistance after his marvellous tongue had worked her
over, and she was curious to see if he could match Aegon the one time Aegon had
fully and entirely   dominated   her, the rage and fury he had unleashed on her
in their chambers after Rhaenys’ death had been the most arousing experience of
her entire life.
 
 Playing his part Oberyn picked her up, and gamely accepted her bites,
scratches and punches, before slamming her over the desk and using his strong
arms to spread her legs. A hurried shuffling as he removed his britches later
and she could feel his large cock suddenly enter her warm tight cunt.
 
“Stop, stop,” she moaned after his first thrust drove her into the desk, the
edge biting into her waist.
 
“Shall I take it slow?” he asked with heavy breaths, “I’m not unused to…
maids.”
 
“No,” Visenya said as she caught her breath, all while teasing him by clenching
her cunt around his cock. “I can’t take you… there. I can’t risk it.”
 
“We have moon tea,” he mumbled as he nibbled on her neck.
 
“Which… is… not… perfect,” Visenya stuttered through laboured breaths as she
enjoyed Oberyn’s ministrations.
 
“Have you ever had anything up there before?” Oberyn asked with concern while
his finger was already caressing her rear entrance, already wet both from the
water in the pool as well as her own juices.
 
“I can take it,” she mumbled as she pressed herself further onto Oberyn’s cock.
“Not put your cock in my arse and  fuck me  .”
 
“As My Queen commands,” Oberyn laughed. Both of them moaned at loss when
Oberyn’s cock withdrew from her cunt. Teasingly he stroked the head of his cock
around her fluttering rosebud before he placed it firmly against her entrance
and pushed…
 
 She screamed. By the gods, his cock was like a rod of molten steel as it
pierced her rear entrance. So many sensations at once. The burning pain of his
large cock ramming into her, the divine sensation of being    filled   ,    her
muscles loosing any fight they had as he grabbed her braided hair in a hard
grip and just   rammed   his cock in and out of her burning arse like a prize
stallion fucking a mare in heat.
 
 Just how long he relentlessly drove her into the desk with his hard cock she
didn’t know. She had lost all sense of time as she focused on the potent
mixture of pain and pleasure as his cock reduced her to a screaming, begging
two copper whore, until    f   inally she felt him    fill h   er arse with jet
after jet of warm seed.
 
“Gods I needed that,” she gasped as he carried and then deposited her on the
bed.
 
“I don’t know whether to pity or envy the man you take as a consort,” Oberyn
admitted as he stood before her naked. His chest heaving, and littered with
bite and scratch marks.
 
“A matter for another day,” Visenya admitted as she sat up and grabbed his soft
cock in her hands and slowly started to stroke it back up to prominence.
 
“Next time I’ll introduce you to Ellaria,” he said with a groan as she
tightened the grip she had on his cock as she stroked him faster.
 
“And who is Ellaria?” Visenya asked as she leaned close enough to run the tip
of her tongue ever so slightly across the weeping head of his cock.
 
“Gods you shouldn’t be so good at this at your age,” Oberyn moaned as he closed
his eyes in frustration when Visenya refused to do more than to just lightly
caress his cock with her tongue. “Ellaria is my… my… fuck.” Whatever else he
had to say was cut short as Visenya took his delicious seven in long and rock
hard cock fully into her mouth and into her throat, continuously swallowing
while breathing through her nose.
 
 As soon as she pulled back to just the bulbous head of his cock to suckle on
it softly he turned the tables on her and grabbed her hair harshly and pushed
her head back down to the root of his long shaft, causing tears to well in her
eyes as she almost gagged on the invading flesh. Nver, not even with Aegon had
she found a man who could keep up with her, who could play back just as hard as
she herself liked. She loved to be in control, but there was just    something
about having an irresistible    scoundrel    beat down her defences and use her
as he saw fit.
 
 His rapidly increasing short breaths and loud grunts gave her just enough
warning to wrestle away from his grip enough to let the head of his cock rest
on her tongue, one long hard suck later and she felt his cock jerk wildly as he
pumped her mouth full with his seed. After his last burst he gingerly removed
his cock from her mouth and watched with lust filled eyes as she swallowed the
seed he had deposited in her mouth. Visenya gave a tired smile as she laid back
down on the bed and stretched alluringly. It had been far too long since she
had tasted her brother’s cock, or his seed, and to finally have Oberyn gift her
with his she felt content for the first time in decades.
 
“Come lover…” she patted gingerly on the bed right beside her. “I want to look
into your eyes as you fuck me one last time, and while you do this, perhaps you
can tell me of Ellaria.”
 
 Oberyn’s eyebrows rose, he was certainly impressed, and seeing how his cock
twitched he was all for it as well. Slowly lowering his muscled form above her
he softly inserted his once again hard cock into her rear as he laid a soft
kiss on her lips. “Let me tell you of Ellaria Sand, my Queen…”
 
 
And_that_is_it_for_this_time._You_can_thank_one_of_my_readers_for_the_Visenya/
Oberyn_scene,_though_I_will_stress_that_I_have_yet_to_decide_the_final_pairing,
I_actually_enjoyed_writing_this_scene_so_much_that_the_idea_of_a_Visenya/
Oberyn/Ellaria_pairing_is_kinda_growing_on_me._Stay_tuned_for_more_action_next
chapter.
 
As_always,_this_chapter_will_be_reposted_once_my_beta,_the_wonderful_Tallman7
gets_back_to_my.
 
Cheers
Daemon_Belaerys.
***** Plans upon Plans *****
Today’s_disclaimer_was_fed_to_Ghost_and_Caraxes_to_keep_them_happy,_so_sorry.
 
 
                                   Visenya:
 
So far they had stayed for near a week in the Water Gardens, getting to know
Prince Doran and his household. It had gone a long way, Visenya had to admit to
help her get over her distrust of the Dornish, as, her father Rhaegar’s stupid
actions aside, the Dornish had apparently been heavily invested in the
Targaryens since the double marriage that brought them into the fold of the
Seven Kingdoms, bringing Dorne greater security and trade alike.
 
So far Visenya had gotten to know Oberyn’s two eldest daughters Obara and
Nymeria quite well, easily dispensing of any notions of her being a ‘simpering
princess’ as Obara had called her once. She had taken them both on in the sword
ring, and although both girls had promise they were far from her own calibre,
and she’d not needed more than five minutes to send them both slinking away to
lick their wounds, figuratively of course, and though not the sort of company
she preferred to keep, they were both too lustful and treated most anything
like a jape, they were… decent company, a change from Ser Arthur at any case
who could be grating to her temper at times.
 
Of course, Oberyn was hardly the sort of company she would prefer to keep
either, not taking anything serious, apart from the safety of his family and of
course his vengeance, but the man was pretty, and far too skilled a lover to
just let go until she actually took a husband, that and it was a guilty
pleasure of Visenya to see Arthur glare daggers at the Dornish Prince whenever
she had to gingerly take a seat after a long night of sex, furthermore, the man
was a virtual god with a spear in hand, the five bouts they’d had so far
leaving him as the victor four out of five times, and Visenya could appreciate
having such talent at her disposal, having a good spearman at her beck and call
for some variety in her fighting didn’t hurt either.
 
It was only now, a week later that she had been introduced to Oberyn’s four
youngest children, his third oldest Tyene, his lover Ellaria and of course
Prince Doran’s daughter Princess Arianne. The young ones were… decent, as far
as children went, and his daughter Elia, who was but two years younger than
Visenya was actually the one she preferred the most, sharing Visenya’s passion
for riding, and actually impressing her with her skill with a lance at such a
young age.
 
Tyene and Arianne were a bit less interesting, in that they were far more like
Rhaenys. Lustful, and hardly what one could call martial. Oh sure, Tyene
apparently had some skill with a dagger, even if the fair woman preferred
poison, and Arianne was beautiful enough to even tempt Visenya into considering
taking her to bed. Not that she had any plans for it though. While Visenya had
taken the occasional woman into bed during Aegon’s absence from her bed, she
was hardly interested in women, and while having a skilled tongue between her
legs was all well and good, it couldn’t replace a good hard cock on a man who
knew how to use it, and unlike Rhaenys, Visenya hadn’t strayed from her
husband, so until she was wed, she might as well continue to use Oberyn to sate
her needs, and if the ‘sacrifice’ was that she would have to endure Ellaria’s
ministrations as well, then it was a sacrifice she was willing to endure, the
older woman was far from uncomely after all.
 
“Anyone else we are missing Prince Doran?” she asked from where she was seated
at the head of the table in one of the meeting rooms in the Water Gardens, the
others included in the small ‘council’ they were having were Doran, Oberyn,
Arianne, Ser Arthur and lastly Prince Doran’s guard Areo, a bearded priest of
Norvos.
 
“No Your Grace, I felt it best if it were just us for the nonce,” Doran said,
“now, it is time to discuss how to best go forward.”
 
Visenya nodded slightly, while she would prefer not putting all her cards on
the table, she knew she wasn’t in a position to be secretive towards her
strongest and for the nonce only confirmed ally. “Very well, perhaps an
accounting of strength first, and then we can move onto potential assets.”
 
“I’ll start then shall I?” Doran asked. “Dorne can muster ten thousand spears,
two thousand of them mounted, in addition we have, perhaps five hundred to a
thousand Knights to call upon.”
 
“Any ships?” Ser Arthur asked, he had been removed from Dorne for far too long
to know much about its current military strength, even with his spies.
 
“No,” Oberyn shook his head. “The various Lords of Dorne can, perhaps muster
thirty ships or so of any use in a military venture, with ten times that amount
in total of merchant vessels in all, most of which are scattered to the
fourteen seas at any given time.”
 
Ser Arthur nodded, Dorne’s navel might in other words was much the same it had
been since Nymeria burned her ten thousand ships. “Then it is us I belive,”
Visenya said. “We have a dragon obviously, still not large enough to ride, but
Caraxes is clever enough to be useful in any naval engagement, and swift and
nimble enough to be safe from just about anything save a lucky shot,” she
paused for a breather while drumming her hands idly on the table.
 
“I would like to say that I have the North and Riverlands but I dare not. I
know that my uncle will not marshal his forces against me, not unless I should
prove myself as mad as my grandfather, but I dare not count on his support
either. The Rebellion did however see many of the Riverlords loyal to my House,
and while no sure thing until I can actually speak with them or declare my
claim we can safely assume that there will be token support at the very least
in the Riverlands.”
 
“Not much to go on,” Doran countered.
 
“Indeed not My Prince,” Visenya agreed. “I will however have the support of the
Narrow Sea, and almost certainly the Crownlands, at least the parts on the
north side of the Blackwater.”
 
“You’ve spoken with them?” Doran asked sharply.
 
“No, not as of yet. I intend to sail to Driftmark on the next available ship
once we are done here. Lord Monford is my kin and holds enough sway over the
Lords of the Narrow Sea that I need not even speak with them in person to get
them to my side.”
 
“How certain are you?” Oberyn asked.
 
This time Ser Arthur stepped forward. “While words with my brothers across the
sea has been sparse indeed, due to the risk involved, there was a moment where
we considered taking an offer from Lord Monford that was backed by every other
of the Narrow Sea Lords.”
 
Doran’s eyes narrowed slightly, this was news to him. “What offer?”
 
“The offer to capture Dragonstone and return it to Viserys, they would then
declare the isles of the Narrow Sea as an independent nation, restyle it as
West Valyria if I remember correctly.”
 
“A foolish venture, and doomed to fail,” Doran interjected, though Oberyn
looked to actually be considering such an idea.
 
“In the long run aye,” But with Dragonstone, Stannis and his family in
possession they would’ve lasted quite some time I think. In the end the idea
was rejected, had not the Royal Fleet been sunk during the summer storm perhaps
it could have been done, but it is only now that the Royal Fleet is what it
once was.”
 
Yes...” Doran said, more to himself than everyone else. “And if they were
willing to do this when their fleets were far from at full strength they should
be more willing to support us now, especially with Dorne in the fold as well.”
Doran studied the map in front of him. “And you are certain that you can
capture Dragonstone?”
 
“I have it on good authority that I can easily get half the garrison to my side
the moment I make my landing with the Dragon Banner flying at my back,” Visenya
said.
 
“And if it is a lie?” Arianne said, speaking up for the first time.
 
“It is for that very possibility that I will be bringing with me men of
unquestioned loyalty to my House.”
 
“Clawmen?” Doran guessed.
 
Visenya nodded. “After I’ve spoken with Lord Monford, I’ll sail for the point.
Once there I’ll meet with the Clawmen and win them to my side,” she turned and
pointed to Arthur, “Ser Arthur meanwhile will travel to Rosby, Duskendale and
Stokeworth with a letter from me, and try to convince them,” she took a moment
to take a bite out of one of the juicy plums from the bowl on the table.
 
“When the time comes I will land on Dragonstone with Clawmen and Velaryon men.
Lord Monford will raise my banner and lead the siege from the outside, while I
will take the Clawmen through underground passages and assault the castle from
within as well as open the gates, assuming the garrison doesn’t turn on Stannis
the moment I make my landing.”
 
“Hidden passages,” Arianne questioned with a raised eyebrow.
 
Visenya gave a cold smile at the Dornish beauty. “Where do you think my
namesake and her son got the idea for the hidden passages in the Red Keep
from?”
 
Arianne let out a brief laugh. “How do you know of them though Your Grace?” she
asked curiously.
 
“I know,” Visenya said sharply in a tone that brooked no argument, “That ought
be enough for all here I should say,” they all acquiesced swiftly, none of them
willing to meet her eyes at the moment.
 
“Then we know where we stand,” Doran said, “now we needs discuss how to gather
more support,” he looked at Visenya, “The best ways to seal an alliance is
through marriage.”
 
“Well there goes the Reach,” Oberyn grumbled.
 
“Explain,” Ser Arthur said.
 
“Mace and Olenna both desire Margaery to be Queen, she was raised in hopes that
she would be taken as Joffrey’s Queen, offering Arianne to Willas would not
work, not if Margery is offered the Crown Prince as a husband.”
 
“Which we know she will the moment that conflict break out,” Doran said
tiredly.
 
“Aye, and Joffrey is not said to wed my cousin Sansa for another three years at
the very least, and a betrothal is easy enough to break if it brings the Reach
with it, so if Arianne was to wed Willas all we’d be doing would be to grant
them a hostage,” Visenya said, “Nor can I allow my heir to be half Tyrell
either.”
 
There were more than one muttered agreement at that statement. “Perhaps Edmure
Tully,” Arianne questioned, “He is said to be a handsome man, and unwed, and
only a few years my elder.”
 
Visenya was the first one to disagree, probably surprising her father and
uncle. “Wedding you to Edmure would give us Riverrun and their closest friends,
but the Riverlands are just too fragmented as the Rebellion, and every single
war in the years past have shown, furthermore, their only natural defenses are
their Rivers, and there are enough fords and bridges in the Riverlands that,
combanied with its fair wind Lords make it into the worst strategical place in
the Seven Kingdoms.”
 
“Aye,” Doran said, his voice impressed at Senya’s council, though how was Doran
to know how old Senya truly was. “In any war the Seven Kingdoms has seen the
Riverlands has always been its playground, with the Rivermen dying in far
larger numbers than any others.”
 
“What then?” Arianne asked. “I cannot wed Edmure Tully, nor Willas Tyrell, and
Robert Arryn is far to young, who am I to wed?”
 
Visenya would’ve been touched, truly, if she didn’t know that the reason
Arianne was so adamant to be wed was simply because the woman wanted a husband
to call her own, and children. “Our best option would be to marry both of us to
the eldest son or a grandson of one of the Volantene Triarchs, with Quentyn
taking a daughter for wife, but I would not wed one of those arrogant
descendants of common footsoldiers to save my life, and even with you wedding
one, and Quentyn wedding another, the last Triarch would’ve been so offended at
being left out that he would no doubt do everything in his power to prevent the
other two from going to war,” Visenya studied Arianne for a moment. “Your best
option, should you wish for your wedding to bring in outside offers would be to
wed a son or nephew of the Archon of Tyrosh, which in and of itself will bring
its own problems.”
 
“What do you mean?” Arianne asked, Oberyn and Doran watched in silent interest.
 
“Since the fall of the Three Daughters, Myr, Lys and Tyrosh have been in almost
constant war with each other, the moment one of them starts gaining a seizable
advantage, the other two join forces for however long is necessary to bring the
last one down to their level. Should you wed a Tyroshi of the Archon’s family,
the chances are that we will be drawn into a war with the other two, or even
worse, Myr and Lys will side with our enemies.” Visenya sighed. “In this case I
would suggest you prevail on your father to either allow you to wed a man of
your own choosing, or to at least find you a husband who will not mind to move
to Dorne and take your name as consort.”
 
Doran shuffled slightly. “There were...deals made,” he admitted. “Before we
knew of you, a marriage pact was signed between House Martell and Targaryen,
Arianne for Viserys and Quentyn for Daenerys.”
 
Fire burned behind Visenya’s narrowed eyes as she turned her gaze directly upon
Doran. “And with whom did you sign this pact Prince Doran?” she asked.
 
“Ser Willem Darry,” Doran admitted with a slight gulp, no doubt seeing the fury
on Visenya’s face.
 
“Ser Willem Darry,” Visenya deadpanned. “At the very least you should’ve
negotiated with Lord Commander Higtower, at any rate, from what little rumours
have reached me, my uncle is not someone you would wish upon your only
daughter, and thanks to that… fool my aunt is wed to some dothraki savage,
better lay to rest any dreams of marriage to House Targaryen, at least for this
generation.”
 
“I had hoped...” Doran paused, looking between Visenya and his brother, causing
bot Visenya and Oberyn to start laughing.
 
“My dear Prince,” Visenya said with a rare chuckle. “While your brother is a
wonderful lover,” she shot a sultry wink at Oberyn, “and knows how to handle a
spear, I as the future Queen could not possibly marry a man with eight bastard
daughters, or a know proclivity to bring men into his bed.”
 
“Yes you are right,” Doran conceded, “perhaps Quentyn...” he truly was eager to
have his blood tied to Visenya, but in this case it was Oberyn who shot him
down.
 
“I have enough trouble handling her myself,” Oberyn admitted with a salacious
grin that made Arthur actually growl and unsheathe Dawn a few inches from its
holster. “SO listen to me when I say that our Queen will eat him alive,” he
finished, laughing when he saw the satisfied smirk on Visenya’s face.
 
“I’ll see if arrangements cannot be made for a most highborn beauty for Quentyn
to take to wife at a later date,” Visenya said, “but for the nonce it is better
to keep all options open, Arianne will be the next ruler of Dorne anyhow, so
better to try and find her a husband first.”
 
“Very well,” Doran conceded. “So how do you intend to deal with the other
Kingdoms?” he asked.
 
“Our biggest challenge is the Reach,” Visenya admitted. “They bring more men
and more food than any other two or even three Kingdoms combined. Fortunately
the Tyrells hold on the Reach is and always has been tenuous, so while we’ll
struggle to bring the entire Reach to our side, we can try and force the Reach
out of the war by sowing conflict within them. Some are still loyal to my
family, others will be hesitant to do anything so long as they run risk of
Dornish spears appearing at their back, while others will want to depose the
Tyrells. Post a few thousand men in Skyreach under command of the Fowlers, and
you’ll see most of the southern Reachlords hesitant to offer more than a
pittance to a Tyrell army, at the same time I will send a declaration to all
the Lords on the Realm, asking for their loyalty, hopefully enough men Lords
will be swayed to reduce the Tyrell strength.”
 
“All good plans,” Doran admitted, “And the Stormlords, Westerlands, and the
other Kingdoms?”
 
Visenya grimaced. “It all depends on the North and Riverlands. If they support
me I can afford to wage a more aggressive war, lure Tywin into the Riverlands
and block him at Harrenhal, Lord Harroway’s Town and Maidenpool in the east,
and the Northern forces in the North. If I can do this, Tywin will either have
to march through the Reach, or be blocked from King’s Landing.”
 
“And the Stormlords?” Oberyn asked.
 
“What Donrish strength not posted in the Prince’s Pass will be stationed in the
boneway, well positioned to make fast raids in and out of the southern regions
of the Stormlands, not enough to take control, but enough of a nuisance to ever
keep them from marshalling their full strength.”
 
“I assume you intend to take the Crownlanders and Narrow Sea Lords with you to
block Tywin in the Riverlands?” Doran questioned.
 
“Yes,” Visenya replied. “At the same time, my fleet will cut off the
Blackwater. If Rosby, Stokeworth and Duskendale join me that is the best,
otherwise I shall have to storm their castles first to make sure that no food
arrives to King’s Landing.”
 
Doran furrowed his brows. “taking any of those castles will be a chore, costly
in time and men.”
 
Visenya smirked. “Not necessarily, I’ve yet to see the castle gate that can
withstand dragonfire, and in the dark of the night their gate will already be
aflame before they stand the chance to try and bring down Caraxes.”
 
“You intend to starve the capitol then?” Arianne interceded.
 
“In the beginning yes, with no supplies from Rosby, Stokeworth or the
Blackwater, they’ll need to have food brought in from the Tyrells via the
roseroad, and that can be dealt with.”
 
“How?” Arianne asked.
 
“You Dornish are good at hiding,” Visenya responded, somewhat bitterly as she
remembered their early attempts at conquering Dorne. “Five hundred riders with
good horses and able to live off the land and remain hidden can ambush any
shipment of food, unless guarded by an actual army. Ride in during the night
and set fire to it all, or poison it,” Visenya looked to Oberyn. “Can such
thing be done?”
 
Oberyn grinned, “It might,” he admitted. “It just might, and I know just the
man to organize such a band.”
 
“Then see it done before we leave,” she turned her gaze back to Doran. “Take no
action until you receive word from me. I’ll have a raven sent to Sunspear with
the words ‘Fire and Blood’ when it is time to strike.”
 
“It will be done,” Doran nodded.
 
Visenya smiled slightly. “Fear not Prince Doran, even if half of our plans and
contingencies fail, it should still stall the Usurper and his allies long
enough that Caraxes will have time to grow properly, and then only a fool will
face us on the field, they’ll be locked in their castles and cities until they
starve to death or bend the knee.”
 
Doran smiled slightly. “Then let us raise our glasses, for the wars to come.”
 
===============================================================================
 
 
                                    Varys:
 
Varys watched with pity as Eddard Stark stormed out of the Small Council
chambers, King Robert’s screams following him. Varys both admired, and despised
Lord Eddard. He admired him for his morals, who else in the Realm would’ve had
the courage to not only council Robert to let the Targaryens go, but actually
chastise the King and then resign his office?
 
It was a shame. The Realm was in need of good men like Eddard Stark, and yet at
the same time, Eddard Stark was one of the biggest obstacles to Aegon’s
eventual Conquest. He and Illyrio had worked years on the plan, they both knew
that something extraordinary was needed it Aegon was to succeed. While hardly
united, the Realm as a whole was strong, each Kingdom scheming and plotting,
and flush with potential men to call to war. And for all his vices, Robert was
well loved, Aegon’s invasion would be stopped before it could even begin as
long as Robert was King. The alliance that had held the Realm together since
the Rebellion was tearing at the seams though.
 
Jon Arryn’s death had left Lysa in charge of the Vale, a good thing normally as
Lysa was so fearful for her son that she would adamantly refuse any call to
war, no matter who asked for her aid, but she was also so infatuated with Petyr
Baelish, and should Baelish ever gain the permission to wed Lysa, he would be
in control of the Vale, and in prime position to use it’s rumoured forty
thousand men to devastating effect, and thanks to its geography the Vale was an
almost unassailable stronghold, only truly vulnerable from the sea, or the air
as Visenya Targaryen had proven near three centuries earlier.
 
And even if the King should die it still left Eddard Stark. If he found out the
truth of the Queen’s children, then the alliance would most likely collapse
altogether, but if he didn’t then Eddard Stark, regardless of his feelings
towards Joffrey would feel honour bound to serve and protect, and if he did
find out out… well, there was the reason Varys despised Eddard Stark.
Honourable men were truly the worst to try and predict he found out, as one
could never know when they might do something incredibly… foolish. No, Eddard
Stark would have to go, one way or the other, as his death would break the
bonds between House Stark and House Baratheon, and leaving the North in charge
of a boy barely five and ten, he just had to find out a way to do it. Unlike
Jon Arryn who had been poisoned by his wife, Eddard Stark was far more
cautious, employing a food taster, and never leaving the company of his guards,
he knew, sadly what a vipers den King’s Landing was.
 
“Damn stubborn fucking fool,” Robert’s continued mutterings drew Varys’
attention back to the present. “Are there any other matters?” Robert asked
impatiently.
 
“Ah yes,” Pycelle started mumbling and fumbling about with several sheets of
paper, with both Varys and Baelish, still under heavy guard sharing a brief
moment of camaraderie as they both rolled their eyes with exasperation, how was
it that no one else saw through the old fool? “Grave, grave news Your Grace,”
Pycelle said as he found the paper he was looking for.
 
“WELL?” Robert yelled, he had never been a patient man, and certainly not when
angry, so Pycelle’s dithering must be especially grating at the moment.
 
“A message from the Citadel Your Grace,” Pycelle said gravely. “Foul murder and
theft as well.”
 
Now that was interesting, Varys had always had trouble getting his little birds
into the Citadel, distrustful lot that the grey rats were, only Dragonstone and
Driftmark were harder to get information from, to his great regret.
 
“Little more than a week ago, the Arch Maesters were discovered in the morning,
dead from poison. The restricted library broken into with several books missing
and all four of the Citadel’s glass candles gone.”
 
Varys winced slightly. Glass candles meant that the thief in question was
obsessed with magic, and no good ever came of magic.
 
“Who is behind it?” Robert asked.
 
“We-we believe it was Arch Maester Marwyn Your Grace, he was the only Arch
Maester not found dead, that is, it appears he has left in great hurry, as most
of his personal possessions have been left behind. A full accounting was done,
we keep meticulous records after all, and one of the acolytes, some Summer
Islander boy named Alleras seems to be his accomplice.”
 
Varys considered for a brief moment if he should inform the King about just who
‘Alleras’ was. He had always made it a point to keep track of Prince Oberyn and
his children, so he kenw that Prince Oberyn’s daughter Sarella, who just so
happened to look like a Summer Islander was studying at the Citadel, also,
simply turning her name backwards so it became Alleras instead of Sarella was
hardly a great feat of deception.
 
But he held his tongue at the last minute. No matter how much he hated magic,
he hated a mystery even more, and this was just the latest mystery that Dorne
was connected to. Dorne would be Aegon’s strongest ally, if they bought the
tale he and Illyrio had come up with, which was why they had Jon Connington
with the boy. So, if only for Aegon, Varys would hold his tongue, at least
until he knew more of the situation, and there were several things he wanted
desperately to know.
 
“Bah,” Robert snorted, “Let the old cunts deal with it I’ve got Seven Kingdoms
to rule, I’ve no time to worry about some dried old cunts getting robbed or
poisoned,” and then he rose from his chair and stormed off.
 
‘Rule indeed,’ Varys thought drily, if Robert spent even half as much time
ruling as he did between a whore’s legs then Varys might not participate in
Illyrio’s plot. A good friend who he owed very much, the Realm was still Varys’
greatest concern which was why the situation in Dorne was so vexing as of late.
 
Quite recently Princes Doran and Oberyn, as well as Arianne Martell had met in
private with Ser Arthur Dayne and his niece, Lord Stark’s bastard daughter, the
question was why, and was Lord Stark involved? Eddard Stark for all Varys knew
had not declaimed his daughter missing, nor had he informed the King that
Arthur Dayne was no longer in Winterfell. That Arthur Dayne was the mystery
Knight who had caused such furore in the Reach was obvious, and that his niece
was actually his squire was evident, and it had been the pair of them who had
killed Gregor Clegane, the Mountain’s head had been proudly been carried
through the streets of Sunspear less than a week after Ser Arthur and Lyarra
Snow had appeared in Dorne, even if Doran never revealed who had delivered it.
 
So why? Was Ser Arthur hoping for Doran to give the girl a good wedding?
Perhaps wedding her to Prince Quentyn now that Daenerys Targaryen was no longer
available, or did he have some other purpose? The girl had after all been
seduced to Prince Oberyn’s bed if the words of one of his birds were true.
Gossip in the Water Gardens certainly supported the theory as one of the
cleaning maids swore she had discovered the Prince in bed with the bastard one
morning.
 
‘And such a rare beauty as well,’ he thought, ‘almost like a Dragonlord of
old,’ he drew in a sharp breath, ‘surely not...’ but it fit, it fit so well. He
could only blame the Sack, and the still lingering Targaryen presence on
Dragonstone for why no one had questioned why a member of the Kingsguard had
been doing in Dorne, guarding a lone woman and rumoured lover of a Prince,
especially during time of war. And for that matter, hadn’t both Oswell Whent
and Gerold Hightower also been there? The latter two hadn’t shown up at
Dragonstone until several months had passed since the sack, long enough to have
verified if Lyanna Stark bore a boy or a girl…
 
Wary of the fact that both Baelish and Pycelle were staring at him after his
sudden gasp Varys held a hand faintly to his forehead. “My, I think the heat is
getting to me,” he tittered, making both men roll their eyes. They knew he was
lying, but as always in the little games they played with each other,
appearances had to be maintained. Giving them both one last look Varys skulked
off.
 
It was past midnight when Varys appeared in Lord Eddard’s rooms through a false
wall, he had no intention of being discovered, the risk was too great. “Varys,”
Eddard Stark gasp from where he was seated at his desk, reading over a few
letters. From the state of the room, Lord Stark had come quite far in packing
already.
 
Varys spread his arms slowly. “Lord Eddard, we must speak alone, please follow
me.”
 
Stark moved much quicker than a man his height and bulk had any right to,
almost vaulting his desk and then he had Varys against the wall with a dagger
at his throat. “I’ll go nowhere with you in the middle of the night Spider.”
 
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Varys leaned closer so that his mouth was but a few
inches from Eddard’s ear, “It concerns your niece,” he whispered, almost
laughing as Eddard’s dagger fell to the floor with a loud ‘clank’.
 
“How,” he whispered breathlessly.
 
“Not here,” Varys said as he walked back into the entrance he had arrived from.
They continued to walk, their only source of light was the small candlestick in
Varys’ hand until they reached an intersection, one passage led into the city
itself while another went into a steep downslope that would end in a small
hidden cove along the Blackwater. Varys turned to Ned. “I must commend you My
Lord, you’ve had the whole Realm fooled.”
 
Ned glared angrily. “Say what you want to say Varys,” he said stoically.
 
“War is coming My Lord, your niece is already hard at work.”
 
Ned’s eyes narrowed, “What do you mean.”
 
“I have little birds everywhere,” Varys said softly, “One whom has it on good
accounts that you niece has taken Oberyn Martell for a lover, furthermore she
and her good Ser Arthur have been meeting with the Martells in secret.”
 
Judging by how Lord Stark’s clenched fist was trembling the man was no doubt
furious at the mere thought of his niece bedding the well known Dornish rake.
“If I ever get my hands on that man…” Ned almost snarled.
 
“The question, My Lord Hand is what will you do? I am not the only one in this
city who knows how to put two and two together… If I can figure out the clues,
then so can others,” Varys paused. “And you know what will happen should the
King find out.”
 
Ned swallowed thickly, if he was lucky then losing his head was all that would
happen, at worst his entire family would be murdered by Robert. “Why tell me
then?” he asked, “You did not hesitate to send your knives after the Targaryen
girl.”
 
Varys laughed. “Who do you think has ensured that they’ve lived this long hmm?
Oh yes,” Varys said as Ned’s eyes widened. “'twas I who spirited them across
the sea. I alone that ensured their escape in the nick of time from the
assassins Robert forced me to send. I’ve kept them alive My Lord as a viable
alternative… should it be needed.”
 
“If needed,” Ned Stark was gaping. “You speak of the future of the ruling
family.”
 
“And what off it My Lord hmm? You’ve seen Joffrey yourself, another Aerys if
ever there was one, Myrcella is a girl, without the benefit of coming from a
family known for warrior women and dragon riders, and Tommen… Tommen is a sweet
boy, the court will tear him asunder I fear, if his brother does not do it
himself upon inheriting the Throne.”
 
“So you what? Keep an extra pair of possible rulers at hand in case you need to
have Robert’s children replaced?”
 
“An overly simple explanation My Lord, though not entirely inaccurate.”
 
“And now?” Ned spat. “You think you’ve found another, better option?”
 
“Hardly,” Varys said. “I merely wanted to warn you, and inform you that the
King will no doubt find out sooner or later, it only takes one wrong comment
and someone will fit together all the pieces.”
 
Ned was pacing by now. “My children are not safe in the city,” he stated
finally.
 
“No they are not, neither are you My Lord.”
 
“I have a duty to Robert,” Ned growled, “If he finds out then so be it, but
I’ll not endanger my children any longer,” he turned a sly eye on Varys. “Who
do you serve Varys?”
 
Varys smiled, “I serve the Realm My Lord, the old and the young, rich and poor,
and most importantly, the innocents who so oft get crushed under the heel of
the nobles who play their games.”
 
“Aye, it’s always the innocent who suffer the most,” Ned agreed with a heavy
sigh, “But my daughters are young, and innocent in these games you speak of.”
 
“That they are My Lord,” Varys agreed.
 
“If I were to ask, could you spirit them out of the city? Tonight?”
 
“I could,” Varys admitted. “But why should I?”
 
It took all of Ned’s willpower not to hit him, it was clear as day to Varys
upon spotting the rage in his face. “They are my daughters” Ned snarled, “hate
the Great Houses for their games all you want Spider, but my daughters have
committed no crime, and I’ll not have them in danger in this pit of vipers any
longer than I need to.”
 
Varys stayed silent as his mind worked through a hundred different scenarios,
should he aid the Warden of the North? Or not. “I can get them out My Lord, but
I cannot ship them back to Winterfell,” he held up a hand to silence Ned. “If
your daughters were to end up in Winterfell, the King and Queen would question
why you sent them off in secrecy in the dark of the night.”
 
Conflict appeared on Ned’s face. “What do you suggest.”
 
“I have a friend,” Varys admitted, “A few friends actually with whom the girls
could stay, at least until it would be safe to bring them back,” he smirked
slightly, “You know one of them I believe, and old flame whom you met during
the Tourney of Harrenhal.”
 
“What?” Ned asked in confusion.
 
“Ashara Dayne is not dead My Lord,” Varys said. “She lives in Essos, she
desired a new life away from Westeros I believe, what with her daughter taken
from her, and her brother leaving for the North to guard his Princess… I must
commend her for her loyalty, not once did she mention Rhaegar’s daughter living
with you.”
 
“Ashara…” a pained look crossed Ned’s face at the mention of his old love.
“What do you mean her daughter being taken away? Our daughter was stillborn.”
 
“Was she?” Varys questioned. “Ashara never wanted her daughter to grow up as a
bastard, nor did she wish for you to take her with you North as she feared you
would, so she gave the girl to her parents to raise as her sister instead.”
 
“Allyria,” Ned’s voice was almost a whisper. “Allyria Dayne, she’s my
daughter.”
 
“Yes,” Varys confirmed. “And she’s had a good life, and set to wed a good man.”
 
Ned hesitated before giving a resigned, heavy nod. “Do it,” he said harshly.
“Get my daughters to safety…” he gave a moment’s pause. “Would you be able to
send word to my son and wife?”
 
“Best not My Lord,” Varys said sadly, “At least not at first. Once I receive
word that the girls have been safely delivered to Ashara’s safekeeping I’ll
have you pen a letter to be given to your wife.”
 
“How will it be done?” Ned asked.
 
“Go to sleep My Lord Hand,” Varys calmed him. “I’ll take care of everything, a
few of your guards will wake up with ringing heads but that will be the worst
of it, and the girls will not be here tomorrow morning.”
 
Ned nodded. “One more thing Varys, in the Weeping Rose my daughter’s tutor is
staying, make certain he goes with them, I assume you can continue to make
certain he is paid.”
 
“Ah yes, the water dancer,” Varys remarked. “He could be useful,” he admitted.
Aegon could certainly benefit from having the former First Sword of Braavos
teach him a few tricks.
 
A resigned smile crossed Ned’s face. “Make certain that whomever you send to
spirit away the girls, bring with them Arya’s sword as well, their ears will
regret it for a long time after if they don’t.”
 
“I’ll see it done.”
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
                                   Visenya:
 
Visenya sighed as she took a deep breath from where she stood upon the cliffs
on Driftmark. It had been far too long since she visited the island where her
mother Valaena had been born on. “Amazing sight to see,” Oberyn remarked as he
watched Caraxes soar through the air in the fading gloom of day.
 
“They are amazing creatures,” Visenya admitted. “My ancestors conquered most of
the known world with them,” she smiled slightly, “Can you imagine it Oberyn?
Hundreds of them, white and gold, red and black, blue and bronze, soaring
through the air.”
 
She let out a little smirk as Oberyn shivered. “Oh I can imagine alright,” he
admitted. “And any who cannot should take a look at Harrenhal, or even here,”
he admitted, pointing out the burned out husk that remained of High Tide, the
magnificent castle that had been raised by Corlys Velaryon after his journeys,
and subsequently been burnt down to its foundations in the Dance. “Though I
wonder why Corlys or his grandson never rebuilt the castle after the Dance was
over, he certainly had the funds for it.”
 
“He left it as a reminder,” Visenya remarked angrily.
 
Oberyn raised an eyebrow.
 
“A reminder of our own foolishness.” Visenya admitted. “It was the first time
my House wed someone not of Valyrian blood, and because of it the Realm bled,
and my House nearly brought to ruin.”
 
“You support Rhaenyra then?” Nymeria asked.
 
“Aye I do,” Visenya said simply. “She was older than her brother by far, and
with three children of her own, and most importantly, she was Viserys’
proclaimed heir, of which the Small Council and the Lord Paramounts all signed
off on. Aegon, that whelp of Alicent Hightower had no rights to the Throne… No,
if not all the following Kings of my House learned a lesson then I certainly
have.”
 
Visenya studied her Dornish companions. “I can assure you that my father’s
marriage is the last time a man or woman of House Targaryen will wed someone
not of the Blood of Old Valyria, and especially not to an Andal.”
 
“You don’t seem to like the Andals much,” Obara said with a small grin.
 
“And why should I?” Visenya questioned. “Look at them, each time a Targaryen
has married an Andal the other Andal Houses have become wroth or insulted and
started to plot together,” she shook her head. “No, Like my ancestors of Old
Valyria I’ll let men follow whatever Gods they wish, but never again will I
allow Andal filth and corruption to mar the blood of my fathers.”
 
Slow clapping made Visenya turn around and give a rare smile. Walking towards
them was Ser Arthur whom she had sent to meet with Lord Monford Velaryon, while
Visenya, Oberyn and his two daughters waited by the ruins of High Tide.
Following Ser Arthur was ten guards, clad in shining plate and aquamarine
surcoats with the seahorse of House Velaryon, and a man who could only be Lord
Monford himself.
 
Like most men in whom the Blood of Valyria still ran strong, Lord Monford was a
tall man, easily surpassing six feet. His silver gold hair was kept short,
nearly shaved all the way down on the sides and his short beard was well
trimmed. “Well said,” he lowered himself to one knee, his guards following him,
“My Queen.”
 
“My kin,” Visenya said as she stepped close and raised his head to look upon
her. “It brings me joy to see House Velaryon is still strong and true.”
 
“The Old, The True, The Brave,” Monford said with a smile, reminding Visenya of
the words House Velaryon had sworn by for centuries. “House Velaryon has always
served House Targaryen, and I’ll not be the first of my line to break that
faith.”
 
“One would think you would hail to Viserys,” Nymeria quipped.
 
“Enough” Visenya barked as she shot Nymeria a dark look that promised her a
painful beating at a later date. “Rise My Lord,” Visenya gestured for Monford
to stand.
 
“Quite so,” Monford agreed as he glared at the Dornish bastard. “We fought for
Rhaenyra who was by all rights the true Queen of Westeros. It is Queen Visenya
who is the last living child of Rhaegar, and unlike Viserys who begs across the
sea she has the first living dragon in over a century.”
 
Visenya laid a hand on Monford’s shoulder, “And I’ll not forget your loyalty My
Lord, and I can assure you that the time for dragons will come again.”
 
Monford nodded. “How did you hatch it My Queen?” he asked. “Our last egg
hatched before the Dance, and none of our ancestors from House Targaryen has
managed to hatch one since.”
 
“I do not know why,” Visenya admitted reluctantly. “Eggs do sometimes petrify,
but it should be easy enough to reawaken them if one but knows how, and there
should be more than enough books and scrolls in the library at Dragonstone…”
she paused. “I personally suspect foul play, not only this, but in other
matters as well, though we shall have to speak in private about this.”
 
“Of course,” Monford agreed. “I’ve made preparations for your arrival My Queen,
none shall know of your presence here I assure you. I also brought extra
horses.”
 
“Thank you,” Visenya said as she accepted the reins of a horse, easily swinging
herself into the saddle.
 
It was a short ride to Driftmark castle, filled mostly with pointless
smalltalk. Visenya herself not willing to discuss important matters around
others, and Monford was clever enough not to attempt it either. Though old and
somewhat cramped, the castle was still strong, and shaped much like
Dragonstone, it’s design almost like a star instead of the round or square
designs so often favoured by the Westerosi, with gargoyles shaped in all manner
of mythical creatures decorating the castle.
 
Inside the main hall they were met by a table groaning under the weight of all
kinds of dishes and flagons of fine wines stood ready to be poured. Seated
beside the Lord’s chair was Monford’s only son and heir Monterys, a young boy
of six. Next to Monterys was his mother, Lord Monford’s sister wife Alyssa, and
then was another man, who, much like Loras Tyrell ahd no business being so
pretty as he was.
 
Long flowing locks of silver gold, an elegantly styled moustache and shining
purple eyes. He was much slimmer than Monford, though near as tall, and unlike
Monford he had a roguish grin that made Visenya do all manner of things that
would’ve earned her a thorough scolding from her mother.
 
A cough brought her out of her daze and she delivered a warning glare to Oberyn
who, judging by his smirk was this close to letting out a remark that would
earn him a lashing. At least good Ser Arthur was as dependable as always, doing
his very best to murder the handsome man with his eyes. “My family Your Grace,”
Monford remark, and to Visenya’s chagrin there was a definite tinge of
amusement there, he’d no doubt seen the look on her face just as Oberyn and Ser
Arthur had.
 
“My son Monterys, my sister wife Alyssa and lastly my bastard brother Aurane,”
he pointed each of them out in turn. “This,” he gestured to Visenya, “Is her
Grace Visenya of House Targaryen, the second of her name, rightful Queen of the
Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector
of the Realm.”
 
A fair few people gasped in surprise, with many taking a swift knee. “Please,”
Visenya stalled them. “There is a time for supplication, but it is not now, not
when I am hungry and weary of travel.”
 
Monford laughed and escorted Visenya up to the table where she was seated
beside him, fortunately on his other side so both his bulk, as well as his wife
and son blocker her view to his bastard brother, she’d need a few moments to
collect herself. ‘Damnit Senya,’ she cursed herself. ‘You’re a Queen, not a
simpering maid lusting for any handsome face,’ But Aurane Waters wasn’t just
any handsome face. The Blood of Old Valyria ran as strong in him as it did in
his brother, but his slightly more slender frame was a sharp reminder of her
own, now long dead brother Aegon, and for all the Oberyn was a good lover, she
longed for a proper man of the Blood to call her own.
 
As they dined she split her attention between Monford and his sister-wife for
the most part. Young Monterys for all that he was quite adorable for a child
was simply too young to fully appreciate conversation, especially when he had a
plate filled with desert.
 
Alyssa she learned, was Monford’s elder by two years, and had served as a lady-
in-waiting for Queen Rhaella until her death, having been one of those who
helped bring Daenerys into the world, and had later studied under her father
Lucerys while Monford was a hostage in King’s Landing. As was their fashion as
a House of Old Valyria she had wed her brother upon his return from King’s
Landing upon the death of their father, young Monterys making his appearance a
year after their wedding, though they’d not been blessed by another child
since. “Not for lack of trying,” Alyssa had said with a grin.
 
“Must you speak of this in front of my nephew,” Aurane huffed, though his grin
revealed that it was in jest. “I’ll not have you corrupt him so soon sister,”
he smirked, “as his uncle that is my job after all.”
 
Alyssa sniffed primly. “I’ll twist your ears until they fall of if you teach my
son your wicked ways,” she said warningly.
 
“Come now my love,” Monford cut in. “There are far worse men that our son could
learn from.”
 
“I suppose,” she said grudgingly.
 
“There you see?” Aurane said with a victorious grin. “Leave him with me, we’ll
sail all around the world once he gets a bit older and when we return he’ll
bring with him a whole gaggle of little boys and girls of his own for you to
dote upon.”
 
“I suppose you’ll return with all the treasures of Old Valyria and a dragon
each besides,” Alyssa said drily, “I know you well enough brother that I’ll
never let you drag Monterys away to introduce him to every whorehouse from
Sunspear to Qarth.”
 
Aurane chuckled. “You know me too well sister,” he remarked ruefully, before
shooting a grin at his young nephew, “Worry not nephew, there are enough
establishments in Westeros that I’ll yet manage to sneak you in to sample a
few.”
 
“That’s quite enough,” Monford said finally, chuckling slightly at his son who
looked confused, not knowing exactly what his uncle was talking about, only
that it was apparently bad if his mother was anything to go by.
 
“I hate to interrupt this marvellous feast,” Visenya said, “But I require a
word with Lord Monford,” she looked at Arthur and Oberyn, “Alone.”
 
Alyssa nodded. “Of course Your Grace, I shall see to it that your companions
are given proper lodgings after the meal is done.”
 
Visenya followed Monford through the corridors of the old castle until they
were both seated in his darkend solar, only a few candles for light, while
outside the door, Ghost prowled to ensure their privacy. “Now we can speak of
your worries My Queen,” Monford said.
 
Visenya nodded slowly. “I fear for the future of my House Lord Monford, the
Rebellion…” she shook her head. “Too obvious I think, merely the last in a long
line of attacks aimed to eradicate my House.”
 
“You suspect something… deeper is behind it all?” he questioned.
 
“As do you I should think,” she said slyly, smirking slightly as he gave a
short nod. “There is so much that does not add up,” she continued. “Balerion,
dead at two hundred and two of old age,” both of them scoffed.
 
“Dragons grow until the day they die,” Monford affirmed, “and I’ve yet to hear
of any dragon to die of old age, with the exception of Balerion.”
 
“Yes, and then of course, shortly after the Dance that was caused by those
greedy Hightowers every dragon egg is suddenly refusing to hatch.”
 
“Not quite,” Monford admitted. “Rhaena Targaryen’s dragon hatched, quite
healthy even, and yet soon after she wed her Hightower husband the dragon
withered and died, same as the last dragon that Aegon III hatched, it was weak
and withered from the start and died soon after… since then no dragon egg has
hatched, to my knowledge at least.”
 
“Yes…” Visenya paused. “And then there are the problems we’ve experienced in
the last generations or so. My great grandfather Jaeherys, born weak and
sickly, grandfather Aerys an actual madman by the end, and of course my
grandmother… one and ten children, all but three either miscarried, stillborn
or died in infancy.”
 
“I never knew the Queen that well,” Monford admitted. “But by all accounts she
was a healthy woman, hardly frail or sickly.”
 
“Yes,” Visenya agreed. “Ever since the Dance there has been an abnormal amount
of Targaryens born frail and sickly, I refuse to believe for a moment that it
is coincidence.” She studied Monford for a moment. “Tell me Monford, when you
wed, did you do it in the fashion of Old Valyria? Did you perform the proper
rites?”
 
“Of course,” Monford said aghast.
 
“I suspected as much, you still keep in your possession books and scrolls from
Valyria that has been shared between our families yes?”
 
“Naturally,” Monford said. “Should the worst happen, my son will still learn of
his heritage.”
 
“As it should be,” Visenya praised. “We had much the same on Dragonstone, as
well as a few additional books and scrolls pertaining to dragonlore.”
 
“As was your right as the last true Dragonlords,” Monford said.
 
“And yet, near every wedding as far I can tell since that of Jaeherys has been
done in a Sept,” she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What if someone have been
systematically stealing or destroying the collected knowledge that we saved
from the Doom? What if the men and women of my House simply stopped performing
the proper rites?”
 
“It would explain the sudden ills that has befallen your House My Queen,”
Monford admitted. “I’d say that someone of my House would’ve educated your
ancestors, but they would’ve found it hard to do so if they were unaware of
this.”
 
“Just so,” Visenya agreed. “I’d say after the Dance was probably when it
would’ve started. Aegon was but a boy when the regency council took over, and
your ancestor Corlys died long before he could’ve told Aegon anything.”
 
“Pardon my curiosity My Queen,” Monford halted. “How is it that you know all of
these things.”
 
Visenya smirked slightly. She trusted Monford, far more than any other man,
save perhaps for her uncle, but he’d find the tale as hard as anyone else, far
better to deliver a believable lie. “Daenys the Dreamer saved my House from
extinction, and she is far from the only one with Dragon Dreams.”
 
Monford’s eyes widened slightly. “That would explain it,” he admitted
impressed. “You have a rare gift My Queen.”
 
“Indeed,” Visenya agreed. “Now, I hate to seem uncouth, but is there a reason
why House Velaryon has fallen upon such hard times?” she asked carefully. “A
single son and a bastard brother as the only heirs should something befall you
and your sister.”
 
Monford grimaced. “Monterys was a difficult birth, and Alyssa has yet to
conceive since.”
 
“My condolences,” Visenya said softly. “And Alyssa, what would her reaction be
if you were to take a second wife?”
 
“I’d rather not ponder it,” Monford admitted with a wry grin.
 
Visenya laughed. “She would not be pleased I imagine, but it may be necessary,
especially if my plans are to bear fruit.”
 
“What plans?” he asked curiously.
 
“We will retake Westeros, that is a certainty, it is only a question of time
before Caraxes becomes large enough that most of our enemies will yield rather
than face a second field of fire, but why stop there?” she asked, fire burning
in her eyes. “For centuries the Free Cities, Myr, Lys and Tyrosh in particular
has been a thorn in our side, pirates and smugglers interfering with trade or
levying unjust taxes, raiding our shores in the night to carry our subjects off
as slaves, and at times even going to outright war, the time has come My Lord
to have a proper reckoning and bring them to heel...for good.”
 
“Were it not for that bitch Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra and Daemon would’ve
done it already,” Monford said surly. “I read it from Corlys’ own journal. Less
than a year before the death of King Viserys, plans were already made for an
invasion of the Triarchy.”
 
“Exactly,” Visenya said, even though she was surprised that the idea had
actually been seriously considered. “Which is why I would suggest you speak
with your wife about taking a second wife. I will need dragon riders, and House
Velaryon has proven its loyalty too many times to count, it is time that you
are finally recognized as a House of Dragonlords in your own right.”
 
Monford’s eyes widened. “My Queen,” he said in a hushed whisper. “This… you
honour us.”
 
“An honour you’ve earned through generations of sacrifice, yours will be the
first House of Dragonlords, sworn directly to House Targaryen.”
 
“An oath that shall never be broken My Queen,” Monford said adamantly. “You
have… plans for others as well?”
 
“Perhaps,” Visenya admitted. “Celtigar may be considered. But for the nonce I
think the best option is to make use of the dragonseeds, I’ll give them dragons
if they can hatch them, and like my namesake I’ll bind them in bonds of
unwavering loyalty. A few choice marriages perhaps, and some generations of
hard and true loyalty and one of mine descendants might raise them up.”
 
Monford chuckled. “Even if you or your descendants decide not to, you’ll still
have a core of loyal dragonriders, I assume you’ll attempt to employ the same
methods Queen Visenya used to ensure the loyalty of Aegon’s Kingsguard?”
 
Visenya grinned. “The very same,” she admitted.
 
“Good,” Monford said. “And yourself? I assume you have a husband in mind?”
 
“Not for the moment,” Visenya admitted. “I had hoped you had a son closer to me
in age, or perhaps Celtigar, gods know I cannot wed Oberyn.”
 
A sly smile appeared on Monford’s face, “And my brother is a bastard, and as
such not suitable, regardless of how much you wanted him.”
 
Her face was burning she knew it. “Careful Monford,” she said angrily as she
tried to force the redness away from her cheeks. “Careful now, I give you much
more liberty than most considering the bonds of loyalty and kinship between our
Houses, but speak to me in such a fashion in public and I’ll have to take you
to task for it.”
 
“Of course My Queen,” Monford placated her, though he still had that knowing
grin on his face.
 
She stayed on Driftmark for a further three weeks, ironing out as much detail
of her plans as she could with Monford. She would’ve preferred to leave as
swift as possible, but according to Monford, Lord Celtigar was about to send
out a force of men on his yearly attempt to get a bent copper from the Houses
on Cracklaw point, and according to Monford, these last years Celtigar had sent
enough men that a few of them even returned alive, no coin with them though,
and Visenya had to suppress a smile of triumph. Ever since she personally
gained their loyalty during the Conquest the men of the ‘Claw had been fervent
loyalists to House Targaryen, and only House Targaryen.
 
And with Lord Celtigar coming to visit Monford in onrder to discuss wedding his
grand daughter to Monford as a second wife, Visenya would accompany Celtigar
back to Claw Isle, and join his little tax ‘expedition’ from there. Also
accompanying her would be Oberyn as a personal guard, Ser Arthur had already
left for Duskendale, where he would attempt to sniff out their loyalties,
before moving on to Rosby and Stokeworth, having been given great freedom as
how he wanted to act. According to him he would attempt to find out their true
loyalties, before making subtle hints about a future Targaryen restoration that
was backed by several important Lords and a Kingdom or two. Their response
would determine whether Senya would have to set aside time and plans to take
the castles by storm once she made her move or not.
 
On another front, Oberyn gave her news that his daughter Sarella had been
successful. Once she was first told of Sarella and how the girl was
masquarading as a boy studying at the Citadel with none the wiser she had
discussed with Oberyn about the possibility of Sarella stealing the fabled
glass candles in the Citadel’s possession. She hadn’t thought the girl would do
it, certainly not succeed, but apparently she had. Successfully stealing the
candles, along with several books and scrolls from the Citadel’s secret vaults,
and she’d been aided in her efforts by an Arch Maester, fondly nicknamed Marwyn
‘The Mage’, one thing was certain, Visenya was looking forward to meeting this
man, very much…
 
 
===============================================================================
 
 
                                The_White_Bull:
 
His hands were shaking, Gerold noted suddenly as he paused in his packing. They
were in Vaes Dothrak. Had been there for weeks actually, and it had as a whole
been a completely horrible experience. They hardly spoke the language, people
acted like barbarians, rutting or drinking themselves into a stupor wherever
one turned his head.
 
The ancient rules of the city forbade weapons, so he, and Oswell as well as the
mwn whose loyalty they had gained for Viserys’ cause since escaping to Essos
had to walk around without so much as a dagger by their sides, and it made him
feel as naked as whore in a brothel. He was a Kingsguard, and furthermore, he
was Kingsguard to a King who made his job even more difficult than Aerys had
ever done.
 
Aerys had been mad, not even Gerold would deny that, but he had the full weight
of Westeros behind him, nominally at least, and was for the most part fully
capable of acting out on his threats. Viserys though… He had nearly gotten them
killed several times on the journey to Vaes Dothrak alone, the biggest incident
was the one where one of Khal Drogo’s riders near strangled Viserys to death,
only quick thinking by Oswell had saved their lives that day, first by cutting
the whip and then overwhelming Viserys with tales of this wondrous wine he had
discovered and expertly led their King away, no doubt to sample this wine,
while Gerold had to calm donw the furious screamer who had nearly killed the
King, only wisdom, and Princess Daenerys’ pleading eyes had stopped him from
ending his life, even if he fulfilled his duty and challenged the screamer to a
duel later that night and removed his hand with a single swing of his sword,
just as the law dictates, ‘he who raises a hand to the Blood of the Dragon
loses the hand’.
 
And now, it was all over If only the King had consulted with him or Oswell
perhaps they could have stopped it, instead the fool had marched straight into
the Khal’s large tent and threatened him and Princess Daenerys at sword point.
Oswell had tried to interfere, and only his quick reflexes let him escape with
more than a fright. For the King that brief interruption mad all the difference
though and he’d quickly been apprehended, as had Gerold and Oswell, and the two
Kingsguard had been forced to watch as the King was nailed, hand and feet to a
pole and simply dumped into the cooking fire, the Khal had not the patience to
wait for the gold he put into a large pot to melt.
 
“Ser Gerold?”
 
Geruld spun around at the voice only to be met by the sight of Princess
Daenerys. “Princess,” he greeted her.
 
Daenerys wrinkled her face slightly. “I am Queen now that my brother is dead,”
she said sullenly.
 
“Forgive me Princess but you are not,” Oswell interjected. “By the precedents
set by the Great Council of the year one hundred and one after Aegon’s
Conquest, and later again in the Dance of Dragon, your brother, as the last son
of House Targaryen was the rightful King, but your niece Visenya’s claim comes
before yours Princess, and the Queen is alive and well in Westeros.”
 
Daenerys face fell. “So you’ll just l-leave me here?” she asked.
 
“Our duty is with our Queen,” Gerold said sadly, he had no desire to leave his
Princess, but his duty was clear. “If you wish for it, we would take you with
us, it would be difficult, and the Dothraki would no doubt give us chase, but
it could be done.”
 
“N-no,” she shook her head, “I cannot leave, not without my sun-and-stars.”
 
Gerlod gave the Princess a nod. “Then I wish you good fortune Princess, and
know that I will do my best to keep your niece the Queen safe.”
 
Gerold stiffened, and gave a murderous glare towards the chuckling Oswell as
Daenerys threw her arms around him and sobbed. He was a damn Knight, give him a
sword, and half a dozen men to kill, but confront him with a weeping woman and
he was so green he might as well piss grass. “There there,” he said weakly as
he patted Princess Daenerys lightly on her back.
 
At least Oswell got the same treatment, he noticed smugly, even if Oswell
seemed more at ease than he himself felt in that moment. And so, with the night
still young, he, Oswell and fifty other men saddled their horses and rode west,
towards Westeros, he could only hope that the Queen would be forgiving and
welcome them into her service, it would be just his luck if the Queen should
turn out to be as cold and unyielding as the rumours said, at least she was
only named for the first Visenya, dealing with the original one would have been
a nightmare if the tales were true...
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