Chapter Text
“Four and sixty,” she whispered to the warm morning air, stifling under the royal box’s silken cover. Four and sixty until all is done, and Uncle Daemon is the sole victor. Her right foot bounced up and down in the wooden floor, her hands grasped her chair’s armrests in steely flingers. Aemon’s hand was caught under her right one.
The morning began gloomy and overcast, and Visenya’s mind inevitably had taken it as a bad omen for the day. Just an hour before they were to take the carriage ride to the tourney grounds her father received the news that her mother had started her labors. That made them leave the Red Keep an hour later just to see if the queen had all she needed before the royal entourage made their way.
That was on the second day. Yestermorn started with an archery competition, along with a shorter section to crossbow, held in haste due to a surprise arrival of a tyroshi company of crossbowmen. The day before was axe throwing and horse races. But all entertainments would pale in comparison to the main event that were the jousts.
“At least this is more entertaining,” Aemon muttered at her side. His eyes flittered back to hers, sending a small warm wave of levity and confidence. Visenya could almost say she loved him for it, but her heart was still too weary. She did not speak, but she squeezed his hand in response. He was her best friend, her only ally capable of understanding the strange position she lived in.
“Of course it is!” said Rhaenyra to her left. “The best knights of the realm ride for the champion’s purse and win honor and glory. Uncle Daemon rides with them, as does the gallant Ser Criston! I hope one of them wins, so they can crown me Queen of Love and Beauty,” she spoke with wonder in her eyes. Her sister was a lovely thing. Bright enchanting purple eyes, a small mouth with plump lips that made her look pouting and hair equal parts silver and gold, different from her own more silver mane. Her beauty was enhanced by a delicate beauty mark under her right eye. She had a small elegant nose with a light turned-up tip. It was a marvel how she could look so majestic yet so young. Many knights and ladies had complemented her own beauty, of course but never to the extend as Rhaenyra received their praises. Most of it was due to her rather aquiline nose, she thought.
She wore her hair in that favorite style of hers of twin braids Queen Visenya famously wore. Her gown was a silken dress of light pink with white lace that cut perfectly the image of the Realm’s Delight. Her own gown was dark purple samite that complemented well with her own dark eyes. Different from her sister, she let her hair fall freely down her head, along with a thin silver circlet with chains of light gold in it.
“You are right, my most dear daughter! You are the loveliest lady in the realm, I’m sure your uncle shall crown you should he win,” Viserys spoke with a great laugh from behind and above them, seating in the king’s chair. “But you must expect competition to win your crown, my sweet Rhaenyra. You do have a lovely princess at your side.”
Visenya smiled at her father’s words, but tried to ignore the little whisper of jealousy. She knew she was beautiful, and her sister was that as well. She was more than certain her father loved her just as much as Rhaenyra. It was just nice when she was the only of Viserys and Aemma’s child, and received all their praise.
It was childish of her to be jealous of her wonderful sister. The irony didn’t escape her.
Trumpets rang down the twin quintains announcing the start of the jousts. With a magnanimous and joyful speech, the tilts were open to begin, and quickly four knights entered in atop their destriers, coursers and rounseys for the less wealthy knights. Visenya saw the four of them make their way toward the royal box, dipped their lances in salute and moving to their positions; the winged chalice and crescent moon over trees to the east, checky lion and fallen leaves to the west.
Visenya had not the time to remember the knights’ names before her father signaled the master of games, and trumpets sounded lively. Horses sprinted toward each other, digging shallow holes in the dirt as the armored men spurred them into a gallop. Lances coached and ready in the crook of their arms, pointed towards their competitor with shield ready before both sides bet into a clash of wood, metal and horseflesh.
CRACK.
The checky lion knight was on the ground in a heap of metal, woodchips rained over him and the winged chalice knight, still ahorse with a shattered lance in hand. Smallfolk and noble born cheered and clapped at the scene, a wave of voices. The other pair were wheeling their horses around the quintains and charging back with great speed. The knight of fallen leaves followed his sigil, and went to the ground. The crescent moon and trees knight had his lance intact in hand, doing a victory lap around.
Quickly the fallen and victorious riders were ushered in and four more presented themselves before the royal box, just as the previous two pairs did before. Six moons ago her father had announced the tourney in court, and the ravens flew from the Grand Maester’s tower in a pack of hundreds, delivering word of the festivities to the lords of the realm. Many came as early as the fortnight after the announcement, and others arrived as the first games were begun. Four and sixty were the number of knights that came and placed their names to compete for the champion’s purse of ten thousand gold dragons in the jousts. If they were to watch every joust one pair at the time, it could take as much as a whole moon’s turn to see a champion emerge, so it was suggested by Lord Otto that, at least for the first three rounds of each participant two pairs of jousters would ride at the same time.
The suggestion was heard and accepted, and not a day later new quintains were brought and set just a few yards to the side of the first one. Visenya had to admit, it was the better way forward, but she didn’t sing the Hand’s praises. She was still wary of the man.
Mushroom sauntered into their line of sight as the knights down in the lists made their second ride out. The fool was as she had read before in her first life. Little, annoying and uncouth, with stunted legs and a squashed in face beneath a heavy-set brow. He wore quartered motley of black slashed with red underneath and yellow squared paired with green, jumping from one exaggeratedly pointed shoe to the other, the bells on his little hat rang with the movement. Ding di-ling. Ding di-ling.
“Such a long face, my prince? Wouldn’t it be better if a handsome lad like you to smile a bit to brighten up your cousin the prince’s tourney?” said the dwarf in a sing-song voice. All the while he jumped from one foot to the other.
Aemon glanced at him in stone-faced. “I would if I had a wish for it, Mushroom. Move away and bother me no more, I’m more interested in watching the tilts than indulge you and your senseless jests,” her cousin spoke with a cold as winter voice a boy could muster, waving the fool away with a hand.
Mushroom feigned thinking his next words, one stubby finger tapping his haired chin. “On second thought, you are right, my prince. Best not you smile and steal away the all the maids about the tourney and leave none for poor Mushroom here.” He eyed Visenya with quick glances, switching between her and Aemon while raising his eyebrows in a rhythm.
Visenya felt a little heat come to her cheeks. “Listen to my cousin and begone with you, little imp. No one wants to spend their time with you while better entertainment is about,” she reinforced her cousin’s answer, turning her nose up and purposefully looking at the knights jousting. Wood fell from the sky in pale flakes as a seahorse and warhammer knights met in clash. Ser Erryk had already left the field, having defeated the knight of golden cranes.
The dwarf feigned sadness at her rebuke and looked at her sister. “Would at least the Realm’s Delight give the honor of seeing her favorite fool away?” he pleaded in a moping sad voice.
Rhaenyra didn’t even deign to look at him. “My uncle is about to ride, Mushroom, and Ser Criston after him! Be back when we have nothing better to do.”
Their father noticed his court fool wasn’t successful in getting laughs out of the children, so he intervened. “My daughters are right, Mushroom. Be gone and find some refreshments for yourself. Take a moment to delight in the tourney’s attractions for the nonce,” he said, not in an unkind way.
The dwarf in motley bowed so low he almost kissed his own feet. “At once, Your Grace. The king’s desire is my will,” said Mushroom, cartwheeling to the side and leaving the box while standing on his hands, almost bumping with a nearby cupbearer.
“It’s better that creature to find himself inside the cellars and into a wine barrel again,” Lord Staunton commented two rows behind them. The master of ships shuddered while leaning next to Lord Lyman Beesbury. “I stayed away from wine a whole moon after I heard what the fool had done last year.”
“That was why old Lord Darry died so sudden, I think. He could not believe he may have drunk Arbor red cured with the dwarf’s underclothes, and his heart was too weak for such revelations deep in the night and in his cups.”
Some in the box laughed at Beesbury’s tale. Her father did too.
The royal box was largely occupied by the Small Council members and their families, though most elected to seat without their wives at side, like Ser Imry. It was made so the entrance was on the highest level along with the last row of seats. As it came down with each step the rank of the person seated was higher, with her father the king occupying the centermost seat along with Ser Otto, who was at her father’s right; and ending up with their own row.
Visenya looked back at the tilts below and saw that Rhaenyra had been right, as she got sights of a familiar dragon-winged helm. Thirteen knights stood abreast on their mounts before the closest quintain, while her dashing uncle pranced about on his black courser, the coat dark as sin. Daemon Targaryen wore silver plate over a gilded mail hauberk, the crest of House Targaryen was etched in his breastplate, lined with niello and lacquered red. She could not see his face under his helm, also of silver and with dragon wings flaring out about his temples and a stream of red plume falling from the top; but Visenya was sure he had his signature self-assured smirk at his lips.
Visenya observed the sigil of the knights’ arms as her uncle passed before them. There were silver eagles, black stags, golden lions, a field of nightingales and ten clumps of coal. Red huntsman, blue towers with a bridge, silver trout, black ravens and a white tower. Her uncle passed the last knight, doubled back, and silently pointed the lance at his hand to the white tower knight. The master of games named her uncle’s choice. “Prince Daemon chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, son of the Hand of the King, as his first opponent!”
The crowd and the royal box clapped to the announcement. Visenya chanced a sideways glance at the Hand, and saw that Ser Otto had a placid reaction on his face, but she did notice his firmer grip on the chair’s armrest.
The other knights filed out of the field, leaving just another pair to ride along the prince’s first tilt, but Visenya did not pay attention to them. Her eyes trailed the scarlet shield of Criston Cole, the would-be Kingmaker. Ever since her father’s ascension to the throne and the tourney that celebrated it happened, the stormlander knight had wormed his way inside court with a prestigious duty. Everything Rhaenyra asked her father was very glad to grant it, and so was the case with Cole. Her sister was so enchanted with the knight that she insisted he would be made her sword shield, and Viserys accepted. His prowess with the sword and flail well-known after that. Visenya grimaced at the sight of Rhaenyra’s red handkerchief embroidered with the image of Syrax’s bright yellow scales tied around the knight’s lobstered gauntlet.
Visenya had to plan a way to separate her dear sister from the traitor’s side. She would sleep better knowing that Rhaenyra was safe away from Cole. Once she proposed poisoning him just to be done with the cunt, but Aemon dissuaded her from her course. “How anyone would believe a fit and healthy knight simply died in his sleep, cousin? And how would you get your hands to the poison?”
Eventually she did accept that her plan was folly. If Cole was lucky, he would be far away back in Blackhaven by the time she ascended the throne. If they were not so lucky, then perhaps a simple mishap with Ebrion or Caraxes would be enough.
No! Your brother will survive, as well as your mother. Mother and child will leave the birthing bed with their lives, and this folly of a war will never have reason to exist.
Anyway, they all would need to grow before planning anything and putting them into action.
Before any of the riders could charge at their opponent though, Daemon changed the direction of his mount and rode toward the royal box. His voice echoed inside the silver helm. “I’m fairly certain I can win these games, my dear niece. Having the favor of a beautiful princess would all but assure it.”
Visenya got up from her seat and serenely walked to the railing, staring at her uncle with a calm gaze. She clutched the handkerchief in her hand for a moment before deciding. Her uncle stretched his armored arm inside the box as Visenya tied the silk and lace fabric the color of his horse’s coat with tiny blue and purple dragons flying on it at his wrist. “Win me a crown uncle, and my favor shall always be yours.” She could see his eyes through the slit of his helm. He blinked at her and spurred his horse off to his position.
Aemon glanced at her funnily as she walked back to her seat. Visenya ignored him.
The trumpets blared, the knights put spurs on the flanks of their steeds and rode hard against each other. Wood showered competitors and spectators as lance met shield in an explosion. Both pairs remained ahorse in their first lance. Quickly they made their turns, catching new lances from the hands of squires and galloped hard to meet again at the center. The Tully knight managed to hit the shoulder of his opponent with the silver unicorn and crow shield, sending him out of his saddle, sliding over the quintains as his horse continued running the course. He thudded to the ground, his foot safely out of the stirrup. The crowd cheered and applauded.
Her uncle made his third pass. He raised his lance for the hit but Hightower lifted his shield, guarding his side. The lance slid off without shattering. Her uncle slowed down and after a heartbeat, galloped back but slower than before. Ser Gwayne’s lance met shield, exploding into tiny pieces and covering the ground. Daemon pressed his horse into a hard gallop in hopes of catching Gwayne before he reached the middle of the quintains. The Hightower knight was surprised by the horse’s speed and raised his shield. “Too high,” she heard Aemon whispering under his breath. It proved to be true, as his father coached his lance low, hitting Gwayne square in the chest just under his elbow.
The Hightower lad was launched out of his saddle and landed with a metal thud on the ground. He was motionless for a few heartbeats, then moved fast as if woken in surprise. Squires went and helped him back to his feet. The white tower on his surcoat was had turned a shit brown where it touched the ground. The crowd vibrated with the Prince of the City’s victory within and without the royal box. Visenya sneakily looked back at the Hand and saw his jaw tense, almost shattering his teeth.
She let out a tiny smile. Perhaps the day could be entertaining.
When Cole’s time came for his tilt Rhaenyra squealed in delight at his fast victory. Visenya did not catch all the knights’ sigils, but she remembered seeing lions, golden and red both. Cole defeated Lord Boremund Baratheon and his cousin Roger, advancing in the phases like a man possessed.
Daemon did much the same, defeating the Tully knight and having his horse prance around the fallen opponent, who angrily left the grounds after he threw his silver trout-crested helm on the up-turned dirt. After him it was a Royce of Runestone who Daemon also put to the ground in shame. He defeated both Cargyll twins, one after the other and advanced to the final, where he would face Rhaenyra’s champion. At every victory of Prince Daemon, her cousin’s smile grew larger. He was quite pretty when he smiled, she oddly thought.
As both men rode, a servant spoke in the ear of Ser Otto, whose face betrayed nothing. The Hand passed the whisper to her father, who paled for a moment and straightened in his seat. A few heartbeats later he got up and marched out of the box with Ser Otto and Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne behind.
It’s begun, she thought. Her heart started pounding on her chest. A drum so loud she could hardly hear anything else. Her right foot started bouncing again.
Her mother was at the final stages of her labor, Visenya was certain of that. And there lied the dangers. She could not stop her mind from going wild, the great joust ahead of her all but forgotten. Her mother needed the best maesters, the best healers to guarantee she would live. Visenya wanted to jump atop Ebrion and ride hard for the Red Keep, make Grand Maester save Aemma Arryn at swordpoint to help her. She wanted to barge inside her room and sit by her mother’s side, holding her hand to ensure her that her daughter was there, lending her strength.
The best possible fate would be for her brother to never live and make her mother barren. It was kinder even. One would not need to live through this hell full of traitors and murderers, and the other would never suffer the heavy weight of pregnancies, to never feel threatened by the possibility of dying in the act. Visenya did not believe in any gods, not anymore after what she had seen, yet she now prayed for the seven, the old gods, the bearded god and mother Royne. She even prayed for Bran, the little god inside the tree. You have worked a miracle by bringing us here, Bran. Please do something easier and save my mother.
Visenya did not deserve to live, not after her failures in her first life. But Aemma Arryn deserved a second chance, a way to live with her precious daughter Rhaenyra and ensure she became the best queen possible.
Visenya felt a warm hand envelop her right hand tenderly. She followed hand to arm to shoulder and met Aemon’s eyes, a grey so warm never before seen.
She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed it back, reassuringly.
Down in the field, Daemon had his back on the ground. His sword sent away from his hand as he yielded to Cole.
Two days later, Visenya stood stone-faced in a grassy field just some miles north of the Iron Gate and off the Rosby Road. Members of the king’s council stood around her father. All wore black. Ser Imry walked toward Viserys and spoke quiet words before walking back to his place, without getting a reaction out of the king. The Lord Hand stood nearby, gently caressing the shoulder of his daughter, a seven and ten maiden with hair of white-gold and blue eyes.
Looking at Alicent Hightower was more interesting than thinking of why they were there in the first place. It was safer for her heart, but the constant weeping and wheezing Rhaenyra did while her face was buried at her chest always pulled her mind to their situation. Her mother, Queen Aemma Arryn had passed after giving birth to Baelon, her little brother. He died a day later their mother did. Visenya could hardly stand to look at the two bodies, prepared and embalmed by the silent sisters, ready for the pyre to be lit.
Aemon stood a few feet to her side with her uncle behind him. One large hand splayed over his shoulder. Daemon had an impassive look to him. Her cousin looked back at his father and spoke something she couldn’t hear. Daemon nodded and allowed Aemon to approach her and Rhaenyra.
“I understand the feeling,” he spoke softly in High Valyrian.
She did not wish to respond him, but that went away fast as he tried to grab her hand. “Did they burn Aunt Lyanna as well?” she asked instead.
“No. Grandfather accepted Lord Benjen’s demands to have his daughter rest with her family. She is in the crypts of Winterfell, beside her mother and father.”
“Then don’t dare say you understand. You barely knew your mother when she died,” Visenya snapped at him, and saw his grey eyes turn a shade dark before he softly exhaled, looking only at the pyre.
It was so unfair. Why would the gods give such a gift, a mother she never had, and take her away from them in the next moment?
No, that wasn’t right. The gods had no hand in this. Bran was the person who sent her here, supposedly to save the world from a freezing death, yet he made no effort of granting her the one wish she ever had. Keep my mother safe, she remembered her asking, knees on the grass in front of the heart tree of the Red Keep, an oak planted by Queen Rhaenys said to have been the first thing she did when landing on that hill along with her brother and husband, Aegon the Dragon and Visenya’s own namesake. She hoped her words would reach Bran, wherever he was, and he would grant her that one boon.
But in the end they were just words, lost in the wind, or reaching stone ears.
Visenya heard the rustling of clothes behind her and stop. Her uncle’s voice sounded behind her in their ancestral tongue. “Your father needs your help, little dragon.”
“No, he needs a boy. For years he had me and my sister, but always looked for his promised prince. I’ll never have what he wants, and that took my mother away from us.”
He remained silent for a moment. “But he needs you now, niece. Sometimes we are not what it is expected of us, but we stand up when it is demanded, for our blood.” She turned to him. His eyes were strangely soft. “You must be the son he never had, at least for now. You are his eldest, his pride and joy.” Little Aemon, just under his father, gave her a little confident nod of the head.
Her father stood alone, looking at his wife and son without moving a muscle. His shoulders looked rounder and they seemed to be shaking. Her father seemed weak, devastated by the loss of his wife and son. Lords spoke to him but he gave no sign that he heard any of it.
Visenya swallowed heavily and blinked away the tears in her eyes. She gently pushed Rhaenyra away, caressing her cheek before leading her sister to her uncle and cousin. The eldest daughter of Viserys I walked to her father’s side with a straight spine and glanced at him. No response.
Atop a hillock to the side of the pyre was her dragon, Ebrion; the mount she knew ever since her life changed forever, who since Visenya found her in the egg held a piece of her heart and being. The closest connection she had to her father’s blood. With a look the juvenile dragon, still the size of a horse, walked awkwardly forward, groaning and releasing smoke through her nostrils. Visenya swallowed again and froze her heart. If she was to be her father’s son, then needless weeping would not help her. Everyone loves to feel pity for a crying girl, but no one wants to be led by a weeping lady. Kings and lords, captains and commanders had to be strong and unfazed in the face of adversity, to be the bulwark of his soldiers, his people.
She inhaled sharply and gave the command to her dragon. “Dracarys!” she let out in a strong voice. The wave of heated air waffed over the spectators. Ser Otto, his daughter and many others gave a step back, away from the sunlit flame of her dragon.
Visenya stared as her mother and brother were consumed by the fire, burning brightly as wood, silk and hair burned away fast. The dancing tongues of purple, blue and orange writhed around each other. Smoke rose with sparks of heated cinders. Between the bends and shifting of the flames Visenya thought she saw the image of her beloved. Aegon stood in the black and red clothes fit for a king, on his head was a gold circlet set with square-cut rubies. Blackfyre was majestically at his hip, with its bright ruby pommel shining a red flare. On his arms was a babe, swaddled in black silk. Her son was beautiful, with a flock of brown silky hair and purple eyes. True purple, like Rhaenyra’s. Aegon smiled at her.
The seawind blew out of the bay, pushing the smoke toward the countryside, stinging her eyes. Scant tears pushed themselves out of their prison, running down her face.