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Naerys gives birth after several hours of labour. The child is a girl and she is screaming. She has violet eyes and silver hair. The princess expels black, bubbling blood. She no longer screams. She no longer has the strength. The Grand Maester thinks this is the end.

Behind the door, Aemon cries silently.

Daena gives birth before she has even had time to lie down. There is no Maester or midwife with her. Just Rhaena, her sister, whispering prayers without looking her in the eye. The child is a boy and he is screaming. He has violet eyes and golden hair. The princess gets up immediately. She already wants to escape motherhood, the mistake she has made.

Behind the door, Aegon sneers.

The prince calls them Visenya and Daemon. They are two sides of the same coin: legitimate and bastard, girl and boy, greatness and shame. They are mortal enemies, the antithesis.

This makes their father laugh. He likes to humiliate Naerys, likes to show off his powerful virility by having two children by two different women at the same time. He doesn't see the danger, or maybe he doesn't care. Because Daemon is not a dragon. Daemon is the bad omen, the shadow that will fall on the Targaryens. He is the black bird that pushes the eggs out of the nest to make room for itself.

Visenya's first hatred is for him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Aegor is a slimy, unpleasant little creature.

That's what Visenya thinks when she first meets the half-blood bastard. She is seven and he is five. She didn't want to come, didn't want to see him, but her father insisted on taking them all to Stone Hedge. He said it would be a family visit. Another way to torment her mother.
So there they are, Daeron, Visenya and Daenerys.

Daemon too, for all it matters.
She doesn't know why he's here. She doesn't care.
She doesn't care until the moment Visenya ventures into the castle garden, disobeying her septa. It's a crude, ugly thing, like Barba Braken. She hears laughter. She steps forward.

She sees Daemon and her sister, Daenerys, sitting on a bench. He's poking flowers into her hair. And she laughs, the sweet fool.
Visenya feels the anger seizing her, blazing, because she is a dragon, after all, and she won't let a bird of misfortune take what doesn't belong to him. Daenerys isn't his, never mind that her father giggles and whispers a little too loudly about how adorable they are, his two most beautiful children.
So Visenya steps forward, because the honour of her family is at stake, because her sister, young and gentle, doesn't realise that she is defiling herself by letting bastard hands touch her hair. She moves forward and strikes.
They didn't see her coming from behind and Visenya, letting out a war cry, grabs Daemon by his long, beautiful golden hair before pulling with all her might. He falls off the bench screaming, taking her with him, and Daenerys screams even louder in panic.
Daemon and Visenya roll in the dust, clumsily exchanging kicks and punches. They're not used to fighting like common ragheads, but anger does the trick.

"You bastard!"
"Get off me you freak!"
It's the first time they've touched.
Daemon is stronger than she is, despite their similar size, and he has already started training with a sword, but Visenya is driven by hatred, and no ally is more powerful than it. She bites him and feels the blood spill into her mouth, acrid and ferrous. She bites down deeper as she hears him scream, until her teeth clatter together. Something digs into her throat, threatening to choke her, as she's pulled back, loosening her grip on Daemon.
He scrambles to his feet as Visenya is held down by her shoulders. As she tries to cough to breathe, through the tears, she can make out Aegor's face. He is so tall and so strong for his age. There is something determined in his eyes. Something dark.
She realises he's going to let her choke to death.
"By the Seven! What's going on here? Release Princess Visenya!"
She is brought to her feet by her uncle Aemon, who pats her vigorously on the back until she spits something out.
It's a flap of skin from Daemon's arm.The great hall of the Bracken castle is subjected to a veritable cacophony.
Aemon rages against Lord Bracken and Lady Barba. Visenya fulminates, only prevented from ramming her fist into the bastard's nose by Ser Terrence Tignac. Daenerys cries and Daeron tries to extract the truth from Daemon and Aegor.
"Silence!" roars the king.
He is sitting on his travel throne. Or rather, placed on his throne, his obesity having increased so much recently. His voice, however, has lost none of its strength.
"I demand an explanation."
The three children begin to speak at the same time, each preoccupied with telling what they consider to be their truth.
"She attacked me for no reason!"
"They ganged up on me!"
"I just wanted to defend him!"
The king sighs.
"Visenya, are they telling the truth? Did you attack Daemon?"
"He behaved inappropriately towards Daenerys! He defiled her with his filthy hands!"
There is a gasp in the room as the adults misunderstand the meaning of her words.
"Daenerys?" asks her septa. "What were you doing with Daemon?"
"We... were... just... picking... flowers!" the child hiccupped as she dug into septa Irina's skirt.
"Is that all?" the king says impatiently. "All this fuss over flowers?"
"He has no right to touch a princess," replies Visenya, stubbornly. "He's a Waters, a vulgar bastard."
"The princess has had her lip split and her eye is already turning black," intervenes Aemon. "This is unacceptable. Where were the guards?"
"And where were the Kingsguards?" retorts Lord Bracken. "It's your job to protect the royal family."
"Your Majesty!" says Daemon, taking a step forward to show him his bleeding arm. "Look: she bit me! She started it! She's the one who should be punished!"
"By the Seven!" exclaims Aegon IV, turning to his daughter. "Are you a girl or a beast? Is that Rhaenyra I should have named you?"
"Your majesty!" shouts Daeron, scandalised.
Anger consumes Visenya. It had been devouring her since birth, dragon blood boiling in her veins like no other.
"I am a Visenya!" she yells back.
There is silence. Everyone is stunned. There is a warlike quality to her intonation, an inflection that a seven-year-old should not have.

"I am a Visenya, and I protect what is mine. This name. This family. Let anyone who tries to take it away from me tremble," she continues, encouraged by the absence of reproach.
Even Daemon is silent. He looks at her strangely, as if seeing her for the first time.
Aegon IV starts laughing, his head thrown back so far that he is on the verge of losing his crown.
"You are indeed my daughter. Not like that coward and that crybaby," he adds scornfully, pointing at Daeron and Daenerys. "They take after your mother. You do not. You are a true Targaryen. A true Visenya. I can see that."
He rises painfully and reaches her, lifting her chin with his fingertips. He admires her swollen eye and bloody lip.
"That's good work, boy," he throws at Daemon, "but you're going to have to train harder if you want to take on a Visenya."
Daeron takes a step forward.
"Is that all you're going to do? She nearly died! If ser Aemon hadn't arrived in time, only the Seven know what Aegor would have..."
"Yes, yes," cut in the king with an indolent wave of his hand. "Everyone knows what a wonderful man your uncle is."
Bethany Bracken has the bad taste to let out a chuckle that draws a murderous look from Visenya. She doesn't like her. That woman is circling her father with her plunging necklines. Brynden's mother died recently, taken by the plague along with her two daughters, Gwenys and Mya. She knows what she wants from the King.
"You," adds Aegon IV however, placing his violet eyes on Aegor, standing between his grandfather and his mother, "stay away from the princess. What you did could have killed her. There won't be a second chance, your family has done enough as it is."
Aegor takes the blame. His family is the Braken. The king doesn't consider him part of his own. He's not a dark-haired Daemon. He's not much. His grandfather sees it, his mother sees it and, subtly, they distance themselves from him.
But Daemon, bright and glorious despite the blood dripping from his arm, smiles and nods. In that instant, a bond is created, something intangible and strong, something that binds Aegor to Daemon more surely than to anyone else in this room.
"And now, everyone out!" exclaims the king. "I'm hungry."
Daeron and septa Irina lead the children out hurriedly while Lord Bracken bows to Aegon IV.
"At once your majesty. Bethany, why don't you go and get something for the king?"
Visenya suddenly catches herself smiling. Because recognition is a gamble, something that will open doors for her. She doesn't know it yet, but her father won't refuse her anything. Not the sword, not the blood, not even freedom. She is still just a child, but the woman dies in Visenya, leaving room inside her for the warrior to grow.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is made of fire and stone, hard and sharp, bordering on cruelty, which sometimes worried her late mother, whose piety made her fear this dark and twisted side, so similar to what the first Visenya carried within her. She wanted to name her first daughter Maegelle, after the sweet and devout daughter of Jaehaerys I. Her husband laughed and carried the newborn child over the open window, half to frighten Naerys, half so that the world could hear his daughter's cry of vitality. Visenya was born.The ship with the black sails is waiting for her in Dragonstone bay, ready to take her back to King's Landing. They will be looking everywhere for her, but Visenya won't be going home, not just yet, not without him. She has heard about the Cannibal and seen the corpses devoured from the island's herds. She's not afraid, Visenya is made of fire and stone.
The putrid, burning darkness of the cave she reaches after several hours' climbing takes her by the throat. Yet she doesn't back down. She is made of fire and stone.Two green eyes open.She smiles.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The stench emanating from the body of the late Aegon IV is unbearable.
It is an overwhelming smell of rot. It's a smell of decay, a decay that was eating away at him long before he passed on.The sept built by Baelor has not yet been opened to the nobles and the people. Anyway, the former king's lack of popularity and his enmity with the new one should drastically reduce the number of visitors. The Targaryen family itself has done the bare minimum to avoid incurring the wrath of the Faith.
He won't say it, but Daeron is relieved that their father is dead. As for Daenerys, she knew little of this huge, unpleasant man who called her a crybaby. Lately, he didn't even say that she was the most beautiful of his children, that title being reserved for young Shiera. Baelor, Aerys, Rhaegel and Maekar didn't like him, and he returned the favour, as they were the children of the son he despised and a Dornian woman. Elaena left as quickly as she had entered, sickened by her pregnancy and the putrid smell given off by her dead cousin. Brynden hadn't wanted to come. Aegor had not been invited. Shiera was too young.That left Visenya. Visenya, who had been there since dawn, Visenya who didn't shrink from the stench, or from the pallor of her dead father, or even from the painted pebbles that were supposed to represent his eyes, which had slipped, revealing retracted eyelids with burst veins.She doesn't know why she stays.Footsteps echo behind her, reverberating off the vast walls of the sept. There is only one person to whom they can belong." My deepest condolences, Princess.""Thank you."Visenya watches Daemon approach the king's remains and put the stones back in their place without shuddering. There's something on his face she can't define.
"When will he be burned?""In five days. His ashes will be sent to Dragonstone."Perhaps Visenya will have to go there herself. She's not sure if anyone else will step up and it seems like the right thing to do. The fair thing."I hear you and your kind have been legitimised."He turns and looks at her, looking surprised. It's more words than they've said to each other in the past year."The king has been generous," he says. "Very generous. I will thank him in my prayers."Visenya makes a mocking sound, not believing the pretence. She thinks briefly of Brynden, who so despises the Seven, calling them false gods."The king was inconsiderate, as he always has been. He wanted to hurt Daeron one last time. Spit on my mother's memory, too."Daemon doesn't contradict her.
At least Aegon legitimised all his bastards. Even Aegor whose family covered itself in shame. Even the three Otherys no one has ever seen who live beyond the Narrow Sea. It's a good thing for Brynden, though. He's worth more than all the others. He is useful and humble. He knows his place. He is loved by Daeron."Do you think your mother mourns him?"The question was asked without Visenya thinking twice about it. It wasn't even meant to hurt. Yet that's exactly what it does, and Daemon braces himself, angrily.No one talks about Daena the Defiant, his mother. She ran away when Daemon was two and has never looked back. No one knows where she is, if she still lives, somewhere, maybe in the free cities. Perhaps she opened a brothel in Lys, like Jaehaerys I's daughter Saera. Perhaps she set off to discover Sothoryos, the City of Winged Men or Asshai. Perhaps she died in the gutter, raped and killed."I don't think anyone but us is mourning him," he replies at last, much to Visenya's surprise.She thought he would leave. She didn't think he would want to continue the conversation. She didn't think he'd want to stay.She looks at her father's body. Takes one step forward, then another. Finds herself standing next to Daemon.
"I don't know why I'm staying."
"I do," he says. "For the same reason as me."
She looks up at him.
"He gave us everything."
He's right, even if it hurts Visenya to admit it. Without her father's goodwill, who would have let her wear trousers and wield a sword? Who would have given her Dark Sister? She would already be engaged or married. She's fourteen and free. As for Daemon... he gave him a place at court, the ancestral sword of the Targaryens and negotiated a prestigious marriage for him with the daughter of the Archon of Tyrosh, Lady Rohanne, which will take place in a few months' time. And he legitimised him.

They owe him everything.
"We're the same, Visenya."
It's the first time she's heard him call her by name. It almost obscures what he's saying. Almost. Just for a moment.
"We are not the same. I'm a princess and, legitimated or not, you're still a bastard."
"That may be. But we're the only ones he ever loved. He saw himself in us."
"Well, I hope we don't end up like him."
He smiles. Briefly.
" Do you plan to stay here long?"
" I don't know. Probably. Do you?"
"I've nothing else to do."
They stay like that, side by side, these two children of grief.
She suddenly thinks that he has lost the only family he has ever known. When Visenya emerges from the sept, when Aegon's ashes have been scattered over Dragonstone, she will return to her family. She will be loved. And what will he have left? She couldn't imagine a life without Daeron. Without Baelor and the others.
"Daemon?"
"Visenya?"
"I'm sorry."
"For what?
"For your loss."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The wedding is in full swing in the ballroom of Summerhall.
There are thousands of guests from all over the kingdom, dozens of singers, musicians and jugglers from far-off Lys and Braavos. And that's not counting the hundred or so cooks, bakers and servants crowding between the banqueting tables and the dancers to ensure that every cup overflows with wine and every plate disappears under the food.

The marriage of Daenerys and Maron Martell marks the true unification of the Seven Kingdoms.
A feat worthy of the greatest displays of joy for some, a scandal for others who would have preferred the annexation of Dorne to be done in blood.
They all have too much on their minds to notice the absence of Visenya and Baelor.

In an alcove, hidden from view, the bodies of the crown prince and the king's sister are pressed together.

Baelor gasps against Visenya's mouth, his hands buried in her silver hair, the braids of which are unravelling one by one. She slides her palms over the muscles of his back to draw him closer, ever closer.

"You're the one I should have crowned," he murmurs. "You and you alone.”
Visenya smiles before placing a kiss on his neck.
"Have you heard what they call you? Baelor Breakspear. You made that bastard bite the dust. For that alone you have my gratitude."
"I don't care about him or Daenerys. If you hadn't been hiding, I'd have laid the flower crown on your knee. It's you I want."

"And it's me you've got," Visenya retorts, plunging her hand into Baelor's trousers.
She swallows his moan in a kiss and lets him sit her on a stone ledge.
Visenya knows that if they get caught, scandal is guaranteed. But the way Baelor covered himself in glory by winning the tournament given for Daenerys' nuptials that morning... It shattered the tension that has built up between them over the last four years. All it took was one look across the ballroom for desire to overtake reason.

They look at each other, panting, lit only by a moonbeam.
Baelor's torn shirt reveals his dark chest and his trousers, gathered around his ankles, expose his erect sex. Visenya didn't think it looked like this, but thousands of women have done it before her; it'll fit.

Visenya can only imagine what she looks like, sitting on that stone bench, her dress pulled back over her hips, her long curly hair falling haphazardly over her shoulders and chest, one breast of which, half out of its cleavage, shows the halo of a nipple. She spreads her legs a little wider, inviting him to join her.
Baelor, his gaze feverish, takes a step, then another. He places a calloused hand on her pale knee.

"Visenya... Perhaps we shouldn't... You are a woman, a princess. Your virginity does not belong in the dimly lit alcove of a festive castle."
She grabs his wrist before he tries to pull his hand away. She wants him to feel her skin as she feels his.

"I have no intention of giving my virginity to anyone else. Not today, not tomorrow. So, in an alcove or in a bed, blessed by a septon or our desire, what does it matter?"

"Visenya..."
"Show me you know how to be a man away from the battlefield, Baelor."
That's all it takes for him to give in.
He penetrates her.
It burns. It's the same kind of burn you feel after a day on horseback. It's nothing, she can take it.

The pain ends up being a whisper hidden behind the overwhelming pleasure she feels. She wanted Baelor right here. And her there. Her hands are all over him as he moves. The surrounding silence is broken only by the coarse sound of their wet skins colliding. Visenya loves it.
They are so dazed by their shared pleasure that they don't notice two red eyes watching them in the darkness.

They spend several minutes catching their breath, panting, still nested together. It is Baelor who first comes to his senses. He steps back, quickly pulls up his trousers before tearing off a piece of his already shabby shirt. He gives it to Visenya to wipe off before helping her up and making herself presentable. Her hair is ruined and her dress is crumpled, but it will do for now until she gets back to her room to change.

Visenya folds back the flaps of Baelor's tunic in an attempt to hide his shirt. She can't hide her smile. He raises an eyebrow.
"So?"

"So you're a man in every way, my dear."
He laughs as she leaves the alcove. The music echoes in the distance. They should waste no time.

"I dare hope for a dance from the champion, once you have honoured the one you owe to the Dondarrion girl."

Baelor winces; Jena Dondarrion, a girl of fourteen, keeps following him around with big, enamoured eyes. He's promised her a dance, determined not to hurt her feelings.

"See you later."
He grabs her wrist before she has time to disappear into the night and pulls her into a kiss that this time has nothing to do with lust. Baelor's hand caresses her cheek.
"You are no beauty queen today, but one day you will be the queen, Visenya."

She pulls away. Gently.
"You don't know what you're saying."

Baelor's eyes glint in the darkness, sparkling. She can make out his smile.
"I promise."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is practising her swordplay on her own when Brynden appears.

"Is it finally time for you to give up the weapon of cowards, bastard?"
He doesn't respond to her provocation. It's not really a provocation, anyway. Even if he is a better archer, Brynden is good with a sword. And she doesn't hate him like her father's other offspring.

At twelve, he's already impressively tall for his age. Taller than her. Visenya sheathes Dark Sister and comes to meet him, where the shade protects him from the scorching sun that heats the sand of the training ground.

"What is it? Is the king asking for me?"

It wouldn't be surprising if Brynden took on the commission; he spends half his spare time with Daeron, Aerys and Shiera in the library.

"No. It was I who wanted to talk to you."

"About what?"

"The negotiations have ended; Prince Baelor is to marry Jena Dondarrion. The wedding will take place quickly, he needs to have children. The other already has two."

She doesn't need to ask him who he's referring to. They know all too well; despite his young age, Brynden is adamant about Daemon: he too doesn't believe cohabitation is possible. One day, he'll betray them.
"I expected as much," she replies, realising that he is waiting for an answer from her. "Jena Dondarrion is a nice, healthy girl. That's good news."
That doesn't seem to satisfy him.
"Prince Baelor doesn't know yet. I don't think he would say the same as you."
"What do you mean?"
"I know," Brynden blurts out. "For both of you. I know all about it."
Visenya squints dangerously.

"How did..."

She is interrupted by a cawing sound that startles her. A bird, a crow or a raven perhaps, flies away. She looks back at Brynden, who has not moved, his pale hands crossed behind his back as his white hair sweeps across his black tunic. The bloody raven on his cheek reminded Visenya of the rumours of sorcery that accompanied each of his steps.
"It doesn't matter," she says finally. "I don't see how this concerns you.”
"Because I don't understand why the simplest solution wasn't chosen," he retorts in frustration. "Because it puts the kingdom at greater risk and I have decided to do everything in my power to protect the king and his reign. House Dondarrion is respectable, but it's a small house that doesn't have a drop of Valyrian blood in it and, even though it belongs to the Stormlands, it's on the border with Dorne. Do I really need to explain why that's a problem? Prince Baelor is half-Dornish and looks every inch a Dornish. He shouldn't be marrying a girl that nobody cares about and whose family has connections with a principality that everyone hates. He should marry a pure-blooded Targaryen who rides a dragon, bears the name of the most important woman in that family and her sword. Everything would be much simpler and much more advantageous for us."

Visenya sees why Daeron loves him so much.

"What you say is true. Yet there will be no marriage between Baelor and me."
"Prince Baelor is in love with you."

"I know."
"He has asked the king for permission to marry you."

"I know he has. Daeron has already told me. I refused."
"But why?"
This is perhaps the first time she has seen Brynden behave like a child. She can see the curiosity in his eyes. He might just start tapping his foot.

"Because I don't want to be queen. I want to be free."

He shakes his head, mouth pursed.
"That is selfish. Daeron should make you do it."

"Watch your tongue, bastard, or I'll have it cut out of you if you dare call the king by his first name again!" thunders Visenya, menacingly, laying a hand on Dark Sister's guard.

"You know that Prince Baelor will be devastated to hear the news. You know that you will never be able to touch him again; he is too noble to cheat on his wife. You know that you are needlessly jeopardising the peace."
"I know," confirms Visenya, looking him straight in the eye.

Brynden sighs and looks away. He looks disappointed.
"I don't understand you."

"I am not made in their image," she explains, spreading her arms. "Look at me, Brynden. Look at me and tell me you see Mariah or Daenerys when you look at me. I'm not them. And I don't want to be. I don't want to bear children, spend days praying in the Sept or visit orphanages in silk dresses. I will protect Daeron, Baelor and the others with all my might. I will sacrifice my life if I have to. But I will not be imprisoned in a role I don't want. Even for the love of Baelor, I will not do it."
"You are making a mistake."

"I can live with it," Visenya replies as she walks away towards the castle.

" Can you?"She doesn't answer him.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

"It's madness!" exclaims Maekar.
"I can't believe you'd suggest such a thing!" adds Visenya.
Daeron, utterly calm, looks on as they stand around the table in his solar.
"I made a mistake letting Daemon get away from the court and from me. I intend to make it right."
"There's nothing to fix!" retorts Visenya. "He never belonged with us."
"Dozens of nobles are gathering around him," intervenes Brynden, much calmer. "People who are disturbed by this court. It would be an illusion to believe that Daemon has no warlike intentions."
"Do we have any evidence that he is preparing to betray the crown?" asks Baelor.
"No," admits Brynden.
"Then we must make sure that doesn't change," replies Baelor. "Daemon is obviously resentful of us. We have to change that or all our enemies will turn on him."
"It's already happening!" thunders Maekar.
"Only death will rid us of that pushy bastard! He's an evil and dangerous creature!"
"Daemon isn't a bad person, Visenya," intervenes Elaena, frowning. "Honour and chivalry are very important values to him. He's surrounded himself with the wrong people because of the circumstances he grew up in, not because he's inherently evil."
"Oh, it's going to be our fault, then?" scoffs Visenya. "He's only a bastard and he's always wanted more. His mere birth is a disgrace to my mother."
"The king has offered him land, a title, a prestigious marriage and the right to keep the sword of kings," Brynden lists. "So much to be grateful for. Not to foment conspiracies with Bittersteel."
"The invitation doesn't extend to that scum, at least?" asks Visenya, turning to Daeron.
"Of course it doesn't."
"The question isn't about liking Daemon or whether he belongs in this family like others have," Baelor interjects with a pointed glance at Brynden. "The question is whether or not we want to protect our heritage. Like it or not, Daemon is a king's son and of Targaryen descent through his mother and father. He wears Blackfyre and is a formidable swordsman. He knows how to talk to people and unite crowds. He has five sons with Valyrian features and good health. He is inherently dangerous to us. We must prevent our relationship with his family from leading to open conflict, for this generation, the next or the one after."
"We know how hatred can be passed down from generation to generation," agrees Elaena, "Don't we, Brynden? How many centuries have Bracken and Blackwood been at each other's throats? How many have died in vain quarrels? Is this what we want for the Targaryen family? A mortal enemy in house Blackfyre? We have no more dragons, let us not weaken our house further."

"I have a dragon," Visenya retorts." One word.One word," she adds, turning to Daeron, "and I will burn Daemon's castle with him inside. Let's make a new Harrenhal. Let's remind everyone of the cost of standing up to us."
Daeron shakes his head.
"It would be patricide.There is no crime more despised by the gods.You are all too young here to remember the tales my grandfather Viserys II told us of the Dance of the Dragons. Nor do you remember the haunted gaze of Aegon III. I won't let it happen again. I don't want war or assassination. I want peace for men and for souls."
"So it's decided then? He will come to court?" asks Brynden.
"If he accepts, yes," replies Baelor. "Each of us will have to be exemplary. The princesses must welcome lady Rohanne and her children with open arms. Daemon must always be called lord Blackfyre because that is his title. No remarks about the sword, no remarks about his friends. No reference to the past."
"No mention of Daenerys," intervenes Elaena.
Baelor nods.
"There must never be the slightest reason to believe that we do not respect the Blackfyre. They will be honoured guests. Is that clear?"
"I still think it's a bad idea," Brynden replies. "But so be it. I bow to the will of my king."
Maekar gives her a sidelong glance before muttering his assent.
"Visenya?"
She meets Baelor's gaze.

Under the table, the toe of his boot brushes against her leg.
If they had been alone, he would probably have taken her hand.

Do it for me, he seems to be saying. Do it so that my reign goes smoothly. So that Valaar can do the same.

"Yes," she finally says. " All right then."

For you, Baelor. Always for you.

Daeron stands up, immediately drawing everyone's attention.
"I will send the invitation this very day. Daemon must be a friend of the crown. For all our sakes, he must be."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Dyanna and Visenya lean against the stone balustrade of the balcony, laughter still clinging to their lips, their cheeks reddened by the effort.

"You dance divinely well, my dear!"

"Look at you," Visenya replies, tenderly taking her friend's face in her hands. "You are divine."

Dyanna bursts out laughing and spins around.

She really is beautiful, beautiful in a completely different way to Shiera, but almost as beautiful, in Visenya's eyes. Despite having three children, Dyanna has lost none of the slimness and grace that have always characterised her. Her beautiful black hair is styled in exactly the same way as hers, at their joint request, as their chambermaids prepare them for the evening.

The resemblance ends there, because while Dyanna has chosen a golden dress revealing her arms, Visenya is dressed in a silver silk dress with sleeves so long they almost touch the floor. The thousands of sequins that cover her dress make her sparkle under the chandeliers and candelabras.

Visenya feels beautiful. Not like Shiera, of course. But she saw it briefly in Baelor's eyes, the admiration he has shown her as little as possible since his marriage.

And he's right. Jena deserves respect and Visenya has made her choice.

"We should go back. Maekar will be worried," says Dyanna.

"You're right. He must be really good for you not to be able to spend more than a few minutes away from him," Visenya jokes.

Dyanna blushes, laughs, doesn't deny it.

She grabs her hand and spins her around, once, twice, and presses her mouth against Visenya's ear.

"If you ever wanted to join us, I wouldn't say no. And I'm sure Maekar wouldn't object either."

It is Visenya's turn to burst out laughing.

"One of these days, maybe."

They return and are immediately greeted by the warmth and music they had fled moments earlier. Daeron wanted an intimate party for his fortieth birthday. It's just the family, Shiera and Brynden.

"Dyanna. You're here."

Maekar has the shadow of a smile, barely discernible between his beard and his still stern face. Dyanna slips her arm under his and he relaxes.

"I thought I'd find you two together."

"We were just getting some fresh air. Visenya was just telling me that you were quite..."

"Your Highness."

"Yes?" replies Visenya to the servant who bows before her.

"The king has asked me to tell you that lord Blackfyre and his wife have arrived. He would like you to go and welcome them."

Visenya is surprised beyond words. She would never have thought he would make the trip.

"Do you want me to come?" asks Maekar.

He looks sombre again. Visenya puts a hand on his chest and smiles.

"Go and make your wife dance, Maekar."

Visenya leaves the party, sinks into the corridors of the castle. Saying that they could be at Summerhall, but that Daeron has chosen to stay in King's Landing in case Daemon comes.

She sees two shadows silhouetted against the night.

And Daemon is there.

"We were afraid you would not come."

Visenya steps forward until the flames of the braziers illuminate her.

They stare at each other and Visenya sees the same amazement reflected in his eyes that must shine in hers.

They haven't seen each other for years.

Six years.

They haven't spoken in years.

Nine years.

They're twenty-three and Visenya feels as if she's meeting the man standing in front of her.

Daemon is terribly tall, taller than Baelor, taller than Rhaegel, but not quite as tall as Brynden, she thinks. She isn't sure; we'll have to wait and see them side by side.

Visenya, now that she has seen him up close, understands better why so many people are drawn to him like bees to flowers. He looks more like a Valyrian than Baelor. More muscular than Aerys. Younger than Daeron. More handsome than Maekar and more masculine than Rhaegel.

He is the Warrior made man.

But it's not just that... there's something of the Father in him too. A maturity, a calm that he didn't have before and that almost reminds her of Daeron.

"You've changed," she remarks.

"So have you."

Is that so? Speak your mind, you bastard. Come on. Insult me. I know you're looking forward to it.

She stops herself from saying it. From showing the slightest sign of annoyance. She's doing what she promised Daeron and Baelor.

Visenya turns to Rohanne, whom she has neglected, dazed by Daemon.

She has never met her. She is a tiny woman. Barely four feet tall. Older, too. She's pretty, in an exotic sort of way. Not at all like Daenerys. She wonders what it's like to be married to Daemon.

"My lady, welcome to the court of king Daeron the Second. I believe this is the first time we meet, it is a pleasure to count you among our guests. I hope the journey was not too arduous?"

"I thank you for your care and hospitality, your royal highness. Everything went smoothly."

"Splendid. I'll take you to the festivities, please follow me."

Daemon and Rohanne follow her.

As she stepped aside to let them in, Visenya prays that she hasn't just put the cat among the pigeons.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

"I hate him."

"I know."

"He's a pissy piece of shit. He's got a bitter, stunted heart. I'm sure even his cock is parched."

"Watch your language when addressing a princess, bastard."

Brynden merely grunts in response. He's quiet and calm most of the time. But the mere sight of the other bastard drives him mad.

Visenya looks over at Aegor, who is holding Daemon's sons in his arms.

"I don't like the idea of him turning up in the capital like that. He must have felt the wind change. Daemon's rapprochement with the crown is not good for him."

Brynden is right behind her. She feels his warmth. He whispers so no one else can hear.

"He's no good for anyone. And you know it. Daemon must die, or we will never be at peace."

"The king's will is law. He wants Daemon to live. He will live."

"You..."

"Back off, bastard. You were always too presumptuous. I've given you my answer."

"Yes, your royal highness."

Brynden walks away.

He is angry. He'll get over it.

Visenya continues to stare out the window. Aegor has the penultimate offspring in his arms. He is talking to Daemon. What is he saying to him? No one knows.

Visenya is afraid to guess.

Despite what she told Brynden, she is not at peace. Everything was fine up until now. It had even been... easy. Visenya hadn't had to force herself to be polite to Daemon. And she had the impression that he was warming up to the whole royal family.

"Maybe it's Aegor who should be killed."

Brynden is no longer there to answer her, but she can guess his reply without difficulty.

"That's a bad idea. Daemon would know it was us. That would be even worse."

Visenya thinks of Daeron. She thinks of Baelor.

She can't let all their efforts be wasted by Aegor.

Daemon looks up and sees her through the window. He hesitates, then gives her a smile. Visenya bows her head politely.

"I will make you a member of this court, Daemon. I will make you a loyal subject of the king. And if I have to pretend you're my brother to do that, so be it."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Aegon IV wears a smile that makes the folds of fat that cover his cheeks stretch and his porcine eyes crinkle. Visenya doesn't hate him entirely. But she is wary of the hatred he harbours for Daeron, a hatred that will be fatal to them if he continues to spread rumours that his only legitimate son is a bastard.
He didn't give him Blackfyre. He won't give him Dark Sister. But that doesn't matter now. Visenya will carry it for him, just as she will ride the Cannibal for him.
"The conqueror's sister's sword returns to the hands of a Visenya," the king said breathlessly. "My daughter. The last Dragonlord. She who rides the greatest dragon in the world."There are no more dragons. No one says it, everyone knows it.It doesn't matter, the Cannibal is huge, merciless, deadly. He'll keep his enemies at bay. That's all that matters."No one is more worthy to wear it than you."An insult directed at her nephews. She sees Maekar, not much younger than herself, fidgeting before Baelor, the good, intelligent Baelor, puts a hand on his arm to hold him back. He knows.Visenya climbs the steps that separate her from the Iron Throne. She knows she still has to smell the dragon, but that doesn't matter either. She has flown to King's Landing and they have all seen. She wants them to fear her.The sword is light in her hand. The handle is made for a woman. She closes her fingers over it. There will be a time to try it out. Later. She turns away from the king and looks down at the crowd, sword in hand. She sees Daeron, in the front row, nodding with a smile. She guesses Brynden, further back in the shadows, watching her with his red eyes. She looks at Daemon, in the fifth row, who is carrying Blackfyre on his hip. She stares at him for a long time, leaving no room for doubt. She wants them to know, she wants him to know, that Dark Sister is hers.Visenya will run the sword through his body before he sits on that throne.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is woken by a knock on her door.
She rolls over, sits up painfully and groans as she feels the stitches pulling at her raw skin.
She pours a little bit of poppy milk into her cup and drank it down, hoping it would quickly dull the pain.
The man who had wounded her in the stomach the day before had only just missed her liver, the Grand Maester had said. Fortunately, Daemon had killed him before he could finish her off. Or was it Baelor?
She turns her head towards the left side of the bed, but it is empty.
Cold, Visenya realises as she puts her hand on it. Long gone.
Another knock at the door.
Visenya stands up, one hand resting against her side, and strides towards the door.
Another knock.
"I'm coming!"
Another knock, louder and longer than the previous ones.
Visenya flies open the door and comes face to face with Brynden, his fist raised.
"Knock again and it's the last thing you'll do with that hand."
"You weren't answering," he merely replies, factually. "There are things we need to talk about. May we come in?"
"We?"
She suddenly notices the presence of Maekar and Baelor.
"Go ahead."
Visenya returns with all the dignity she can muster to her bed and sits down on it. The three of them remain standing.
"The hour must be grave if you agree to be in the same room," she blurts out, looking at Maekar and Brynden in turn.
No one says anything.
Visenya looks at Baelor, but his eyes are riveted to the left side of her bed, where a slight indentation suggests, to anyone paying attention, that she has not slept alone.

Did you think it was a dream? Have you forgotten everything? You left me after the Grand Maester departure. And then you came back, in the dead of night. You lay in my bed and held me in your arms all night long, while I shivered with pain. Perhaps, in the light of day, you're ashamed?

"Well? I am waiting."
This time Brynden begins to speak.
"It's about yesterday."
"Do you know who's behind this?" asks Visenya, straightening up. "Do you know who sent those assassins to try to attack the king yesterday, outside the septuary of Baelor?"
"Not yet. But I have my suspicions."
Visenya raises her eyebrows, annoyed by Brynden's silence, which the others seem in no hurry to break.
"Who?"
"That's obvious."
"For you perhaps."
Maekar sighs.
Brynden purses his lips.
"Daemon."
"No," Visenya replies dryly. "He was there. He fought with Baelor and me."
"He could have been faking it to cover his back."
"And to what end?" she snarls. "Letting Baelor be killed and me bleed to death would be much better for him. He gained nothing by saving us."
"He wanted to gain your trust. Now it's done. It's a lot easier to manipulate people when their guard is down."
"Bollocks!"
They exchange a look Visenya doesn't like.
"What?"
"We're concerned about your... benevolence, towards Daemon. You've softened at his touch, gone sweet. You like him. I am concerned that you are no longer objective about the threat he poses. Maekar agrees with me."
"Prince Maekar!" scolds Visenya.
Brynden takes a deep breath, he looks on edge, more upset than he usually lets on. That should alert her, but she doesn't like the way this conversation is going.
This interrogation, even.
"His Royal Highness Prince Maekar shares my opinion," Brynden repeats in a low, wheezy voice. "Does he not?"
"The bastard is dangerous. He never stopped being dangerous," says Maekar, his arms crossed and his gaze dark. "Once you shared my opinion. Daemon is a dangerous, lying creature. It's in his nature," he adds with a hard glance at Brynden.
"I'm not a..."
"What about you then?" interrupts Visenya. "What are you doing here, Baelor? Do you share their opinion? Do you think I'm stupid?"
"I have never thought such a thing," he replies. "You are an intelligent woman, Visenya. But Brynden is right. He has won your trust."
"It was you who insisted he come to court! You insisted we treat him well! And you reproach me for having done exactly that?"
"I never said you had to be sincere."
"You defend him as you would defend any of them if they were accused of anything," Brynden snaps, pointing to her nephews. "As if you loved him as much as you love us."
Visenya sees red.
She stands up, staggers. The pain fuels her rage.
"So that's what it's all about? Jealousy? Some kind of stupid competition? I have to draw up a prize list, pick a winner, as if we were at a horse show? Shall I ask you all to open your mouths and look at your teeth?"
"Visenya..."
"No! There is no Visenya! You come here, you insult me, and I should thank you for it?"
"I don't expect thanks," Brynden retorted, taking a step forward. "I'm just trying to open your eyes, which you're too stubborn to do. You don't trust easily, but once you do, you stop thinking. That's dangerous. You're dangerous if you can't be objective and protect the king as this sword gives you the duty to do! I'm trying to open your eyes," Brynden resumes more gently, "because you're my sister and I don't want him to stab you in the back."
She takes a step back to prevent him from touching her.
"You're not my brother."
"I'm your half-brother, your bastard brother if you like, but that doesn't change the bottom line, Visenya. And you know it."
"If I have to distrust Daemon not because he's committed treason but because he's a bastard, then I have to distrust you too."
"Yes."
"No."
Maekar and Baelor look at each other, annoyed by the other's answer.
Brynden pretends not to have heard, his gaze locked on hers.
"I have never served any interests other than those of the king, you know that. My mistrust of Daemon is justified by the power he possesses and the grudge he holds against the crown. I've always tried to protect this family. Because it's my family too. You are my family, Visenya."
He reaches out a hand towards her, but Visenya is quicker. She twists it at such an uncomfortable angle that he has no choice but to kneel.
"You mean no more to me than Aegor and I would turn my back on you in a heartbeat if you fell from grace. My brother, my only brother, loves you. That is why you are treated better, respected more. It's given you the impression that you're just as good as the rest of us, that you can talk like a prince, act like a prince, but you're just a bastard and a parvenu. You're no different, Brynden. You're just useful."
Visenya releases him and, slowly, Brynden rises to his feet.
There is something frozen and dead in his eyes. Something she cannot name.
He nods silently and the next moment he is out of her room.

Is that all? You're not going to defend yourself?

"You are cruel," says Baelor.
Visenya tenses. She doesn't know what they've all got today, but they've picked the wrong time to question her.
"You have no right to say that to me. You have no right to reproach me. I'm not your daughter. Let alone your wife."
The look he gives on the bed is unequivocal. This time, she's sure to read regret in it.
"You're right. I should go back to Jena."
He too leaves, leaving only her and her quietest nephew. He is said to be taciturn, but Visenya sees it more as a mixture of shyness and awkwardness.
She sits down on her bed and lets out a long sigh.
"I'm sorry, Maekar. I know you don't like arguments."
"They're angry with you."
"They'll get over it. And are you angry with me, too?"
"No. But just like them I worry. What's changed?"
"He saved our lives, that's got to count for something, right?"
"We agreed that he had never been and never would be trustworthy."
"Perhaps we made a mistake?"
He shakes his head.
"I really don't think so, Visenya."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The Cannibal's leather is warm against her cheek.

"Here."

"There?"

"Closer. Come closer."

"I wouldn't dare."

Visenya takes Daemon's hand in hers and comes to rest it on the dragon's skin.

"Can you feel his heart?"

"I feel it."

"He's blind, almost deaf, too. But he smells."

"What does he smell?"

"The smell of a kinsman."

The dragon is calm, his great black leather wings with holes folded against his flanks.

"He's beautiful," Daemon murmurs. "My son says there'll be more of them one day. I hope he's right."

"I hope so too."

"Thank you, your highness."

"I promised you, lord Blackfyre."

Visenya watches him out of the corner of her eye and it suddenly occurs to her that they have the same nose. The same mouth, too.

"It's nearly midday. We should probably leave now if we want to get back to King's Landing before dark," Daemon says, clearly regretting it, unable to take his eyes off the Cannibal.

"Or we could stay here a while longer. There will always be time to return later."

"The boat won't be able to..."

"Why sail when you can fly? He can't go long distances any more, but Dragonstone to King's Landing is quite doable."

There's an emotion in his eyes. Something raw and big. He smiles at her.

And Visenya surprises herself by smiling back.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

"I hate Daeron more than anyone else. The place of his head is on a pike, not under a crown."

The words sound like a thunderclap in Daeron's solar.

"Are you sure that's what he said, Brynden?" asks Elaena inquisitively. "I don't recognise my nephew's voice in those words."

"I guarantee it," he replies. "I heard those words myself. Daemon is no friend of the crown and never has been."

"He fooled us?" adds Maekar, angrily. "After all we've done for him?"

Visenya can feel the eyes on her, but she says nothing.

Her throat is dry and her lips are sealed.

Two years ago, she promised Daemon's downfall in this very room.

A week ago, she was flying with him over the sea.

She trusted. She insulted her nephews and Brynden for him. She chose him.

And he betrayed her, ridiculed her. What must they think, Daeron, Baelor and Brynden? What about Maekar, who warned her she was making a mistake and wouldn't listen?

Visenya can't meet their eyes, she's too ashamed.

"I'm sure there's an explanation," says Elaena, "Daeron! You can't believe that! You saw all the efforts Daemon made to fit in! He even saved your son's life!"

"That's true," admits Baelor, his face closed. "But who's to say it wasn't all a ruse? We still don't know who was behind the attack."

"Daeron!" pleads Elaena, "this is madness! You can't have him arrested for a handful of presumptions and a hypothetical conversation!"

"You think I'm lying?" retorts Brynden, rising to his feet.

"I think you'd do anything to harm him!"

"That's enough."

I set the cat among the pigeons. I allowed him to come closer.

"Visenya! You know that's not true!" exclaims Elaena, turning to her.

When did she become Daemon's best ally here?

Brynden's cold eyes meet hers.

"That wasn't the only thing he said: 'The royal family is made up of degenerates, women more virile than men, and madmen'. And immediately afterwards, he explained to his companions how you had confided in him that the Cannibal was out of action. They all seemed very interested."

"By the gods!" blurts Maekar, running a hand over his face.

I failed to protect them. They're all in danger because of me.

Baelor tries to get her attention, but Visenya is too ashamed to look at him.

" Right. We are going to arrest him," says Daeron, looking tired. "He will answer for these charges in a court of law and may request trial by combat if necessary."

"This is madness!" shouts Elaena.

Daeron looks at her harshly.

"You're thinking of your family, Elaena. I'm thinking of mine."

She shakes her head and walks away, slamming the door, leaving them alone.

"I will make the arrest myself."

"No."

Brynden turns to her.

"No? What do you mean, no?"

Visenya rises and draws Dark Sister with a frightful screech.

"I'll deal with it."

Rage starts pounding in her temples, boils in her belly, she only wants one thing, and it's certainly not to give Daemon a chance to explain himself.

"Wait! You..."

"Visenya!"

She's gone before they have time to hold her back.

"You! With me!" she said to the two members of the Kingsguard who were guarding the entrance to the room.

She doesn't take more than twenty steps before being caught by Brynden.

"They want me to stop you doing something stupid."

"They don't understand. I made a mistake and I intend to fix it."

"I know."

"You were right, Brynden. I should never have trusted him."

"No trial," he says.

"No survivors," Visenya replies. "I want them all dead."

But by the time they break down the door to the Blackfyre flats, it's already too late.

"They got away, your Highness," says one of the Kingsguard. "Someone must have tipped them off."

"So that's it, then."

"This is war," confirms Visenya.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is there when the Cannibal dies.She doesn't know how she felt it, but that morning when she woke up in King's Landing, she knew she had to go to Dragonstone. And there he is, standing before her, his body jerking, his leathery wings twisted to an almost impossible angle resting on the surrounding rocks. His nostrils belching toxic smoke and his green eyes, full of their usual fire, are the only things about him that are still truly alive.
Visenya sits before him, staring. She is waiting.
"This could take several more hours."
She does not turn around. She does not take her eyes off the Cannibal, the last of the dragons, the one who made her a Dragonlord.
"Can your gods do nothing for him?"
The stones roll under his feet as he moves closer, cautious.
"No. It's too late for him. He no longer belongs here."
Visenya nods.
He sits somewhere behind her, not too far away, but not too close either. He doesn't say what he is thinking, nor does she. They both know that the death of the Cannibal will mean the end of peace, that it was the only thing holding Daemon and Aegor back from open rebellion.

Brynden takes out his sword and begins to sharpen it.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is twenty-five years old. She is sitting on the edge of a balcony overlooking the gardens, a glass of wine in her hand. She had shared a private dinner with her family earlier and used fatigue as an excuse to retire early.

"You don't look tired to me," a voice whispers, echoing her thoughts.
Visenya scoffs.
"Is it the company you found unpleasant?" continues Brynden in a bantering tone as he leans against the balcony. "I could understand, Maekar was a bit gloomy tonight."
"Maekar is always gloomy. You have pride in not imagining that it is your presence that I have a problem with, bastard. The king my brother has too much love for you."
She grabs his arm before he turns away.
"Don't be a fool."
She lets go of him at once.
"If I hadn't wanted you at my table you wouldn't have been there."
He knows it's true. Shiera wasn't there. It wasn't even worth thinking about Aegor. She assumes that Daemon is also celebrating. Somewhere, with his friends, his family. She doesn't want to think about him. He too is twenty-five now.
"I am now an old maid in the eyes of gods and men," she sneers.
"Does that bother you?"
"No. It's more of a relief. I chose early on who I wanted to be. I'm not Daenerys."
"You look more like Shiera."
Visenya shoots him a hostile look, which he answers with one of those tiny smiles he's got a secret for. He loses it and stares at her, his eyes red. A raven comes to rest between them, on the railing, and he strokes the feather of its wing with a white finger.
"You're free."
"I am almost."
"Almost?"
"I'm still a woman. This world is not for me."
"It's not for bastards either."
She says nothing. As she often does when he tries, insidiously, to confront her with her prejudice against his race. Visenya makes an exception for Brynden, knows that he is different. Not just because he blindly loves Daeron. There is something else, something she cannot name.

"Good night, Princess."
Visenya watches him go without a word. The raven flies away and in its place there is something golden and thin, something whose purple stones shatter in the light. Something cold and dead. Something that remains.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is bloodthirsty when the first battles arrive; she has been yearning for it since the beginning of the rebellion, started dreaming of it years ago. And she discovers that she is very good both at killing and torturing. They fear her and Brynden, which is very good. Daeron is a kind and honest man, but they have to know that they can't turn they back on him and expect to come back if, no, when, Daemon loses. They have to understand than his generals are dangerous, monstruous, even. And she can be that for her beloved brother.
This battle she is fighting today is a small one, something ridiculous, down a throat, almost a workout, if not for the bloody gurgle her opponent makes as he collapses.

She advances, Dark Sister in hand, and kills everyone she meets. When they see her, some smile, others get scared. They all know who she is; Visenya wears no helmet and her white braid, her sword, the black tunic with the red dragon she wears are all distinctive signs. She wants to be recognised, she wants them to know that the last Dragon Lord is fighting alongside the rightful king.
Visenya kills, maims, wounds, while Brynden rains death on the enemy lines. They are good at killing. Baelor and Maekar are fighting another battle in the Bief, that's how the four of them work best. They kill more that way, and it keeps Maekar and Brynden from coming to blows in the command tent.
An arrow of white wood goes into her opponent's eye; she smiles despite the criticism and decapitates the next one that comes along. She is not tired.
Suddenly she sees him.
Daemon is there. He's not supposed to be there. What is he doing there?
She moves towards him and he sees her just in time to brace himself for the impact of her blade against his. The two Valyrian steel swords clash and make a sound that makes the soldiers around them turn briefly. A clear sound like bells. Blackfyre and Dark Sister, two swords that have conquered the world together. Two swords willing to kill each other.
Daemon is good, incredibly good. And stronger than her. But Visenya is sharp and has the strength of her hate behind her.
They fight. Steel sings. The ground is close to a river and the earth is greasy, the grass turns to mud from trampling. Daemon loses his balance, just a little, giving her enough of an opening to strike at the throat, where the skin is visible.
Visenya hesitates.
Visenya does not strike.
Her chance is gone and they stare at each other. Daemon even lowers his sword.

She is suddenly pushed to the ground by the body of a man who collapses on her. By the time she manages to get out of the way, Daemon has disappeared.Visenya does not sleep at night. She keeps asking herself why, why did she hesitate?
She avoids Brynden, even though his red eyes follow her everywhere.
Sitting on her cot in her tent in the dead of night, she stares at Dark Sister leaning against the table.
She knows why. She couldn't bring herself to commit fratricide.
She chose the bastard over her brother.
Visenya blows out the candle, unable to bear the sight of the sword."Give it to someone else."
Daeron stares at her, incredulous. Mariah doesn't dare say anything and looks at them in turn with her big dark eyes.
"What happened? Why do you want to give up Dark Sister?"
"I just don't want it anymore."
"You're acting perfectly stupid," Brynden interjected, his voice laden with disapproval. "Don't let yourself be dominated by girlish whining. It's not worthy of you."
"When I need a bastard's opinion, I'll ask you," Visenya replies without looking at him.
"I... Well," Daeron stammers, bewildered, as he lets his sister place the sword in his hands. "Who do you want me to entrust it to?"
She thinks of Baelor at first, but Dark Sister is not the heir's sword. When they kill Daemon, Blackfyre will be his. Maekar would never give up his mace for a sword, even for this one. Dark Sister is the sword of shadows, of protectors, of those who never fail those they have sworn to defend.
"Give it to Brynden."
Visenya leaves the room before she can see his reaction.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Brynden stands with his back straight and his bow braced. His gaze is riveted on his target below.
Visenya takes the arrow in her hand and snaps it in two.
The crack echoes through the forest, briefly drowning out the gurgling of the stream. Fireball straightens up, alert, and hurries for cover in the undergrowth.
Brynden's face is contorted with fury as he turns towards her, the raven staining his cheek nothing more than an ugly bloodstain. Visenya doesn't look away; she doesn't regret having left the camp to follow him here.
"I did not give you my sword so that you could use a coward's weapon. You will kill him on the battlefield, not with dishonour."
"You don't know what you've just done."
"I stopped you from shaming yourself."
"No one would have known."
"I would have known."
"You don't know what you've just done," Brynden repeated, shaking his head.
"Let's get back to camp. The battle's tomorrow, you need to be rested."
"No, I need to find Fireball and kill him. Now."
Visenya stops and stares at him, frowning.
"You challenge my decision, you bastard? I am a royal highness, you will do as I command or I will have you arrested."
She glances at the sword on his belt.
"You carry Dark Sister. It's about time you make yourself worthy of it."
"You're making a mistake!" he shouts at her as she strides off through the forest.

For now she thinks Brynden is a coward.
And for years she'll wonder what would have happened if she'd listened to him that day.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya wakes up days later, almost a week, she learns from the Grand Maester. She is in her room in the Red Keep, lying in her own bed, a reddened bandage of blood around her torso and her arms studded with bruises. Her mouth is dry as paper and her long white hair is matted, dirty with dust and sweat. She is told she is lucky to be alive.

She mourns with dignity, or so she hopes, when Daemon visits her. His forehead is not girded with a crown, not yet. No doubt he is waiting to be rid of all the real dragons, so that his coronation will look less like what it cannot help but be: a masquerade. Visenya looks him in the eye, indigo against lilac. He looks tired, the only shadow to the inhuman beauty he inherited from their Valyrian ancestors. She wonders if Daeron would still be alive if he had looked more like him. She knows the answer to that question, she will not ask it. She has so many others to ask him.

Daemon sits in a chair right next to her bed, hands clasped. He is dressed fresh, his hair falling in the usual soft waves over his shoulders. Visenya is glad she demanded to be made presentable as soon as she woke up. She knew it would happen eventually, that he would come for her.

"I am glad to see you alive."

"It will make a better impression when you have me beheaded in the public place. Unless you do it yourself for all the family members and not just the king whose crown you're usurping."

He did not flinch; he had probably expected this kind of reaction. Visenya was never gentle.

"Tell me."

There is a sovereign order in her intonation, the kind a princess uses to address a bastard. Daemon is king, and she is no longer sure she is much of anything. Yet he speaks.

He tells her about the end of the battle, about the miraculous arrival of the Myrish archers against whom Brynden's Raven Teeths, too few in number, were unable to fight. The eye that Brynden lost to Aegor, the disorganisation of the loyalist troops, the capture of Maekar, the surrender of Baelor. The city gates only held for half a day and the soldiers inside for little more than a few hours. The castle was taken, the children confined to their quarters with their mothers and the queen, no, the former queen Mariah, Aerys and Rhaegel thrown into a cell with their brothers, Brynden and all the loyalist nobles who fought against him. He doesn't mention Daeron. He assumes she knows, that the black she wears is for him. He is right.

"And so? What are you going to do with all of us?"

Visenya feels a twisted joy at the flicker of jealousy in Daemon's eyes. He may have a wife and children, he may have Blackfyre and a crown, but he is still not one of them. Even in betrayal, he is far away.

"I offered a choice: death or the Wall. Aerys asked to join the Citadel to become Maester, which I accepted. Rhaegel and Brynden chose the Wall, Baelor and Maekar, death. The executions will take place tomorrow, after which the others will leave for the North."

Visenya is seized with a brief dizziness at the speed of events; she remembers that, four days earlier, she held her brother in her arms, promising him a swift victory and a triumphant return. Today her brother is dead, and tomorrow she, Baelor and Maekar will be too.

"And the children?" she asks, her voice dull.

"They will all be raised here at court. Jena Dondarrion, Aelinor Penrose, Alys Arryn, Dyanna Dayne and Mariah Martell will return to their respective families."

No princesses to raise the children in hatred of the new king and Mariah Martell's return to her brother as a sign of appeasement. It was well played, Visenya had to agree.

"I see."

Daemon doesn't get up. She doesn't see what more there is to say.

"Aren't you going to ask me what your fate will be?"

"I'm not sure they'll accept me at the Wall," Visenya scoffs. "Then I choose death."

"No."

"No?" she repeats. "What alternative is there? There is no family to send me home to. I'm a Targaryen, I'm a loyalist, I've killed as many of your men as I could."

"But you didn't kill me."

"And I regret that."

"You're not going to die, Visenya. You're going to marry me."

She looks at him in disbelief, suddenly wondering if the milk of the poppy is making her hallucinate.

"Rohanne is not dead."

"No," he confirms. "But you said it yourself; you're a Targaryen and you fought against me. To ensure the transition from the dynasty that has just passed away to the one I want to found and reconcile the kingdom, a marriage between you and me is necessary. It will bring peace."

Visenya pushes aside the covers and stands up, regardless of the pain that makes her wobble and the bandage that is staining with blood. If she closes her eyes, she can still feel the coldness of the blade between her ribs. It fuels the fire of her anger; she glares at Daemon and gathers all the contempt she can in her eyes.

"I will not be your war trophy, bastard. You want to tear down my house? You've earned the right through war, that I can grant you. But I will give you nothing more. Build your own dynasty on the ashes of mine; you have lost two sons, but you still have three, don't you? You'll have to be content with that."

He stands up in turn, looking neither annoyed nor surprised. Just a little more tired at the mention of the twins' death. Visenya is about to rush into the wound, but doesn't have the time.

"My decision is made, Visenya. I have already announced it to the court and the High Septon has given his consent."

___

No one tries to stop Visenya when she demands to see her nephews. She goes down the stairs alone after refusing the help of the guard who precedes her with a torch in his hand. He fixes her to the wall once downstairs and moves away to give her some privacy after pointing out the back cells. There are moans, cries, pleas and arms reaching out from all sides. It stinks of death, vomit and urine; Visenya wonders if Daemon is allowing her to go downstairs in the hope that she will realise how lucky she is. She sees Baelor through the bars and collapses at the foot of her cell; his hand reaches out to her and Visenya grabs it. She begins to cry as she feels the familiar calls and kisses his hand bringing it to her face so that it cradles her cheek. She has known Baelor all her life; she cannot live without him. She never has. She won't be able to.

"I'm so happy to see you, Visenya," he whispers. "So happy."

"How can you find such joy in yourself? How?"

"Because I know you will live."

She lifts her head and meets his eyes. He smiles at her.

"You will live, Visenya. And through you, we will all live, you understand? I need you to do this for me, to live, to protect the children. I need you to remember. Can you do this for me?"

Visenya swallows her complaints, the announcement of her future marriage, surely Baelor suspects. It doesn't carry much weight against his smile.

"I promise, Baelor. I promise and swear that one day I will do what needs to be done."

She does not say the words, but he understands. Baelor kisses her forehead through the bars and Visenya does everything in her power to register the feeling. She knows this is the last time.

"Go. They're waiting for you."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

He lied.
Visenya shouldn't be surprised. In fact, she's not really. She's just bitter, and a bit scared. Because she thought she had a few more hours. Because this is the last time she will see Rhaegel and Brynden.
Aegor has come to gloat, to take one last look at the half-brother he has always hated, who is about to lose everything, to be sent to the ends of the world, where his bones will slowly freeze.
Visenya doesn't care, she ignores his presence just as she ignores that of the guards surrounding them on the quay from which the ship for the North will soon depart. It's still dark. Without the torches, they wouldn't be able to see a thing.

This is what Daemon has finally chosen: to make them disappear into silence and darkness, these two relics of a bygone age. They're not important enough to bother making a public display of their decline. A bizarre prince and an albino bastard. They won't be needed for the new age this dog wants to create: he can just build it on the bones of Daeron, Baelor and Maekar.
Her nephew is a gentle, good creature. Not the stupid fool everyone makes him out to be. He's not a warrior like Baelor and Maekar. Not a scholar like Aerys, either. He's just Rhaegel, with his tall, gangly body, his infectious joy and his unrivalled kindness. Visenya remembers carrying him in her arms as a newborn. She loves him, loves him so much her heart could burst. Rhaegel opened his arms to her.
He holds her close and Visenya... Visenya holds him as tightly as she can, leaving marks on his fragile skin. Marks that he can take with him, to that cold, distant North, to remind him for a few days how much he is missed and loved. What will he do on the Wall, among the criminals and against the Wildlings? That's not where he belongs. Rhaegel is a spring child. She feels a renewed hatred for Daemon.
"You will take good care of Aelor and Aelora?"
"Yes."
Visenya would like to say more than that, to make great speeches, to swear to give her life for Rhaegel's twins, to never forget him, to do everything she can to hold on until this nightmare is over and they are all together again at Summerhall to live out their days happily. But she has a lump in her throat. She knows it's all a lie, that it's all over.
And she's so scared.
What will happen when Rhaegel is gone? When Baelor and Maekar are dead? Daeron is already gone. Their wives will leave the castle too. And what will happen then? Visenya will be alone with terrified children and terrifying memories. Alone with Daemon, Aegor and all those who have created this hell.
She met Brynden's eyes, standing behind Rhaegel.
He has only one eye left, the other having been gouged out by Aegor in the battle after she lost consciousness. His bandage is oozing, giving the impression that he has regained all his sight.
Just then, a raven lands on a pile of ropes.
Brynden smiles.
There's something in his red eye, something that tells her she's not alone, that she has to stay strong. Something that tells her it's not all over.
It's been like that all their lives. Brynden always implied that he knew things that nobody else knew. That he could see further than any of them. Visenya always laughed at his gods. Perhaps she was wrong to do so.
She touches her wrist, on which she has hung the gold and amethyst bracelet he gave her for her twenty-fifth birthday.
She doesn't know what's happening, but it's happening.
The raven caws.
And when Aegor orders the ship to cast off, when he forces Visenya to turn back before it has even left the harbour, the raven spreads its wings and follows her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

It's a beautiful day. It shouldn't be. It should be stormy, pouring rain. Not like this.
It is as if the gods are smiling down on Daemon, congratulating him on overthrowing a dynasty that had lasted more than a century. For having managed, with a vulgar rebel army, to do what two civil wars on the back of dragons could not. Have the Targaryens become so weak?

The scaffold has been erected in front of the King's Landing crowd so that everyone can see and affirm that it is all over for Visenya and her people.
Resting on a ledge, the raven looks at them, its head bent. She doesn't know whether it's disapproving or mocking.
Daemon wears the conqueror's crown, Blackfyre in his hands. Visenya sits next to Rohanne in her capacity as future queen and also because her condition makes it difficult for her to stand. She is a trophy, perfumed, coiffed and dressed for the occasion like a common doll. She looks at the fabric of her dress and wants to tear it. She should wear black. Her people are going to die.
Visenya looks up and sees Baelor and Maekar, dressed in peasant clothes and chained, waiting beside the gallows. They have cut Maekar's blond hair and blood is running down the back of his neck; he must have put up a fight. Visenya loves him so much. She loves them both so much. They're her favourite nephews, she grew up with them. They are more her brothers than the bastard who is going to execute them will ever be.
"Baelor and Maekar Targaryen," Daemon declares in a powerful voice. "You have been sentenced to death for your crimes. I gave you the choice of the Wall. You have refused."
There's a shout and a movement in the crowd. It is Dyanna, Maekar's wife, who has fainted. Visenya is gripped to the core by the realisation that she is losing not only the one she loves, but also her children. They will be held hostage here and she will have to return to her family.

"For the sake of my future queen, Princess Visenya, I'm giving you the choice again," says Daemon.
Everyone looks at her. She stares at her bastard half-brother. Her knuckles are white against the armrests and she tries to stand up, but Aegor digs his fingers into her shoulders, forcing her to stay in her place.

Daemon is weaving a lie. To pretend that he has respect and affection for her. During the war, he pretended to fight for Daenerys' love, but now that he's chosen her, he's twisting his story again. What will the people say? What will the bards sing? That they loved each other and couldn't be together because of Daeron? Will they call her the Queen of the Black Dragon? Will they find it romantic that she bore Dark Sister and he Blackfyre, like the first Visenya and the conqueror?

And what about the others? Those who knew full well that there was no love lost between them. Those who had seen the mutual hatred that consumed them; would they think she had sold herself to spare her life? Out of envy, to become queen?
"Baelor Targaryen. Your answer."
"I take my part in this war. I do not regret fighting for my family and my king. I have no crime to atone for at the Wall. I choose death."
Visenya wishes he wasn't so stubborn. She wishes he would live, even on the other side of the world. She grew up with him. He's her nephew, her brother. She's been in love with him. Part of her always will be. She has loved him in a thousand ways and to lose him is to lose herself.
Visenya is selfish: she would rather he lost his honour than his life.
"Maekar Targaryen. Your..."
"I'd rather die than see you usurp the conqueror's crown for another minute, you bastard," Maekar interrupts. "You're nothing but a dog and I hope you burn in the Seven Hells, where you belong and where you'll join your sons."
Maekar is the one who most resembles Visenya. The youngest. The little one. She is proud and terrified at the same time.
A guard approaches and punches Maekar with the reverts of his iron gauntlet. There is blood, and something resembling teeth, which he spits out. Baelor puts his strong frame between them to prevent his younger brother from being hit again. He has always been his favourite.
She looks at them and sees them looking back at her.

Visenya would like to join them, to share this death as they have shared the rest of their lives. But she cannot.
"You are sentenced to death by decapitation."
No sooner has he finished speaking than Daemon steps forward, sword drawn.
Baelor is lying on the gallows. He looks up at her and says something, but she doesn't hear him. Visenya blinks and it's over.

It's grotesque, impossible. He can't be dead.
Maekar is immediately bent over in his brother's blood. His last word is a name. Dyanna's name.
She waits for him to get up. For them both to get up. For Daeron to split the crowd. It's all a bad joke, a bad dream. Yes, that's it: a bad dream. She's going to wake up. In a moment.
Rohanne puts a hand on her arm. She speaks to her, but Visenya hears nothing. The people are applauding too loudly and her ears are ringing.
Her eyes narrowed and soon she can see nothing but a long, narrow corridor lined in black.
Suddenly, something heavy and wet lands on her thighs. Dazed, she meets Aegor's gaze and he smiles at her. Daemon, who has just turned his back on the jubilant crowd, turnes very pale.
Visenya looks down at her thighs.
It's Baelor's head.
His eyes are glassy like a fish's and his mouth is half-open. His hair is a mess. Blood spurts from his neck and splatters across her dress, her hands and her face.
There is a scream.
Maybe it's Myriah. Maybe it's Jena. Maybe Dyanna.
Maybe it's the raven hovering over their heads.
She realises when her throat starts to burn that it's her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When Daemon's heir, the one with the same name as him, died, some at court, those who were not entirely satisfied with the rise of a bastard, spoke of a bad omen for his reign. These voices were quickly silenced. But the pain remains.

Visenya stands beside Daemon as his son's body burns at the stake. She says nothing, out of respect for Rohanne who has lost her third child in the space of six months. But a part of her, dark and twisted, thinks that if the deaths of Aegon and Aemon paid for those of Baelor and Maekar, then the death of young Daemon will pay for Daeron's death.

The Grand Maester tells them a moon later, at one of the private meals that Daemon forces Rohanne, Visenya and himself to have, that Valaar is also ill.

The crockery shatters as Visenya gets up and rushes out of the room, blind to everyone she sees. A terrible fear grips her heart; how can this be? Why Valaar?

The child looks tiny in his bed, very pale and feverish.

"Valaar? Can you hear me?"

"It burns," he moans. "It burns."

"It's all right, don't worry," she replies, running a hand through his brown hair damp with sweat. She brushes aside his single blonde lock and kisses his forehead.

Three days later, a grey spot was discovered behind his ear. It wasn't the disease that had taken Daemon's child; it was much worse. The greyscale.

Valaar is isolated and all those who came near him are examined.

Visenya stands naked in the middle of her chambers while the Grand Maester examines every part of her body and Daemon screams his anger at her. She has never seen him like this, his lilac eyes ablaze, a vein throbbing in his neck. The closest she had seen him come to this state of rage was when Baelor won against him during Daenerys's wedding tournament. He has to stop and leave the room when another Maester, specially dispatched by the Citadel and in charge of the other royal family inspections, comes to give him his report.

The Grand Maester is reassuring, with a smile on his face, but Visenya sees Valaar's face, pale and delirious. It's the last image she'll have of him. Daemon won't let anyone see him until he's a corpse to be burned.

When he enters the room and approaches her with slow, cautious steps. When he grabs her hands once, then a second time after she pushes them away, Visenya understands.

"Matarys is ill too."

The children burn and, this time, no one cries. They were strangers to Rohanne and Daemon, a nuisance even. Visenya, on the other hand, has sworn never to shed another tear. She keeps her word. The other children are too scared to do so.

Their mother is there. Daemon initially refused, but Visenya pleaded Jena's case day and night. She talks to him so little that he always seems to find it hard to refuse her something when she asks. Perhaps he knows how much it costs Visenya to have to acknowledge what power he now has.

When all that remains are ashes, the nursemaid and Rohanne take the children back inside while the nobles disperse. Visenya crosses the courtyard to meet Jena.

Her eyes are dry, her mouth hard. Her gaze pierces her heart.

"You promised to protect them. Baelor loved you like a sister, he trusted you."

"There was nothing I could do, Jena. The greyscale..."

Her sister-in-law laughs contemptuously, tense with anger.

"You can't catch grayscale like a cold. Not in the Red Keep. Are you naively stupid or have you simply grown to love the taste of his cock?"

"What?" blurts Visenya as she takes a step back, looking very pale.

"You thought that if you let them kill my babies you might succeed in crowning the ones you give him, didn't you? That it would free you from your promise to Baelor? You're a whore! A traitor!" screams Jena, drunk with grief, as she throws herself at her.

Visenya falls backwards and raises her arms to protect herself from the blows raining down on her face, but doesn't try to get out of the way or return them.

"Let her go!"

A pair of arms pull Jena away from her and another helps Visenya to her feet. They are Daemon's, surrounding her, offering the support she needs while she pulls herself together. The sight seems to inflame Jena's anger and she starts spewing a stream of insults at Visenya. Daemon took a step forward to hide her behind his tall frame.

"Calm down, Jena!" he orders her. "You're making a fool of yourself and shaming the memory of your sons. Pain doesn't excuse everything and if you insult or attack the queen again, I'll have your tongue cut out."

She collapses like a rag doll in the arms of the guard holding her and is led, sobbing, inside the castle.

Visenya doesn't see her again until she leaves the capital. She feels Daemon's gaze following her for several days, but she ignores it and, when he tries to touch the bruise on her jaw, she pushes him away with enough malice to stop him doing it again.

Aerion is found dead, his tiny four-year-old body impaled on the spikes of the moat.

Visenya locks herself in her chambers with Aelor, Aelora, Daeron and Aemon. It's a desperate, even mad gesture, but everyone in the castle is losing their heads. He is the fourth prince to die in less than half a year. Three of them are the children of his beloved nephews, a threat to Daemon and the dynasty he is creating that is as young as it is enduring.

Visenya doesn't think he's the culprit. But those around him, perhaps Rohanne herself...

Daeron, the eldest of the four, takes her hand to get her attention. His eyes are beautiful, an indefinable colour, somewhere between violet and blue. He smiles at her and this, without her being able to explain it, frightens Visenya.

"There was something up there. Something bad."

"Something?" she urges him. "Something or someone? Did you see what happened?"

There's a knock on the door and Aelora starts to cry. Visenya stands up, a dagger in her hand. She hasn't had a sword in her room since her wedding and, for the first time, she regrets her decision. Once again, Daeron tries to get her attention, this time by grabbing the hem of her dress.

"It's no use. There are three little fish left. It's no use."

And he seems convinced of this, so intimately convinced, that Visenya finds herself as if drained of all strength. She loses what little fire she had managed to kindle within herself. When the Kingsguards break down the door, she lets them take the children away.

Daeron was right. He and Daemon's last two sons, Haegon and Aenys, drowned during a boat trip in Blackwater Bay, engulfed in the waves with their nurse who couldn't swim and the Kingsguard whose armour caused him to sink to the bottom. The sailors swam to shore. They were hanged by order of the King the next morning.

This time, everyone wept, from the lowest of the servants to Daemon himself, who shed bitter, silent tears over his children. Five sons and, in the space of a year and a half, five deaths. Visenya would call it a sign of divine anger if she still believed in her mother's gods, a rebalancing of forces if she believed in Brynden's. But she has seen four of her grandnephews die and knows that this has nothing to do with justice or injustice, it is simply life in all its cruelty.

Visenya doesn't cry, even though she has donned the black veil of mourning for the fourth time that year. She feels the hostile, distrustful, suspicious gazes that stare back at her as the bodies burn at the stake. Rumours are swirling around the castle that she is the murderer. She is said to have poisoned Daemon, caused Valaar and Matarys to contract grayscale, pushed Aerion off the ramparts and paid the captain to sink the ship carrying Daeron, Haegon and Aerys. They say that she wants her child to take the throne or that, unable to bear children, she wants to prevent the king from having offspring. Even Rohanne, the quiet and sensitive Rohanne, asked for her head the day before and, when Daemon objected, screamed and compared her to Tyanna of the Tower. She refused to attend the funeral.

Visenya lets them say it, almost wishing it were true, that she had had this strength, that she was like her ancestor, the first Visenya, capable of being feared. If she ever came close to being so, the sword thrust between her ribs at Redgrass put an end to it. There is nothing left of the Dragonlord she once was.

When they return, they find Rohanne's body bathed in blood, her wrists deeply slashed on one of the swords of the Iron Throne.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya didn't know why she had come to see her. She had never taken much interest in the bastards her father hadn't put under her nose. The first time she had heard of Alysanne, Saule and Rosie, she had been on a trip to Oldtown. Lord Hightower had thought it thoughtful to tell her about the youngest daughter's death. The greyscale, she thought she remembered, but she wasn't sure.

She had never really taken the time to think about it afterwards. Just more bastards. Just more contempt for her mother. Nothing new. And yet, when she found out that Alysanne was at the sept at Duskendale... She's curious. She has nothing better to do. She comes.

Visenya asked to be alone with her and, although the matriarch of the septuary disapproved, she could not refuse the Queen this favour. They sat face to face in silence. Alysanne flinched when Visenya called her 'half-blood' in front of the Mother Superior. She shouldn't have; she's not her sister and to talk of a half-sister to an uncouth country girl is unbearable. Maybe Daenerys wouldn't have minded. But then again, Daenerys is in Dorne and she has a soft heart.

he looks at Alysanne, the only one of the three to have inherited a Targaryen name. Perhaps because she was the only one of the three who vaguely resembled it? Visenya doesn't know, perhaps she'll have to meet Saule to find out. She has large lilac eyes, the only remarkable feature of her fairly wrinkled face. She must be nearly fifty, if her calculations are right. Her hair must be brown under her veil. Her eyebrows are, anyway. But there is a delicacy in her features that Visenya concedes to her, something she remembers seeing in her mother or Daenerys.

"What do you want?"

Visenya raises her eyebrows in surprise. This woman has no right to speak to her first, and certainly not in that tone. There is anger, no, contempt, in her features. She hadn't imagined that Alysanne could hate her.

"I was read your plea," Visenya replies, emphasising the humiliating quality of the word. "That's how I knew you lived in this sept. I was curious."

"I'm surprised your brother-husband let you leave the capital."

This time it is Visenya who flinches. The bastard knows what to say to hurt her; she shouldn't be surprised, it's in her genes. She won't tell her that there are three of the Royal Guard waiting outside the door, that they're there as much to protect her as to stop her to run away.

"You hope he will grant you release from your vows. Do you think your shared bastardry would soften him towards you?" asks Visenya, curious.

"I think the king will be sensitive to the injustice done to me. I did not choose to take the veil, I was given to the faith on the orders of our grandfather Viserys II, to keep my father away from the family he had chosen for himself out of love. I have paid enough for what I am not responsible for, I have a right to freedom."

"If King Aegon had wanted to free you from your vows, he could have done so."

Visenya savours the contraction of Alysanne's features and her small, pale, withered hands clutching at The damaged Seven-Pointed Star resting on her thighs. It's all she owns, even the clothes on her back are from the sept. There's nothing interesting about this woman, nothing worth Visenya's time.

She stands up, smoothes the skirt of her dress with the flat of her hand and looks down at Alysanne the septa, Alysanne the bastard, Alysanne who, she realises, has the same shade of eyes as Daemon. Visenya gives her a slight nod and turns away.

"I have long prayed to the Targaryens. Our grandfather to change his mind and give me back my parents and my sisters. Then our father. He loved me," she adds. "He loved me, but maybe your mother forced him. And then there was our brother, Daeron."

Visenya stiffens and turns to stare at Alysanne. She let her talk about her grandfather and father as their own, but Daeron... Daeron is her and Daenerys' brother. Not Alysanne's. She'd like to correct her, but on the other hand... She can't remember the last time she heard anyone but herself say Daeron's name. No one at court talks about him, and the only people who do don't call him by name. Part of her yearns to know that she is not the only one who remembers.

"He abandoned me too, Daeron the Good," Alysanne continues bitterly. "The house of the dragon has turned its back on me even though I am of legitimate birth."

"You're not legitimate," Visenya interrupts, her nose wrinkling in indignation. "You are a bastard born of a blacksmith's wife and a prince's whim."

"King Aegon married my mother!"

"In front of a drunken septon at the bottom of Flea Bottom? It's worthless."

Alysanne stands up, her face very white against the bland grey of her veil.

"I laughed when I heard that war had broken out. And I prayed and prayed until my knees bled that the gods would give Daemon victory, that he would take everything you had. The gods punished the pride of your house and now you are as alone as I have been all these years. Your clothes are silk and mine are hemp? You are covered in jewels and the only thing I have are my eyes? That may be so. But you are as much a prisoner of your palace as I am of this sept."

Visenya turnes away, unable to take any more.

"He will not give you what you ask for. You will remain here where you belong. You will continue to atone for the sins of your parents."

Daemon could have released her, but he wouldn't. Not if she asked him not to.

"Think of me!" shouted Alysanne as Visenya left the room. "Think of me when you lie in his bed and he puts his cock inside you. Think of me when your belly swells with the son of the bastard who took everything from you! You are a prisoner! As much as I am!"

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The morning was still young and the castle was quiet. Visenya could easily hear the bustle in the corridor before her door opened so suddenly that it threatened to fly off its hinges. Madeline Reyne, the only one of her ladies-in-waiting whom she agreed to have by her side to break her fast, jumps to her feet with a cry of terror. Visenya does not flinch. She lives surrounded by enemies, a prisoner in silken manacles. Nothing worse could happen to her.
Daemon enters her room, looking very pale, as he always does when he's angry, followed by the Grand Maester, who doesn't look her in the eye, and Bittersteel, who has an evil smile on his lips. She sees Daemon's eyes land on her, then on her unmade bed, whose maids have not yet come to change the sheets. The ones they spent the night in together.
"Well, that's a rather original way of greeting me, my lord," she scoffs, taking a sip of her tea. "Sit back down, Madeline. You can see they're not going to cut our throats."
Her lady-in-waiting sits back down, trembling, and no one speaks. The other two seem to be waiting for Daemon to decide to do so, but he just stares at her, as if he could find an answer in her eyes. Visenya stares back at him with detachment; she doesn't know what he's looking for and isn't afraid to give it to him. Bittersteel loses patience and moves towards her; Visenya's gaze narrows as she sees that, hidden behind his imposing frame until now, another person has entered her chambers. A linen maid, a newcomer who has been looking after her sheets for the last few weeks. By the time she understood what this arrival was all about, Bittersteel reached out his hand towards her, waiting for her to hand him his cup of tea. Visenya throws the contents in his face.
He takes a step back, screaming with rage, his hands over his face. She sees him grab the pommel of his sword.
" That is enough! Grand Maester, please."
Aegor takes a step back, something cruel but also vicious in his eyes. Maester Joramont approaches, bends over the spilled contents of her cup that has splashed onto the floor, and picks up a wet, crumpled leaf. He examines it at length, then meets her gaze. Visenya lifts her chin.
"This is a wormwood leaf, Majesty. One of the essential compounds in moon tea."
"How long?" asks Daemon.
Visenya looks at the little maid who is cowering.
"I'll have your tongue cut out."
"You will do no such thing. Grand Maester, take her away and give her the money. How long, Visenya?"
She rises; he may be taller than she, but she is far from the fragile, impressionable little woman Rohanne has been.
"Since the first night," she blurts out, which seems to have the effect of a slap in Daemon's face.
"Why?"
She bursts out laughing, a wild incredulous laugh full of resentment.
"Are you stupid? Did you really think I'd agree to bear the children of a usurper? What, because you think playing the oud and sticking your tongue in my pussy before you fuck me makes you a good person? You killed my brother, you bastard!"
Visenya has hurt him, she can see it. She's always known how to hurt him. He usually backs down. Today, for the first time, he seems ready to fight.
"I am your brother and your king."
"You killed the king and I only had one brother. You, and you," she adds, turning to Bittersteel "are only the fruit of the union of a libidinous obese man and whores who offered themselves to him in exchange for gifts. Although, for your mother, Aegor, it didn't even work out that well."
"Get out. Now!"
Madeline rushed out of the room, followed by Bittersteel, who gave her one last menacing look before slamming the door. Daemon and Visenya face each other, anger tearing at both their faces.
"I'm tired of your stubbornness, Visenya, tired of having to continually put up with your bitterness and hatred. I won this throne as Aegon the Conqueror won his. I did not send an assassin to slit Daeron's throat in his sleep, I did not have his new-born grandchildren drowned. I won and I offered peace. Baelor chose death. Maekar chose death. And it's not my fault that Aerys, Valaar, Matarys, Aerion and little Daeron are dead!" he shouts. "I won."
"What about me?" she retorts. "What have I won? Nothing! I'd rather you'd killed me, you hear? I would have preferred that you had let me die with honour among my own kind! You've made me your prisoner and every day that passes is more pain, do you understand that? You have taken everything from me!"
"I tried to be a good husband! But you never gave me a chance to show you that this is what we were made for!"
"For what?"
"To rule together."
Visenya stares at him in disbelief.
"Have you gone mad? I'm a princess of blood and you're a bastard. I'm a Dragonlord and you're a paper dragon. We have nothing in common, you and I."
"I'm as much dragon blood as you are. My father was a king, my mother was a daughter and twice the sister of a king."
"Your mother could have been the Maiden made woman and it would make no difference. You were born out of wedlock. Like all the others our father sired. There's nothing special about you, Daemon. Nothing at all. Our father gave you the sword of kings? He wanted to hurt Daeron. He raised you at court? Like all his Great Bastards except the piece of rubbish you call a Hand. He legitimised you? He legitimised every one of his bastards up to and including those he had on the other side of the sea! Should I cross the Narrow See, go to Braavos and offer the crown to Balerion Otherys? Should I open my thighs to him and give him an heir?"
Visenya takes one step closer, then another, until her face is a breath away from Daemon's.
"The truth is that Father never imagined for a moment that you would be his heir. You reminded him of himself when he was younger and if you had been my mother's son, he would have been happy for you to be his successor. But he didn't give you Daenerys, he didn't give you a position at court. You were as much fun as one of those dwarves who does antics and that's all. You were nothing more, nothing! And if he could have foreseen the ruin that the house of the dragon has become because of you, as an infant he would have drowned you in the Blackwater Rush."
There is a long, heavy silence, interspersed with Visenya's wheezing. Daemon says nothing. He walks away, preparing to leave the room. He turns his head towards her one last time.
"You will have all your breakfasts in the presence of a Kingsguard. There will be no more moon tea, Visenya."
And just like that, he's gone. And she's alone.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Daemon takes three days to come to her room. They haven't spoken since she stopped drinking moon tea. Not a word, not a glance. Visenya doesn't know what is said at court, if anyone knows. She could ask one of her ladies, but the truth is she doesn't care what the answer is. These people mean nothing to her. They are nothing.
Visenya is waiting for him when he enters. She is sitting in front of her dressing table; in the mirror she sees him close the door and lean against it. Visenya removes her second earring before raising her arms and starting to pull out the pins that keep her hair in place. She is slower than usual. She realises that her hands are shaking.
Daemon walks slowly across the room and comes up right behind her. Usually, he would try to help her undo her braids and, depending on her mood, Visenya would push him away more or less quickly. But he doesn't. A corner of her mind congratulates herself on having managed to get such a radical reaction. He seems genuinely angry with her or suspicious of her. Perhaps both.
She stands up and faces him.
"Let's finish this."
It's the kind of thing he hates, the kind of thing that makes him feel unwanted, that he's no better than all those men who use women for a few crumbs of pleasure. Visenya knows that Daemon wants her, that he finds her desirable. Not even the yearning for a child would drive a man to share his wife's bed every night. Yet tonight, there is no fever in his eyes.
"Let's finish this," he agrees.
Tonight, Daemon is closed to her. He has thrown away the key to his heart that he has so resiliently tried to get her to touch. He's not a man tonight, he's a husband come to do his duty.

Visenya removes her nightdress and climbs onto the bed, waiting for him to do the same. Daemon undresses and she notices that he is not hard. It's the first time in three years of marriage. He doesn't want to be here, she realises. He joins her on the bed.
She spreads her legs and stares at the ceiling, her arms at her sides. Visenya doesn't expect it to be as usual, and she's right. But it doesn't hurt. She knows that, if Daemon wanted to, he could make it painful for her. She's disgusted him, but she hasn't earned his hatred yet.
As soon as he's finished, he stands up and gets dressed. For the first time that night, he looks her in the eye. She has the impression that he wants to say something, but he changes his mind and disappears.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

All it takes is one month without moon tea for what Visenya had feared to happen. She had hoped that perhaps her fertility would have diminished with age. She had thrown a cup of mulled wine in the face of her lady-in-waiting from Sunderland when she had dared to tell her that her belly must be as fertile as Alysanne Targaryen's.
Visenya felt no change inside her. No joy, no fulfilment. The Grand Maester says it will be several months before anything is visible or perceptible. But Visenya feels hollow, empty, as if Daemon had torn something from her instead of putting a child inside her.
He doesn't come to see her any more, he doesn't need to, and they don't speak to each other at the parties he persists in organising to entertain the court. She doesn't know what's happening to her; it's too early for nausea, but her stomach can't take more than a few mouthfuls. Visenya retires earlier and earlier, claiming to be tired, but never manages to fall asleep before dawn.
At night, nightmares seize her in their clutches, showing her the putrefied bodies of children piled up in the courtyard, while Baelor screams insanities at her. She is the monster who killed his children and is preparing to replace them. She has betrayed her family. She is no longer a Targaryen but a Blackfyre.
Visenya never leaves her room, wearing only a nightdress, her tangled hair held in a shapeless braid. The servants say nothing when they come to bring her food or change her sheets; she just stares out of the window when they are there. The raven flies in a circle but never comes near.
Her muscles are melting from lack of food and she's beginning to feel pain in her back and joints... Tiredness is even gripping her heart. Visenya is alone. There's nothing left for her in the Red Keep, no one to remember. No-one to look at her.
The months go by, all the same, terribly dull. For the first time in three years, Visenya forgets Daeron's birthday. There is nothing but silence. The silence. The silence.
One day, as she stands by the window, she sees the raven approaching. It lands on the windowsill, tilts its head, flies away and disappears.
A pain rips through her stomach. Her nightdress is soaked.
A pain rips through her stomach. She lets herself be led to the bed.
"Fetch the Grand Maester!"
"Warn his majesty the king!"
Visenya does not pray to the Mother. She prays to the Stranger.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The child is a girl.

The child looks like Naerys.

The child is

fine

.

Daemon hasn't arrived yet. The Grand Maester leaves. The servants carry tubs of water, clean cloths and bloody ones. The midwife places the child in her arms.

Visenya looks down at her and the sight of her lifts her out of the abyss she has been trapped in for months. Her indifference leaves her. It is replaced by rage at what Daemon has done to her by refusing to let her die honourably like her nephews and brother. Grief for all those she has lost. Hatred, too, for this tiny, perfect being that the gods have decided to give to this dog.

He will have offspring. A legacy.

She refuses.

The child is not male, so Aelor remains heir to the Iron Throne. The King's reaction is reserved for deciding whether this girl is worthy of noisy demonstrations of rejoicing, or whether she should be taken promptly to the nursery where she will stay with her nurse. As for Visenya, she is in good health and most of the servants are too afraid of her to look at her.

No one is watching them. No one sees her get up.

She feels her lower abdomen twitch, protesting against the sudden demand. A trickle of blood ran down her thigh and stained the floor, leaving a trail of red droplets behind her. By the time the midwife looked up, it is too late; Visenya is already sitting on the stone window sill, one leg on either side of it and the child suspended by her swaddling clothes above the void.

A maid screams. Doors slam and people panic. A member of the Royal Guard enters, sword drawn, but stops dead in his tracks when he sees the scene and lowers his weapon. How can you fight when the enemy is a desperate woman?

They never believed me

, mused Visenya, half sour, half satisfied.

They never thought I'd go this far. They don't know me. They don't know who I am. I am a Targaryen. I am Fire and Blood. I will tear this world apart before I let it crush me.

The child, perhaps bothered by the fresh air, perhaps aware of the danger hanging over her, begins to cry.

As if summoned by his distress, Daemon appears in the doorway. He freeze in place, still half smiling, a box clutched in his hands. She watches him stare in turn at his Kingsguard, the weeping maid and the whiter-than-white midwife before finally seeing her.

It is the first time they have been face to face for eight months. She sees him stare at her exposed collarbones, her matted, dull hair, her waxy complexion and the dark circles that devoured half her face.

“Visenya.”

“My lord," she greets him mockingly, her voice hoarse from not having been used for weeks. "Let me introduce you to your child," she adds, raising the arm holding the bundle of moaning cloths higher, "it's a girl. The disappointment must be great, but have no fear: it won't be long."

He takes a step towards her, his gaze going from the child to her.

"Leave us," he says without turning around.

"Sir," the knight defends himself, "you're not thinking of it!"

"Out," Daemon retorted.

His tone is enough to make him obey. He always knows how to be obeyed. Too bad it doesn't work on her.

"Visenya," he repeats.

“Don't come any closer or I'll drop her," she warnes him.

Daemon stops ten paces away and places the box he had brought with him on a pedestal table. Visenya sees honeyed almonds glistening in it. Her favourite. It only fuels her hatred.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? For taking everything from me? My family? My name? My dignity?"

Daemon looks at her. He looks at the child. He looks scared.

"For abandoning you," he says at last.

Visenya staggers. She hadn't expected this. There's a truth in what he's saying, a truth she doesn't want to hear or admit.

She doesn't look outside, too afraid that he will use her inattention to lead them back inside.

"I never meant to hurt you, Visenya. I promise I will try not to hurt you again. I never wanted

this

."

So what did you want?

She doesn't ask him.

"Visenya," he says again, faced with her silence. "Visenya, give me our child."

"This is not my child."

"She's our daughter," he insists. "I'm just asking you to give her to me. I know you're not a monster, Visenya. I know you would never hurt a newborn baby. Give it to me and let's talk."

Visenya feels tears stinging her eyes. She doesn't know how he can know her so well, how he can know, even before she realises it herself, that she is not capable of doing this. To drop the child. Of letting her skull spill out onto the paving stones of the courtyard. She's not strong enough. She's not like her ancestor, she's not

the

Visenya. She's just a pale copy. She sullies her name and her rank. She has done nothing to avenge her people. She... She…

She bring the child to the right side of the window and holds her out to Daemon. He closes the distance and quickly takes her in his arms, breathing a sigh of relief.

"I'll be right back."

He heads for the door, which swings open on the midwife. He hands her the child.

Visenya has failed. Again.

And now what?

Daemon comes back to her.

And now what?

Visenya is ashamed to hesitate as she sees him hold out his hand.

And now what?

"My queen. Visenya. Will you join me?"

He doesn't realise it, but this is the first time he's given her a choice.

She sees the faces of Daeron, Baelor and Maekar. She hears the children's voices calling to her.

The raven caws.

She stands on the windowsill.

"Visenya!"

Daemon looks at her, his eyes wide, not moving for fear of scaring her.

"Visenya, you're going to fall!"

"I'm a dragon," she whispers.

It's the only way to make amends. The only way to bring back what has been lost.

The raven caws. As if in agreement.

Visenya jumps. Daemon leaps up to try and hold her, brushing her wrist, but it slipped from his grasp.

For a moment, she thinks she is flying, like when she was on the Cannibal's back.

Then, like a bird whose wings have been clipped, she falls.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The land is dry. Arid, except for the thin trickle of water that gurgles, meanders, and next to which a thin green fuzz forms. It's an ersatz life, something tenuous, barely discernible from where the bird is flying.

It flaps its black wings, again and again. It's hot. He's not used to it. It's a long journey and he doesn't know if he'll have the strength to come back.

But he keeps going.

Soon there's a tiny fig tree, then a tree bearing huge, juicy blood oranges, and another, and another. The desert collapses before the pink marble and, suddenly, the sea.

It is made brilliant by the glare of the sun. And the bird feels the sea breeze caressing its feathers, soothing the crushing heat it has suffered to get here.

But just how far?

Because his path isn't finished; he's searching. Among the laughter and the games, the men and the women.

Among the children.

Suddenly, he notices him.

The bird descends.

Again.

It lands on the edge of a fountain, facing a boy who can't be more than three years old. A boy with a white head, as round as an egg.

Visenya has time to see two large violet eyes before waking up.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya opens her eyes to the darkness.
There is nothing, not a sound, not a light. She wonders if this is death. If Brynden and the septons were wrong. If, in the end, there is nothing.

Suddenly, she is overtaken by pain, something burning and brutal that cuts through her ribs, takes her breath away and pierces her skull. It's too vivid a sensation for her to believe she's dead for a moment longer.
Visenya gasps, hisses and opens her mouth. She's dry, she can feel it. She doesn't know how long she's been asleep. She can't remember anything after her fall.
No, her jump.
She pushes the memory away, doesn't want to think about it.
It hurts too much. She wants someone to give her something for the pain.
Visenya clears her throat, makes a sound, then stops. She doesn't know who to call.
She remembers a long, hazy time when her mother had stayed at her bedside, praying for three days and three nights for her to survive the fever that was devouring her body. She also remembers, when she was older, Baelor crawling into bed with her to hold her close as her wound oozed down his shirt. She suddenly remembers Daemon holding out his hand to her as she prepares to jump.

Daemon. Daemon. Daemon.

A thought pierces her, something she had always forbidden herself to think about but which suddenly struck her with power. It's a truth, the truth.
Daemon is all she has. There's nothing else left.
It's as if the thought is calling him: the door opens and he enters.
She can't quite see him, but she can make out his silhouette in the barely lit darkness of the corridor. He doesn't make a sound, nor does he have a candle, obviously. Visenya imagines him walking around the bed, getting closer, again and again.

Her eyes are open, but he can't see her and she can't see him. They're just guessing.
Visenya suddenly realises that this is what they have been like all their lives; they have guessed each other without ever knowing each other.
A warm hand brushes her cheek; Visenya knows this hand. She has felt it on her skin many times. She has hated it, had nightmares about it. Painfully, she raises her hand and grabs his fingers, crushing them with as much force as she can muster.
"I'm not dead yet, you bastard. Know your place."
He gaspes and frozes. Visenya would like to see his face to know what he's thinking at this moment.
"Visenya."
He says her name as he had never said it before, like a sigh, a relief, as if he had been in apnea for hours and her name was finally allowing him to breathe.
She can easily guess what he is feeling. She decides she doesn't want to see his face after all.
She closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep.The next time she wakes up, the Grand Maester is there.
She let him examine her without saying a word, her eyes fixing the shadow of the raven she can see looming behind the window. She wonders what he is thinking. She wonders if he saw what she saw in her dream or if she should tell him. She doesn't know exactly how it all works. It suddenly occurs to Visenya that she could be mad, having imagined this link between Brynden and the raven to cope with her isolation.

She banishes this thought as quickly as it came.
Instead, she thinks back to what she saw in her dream, through the eyes of the bird. A child with violet eyes like those of the Targaryens, playing in gardens in the middle of the desert. An oasis of peace in the middle of hell. She has a pretty good idea where that is. The boy is too young to be Daenerys's son, could it be possible that...?

"You were lucky, your majesty," the Grand Maester said suddenly, breaking the silence as well as her train of thought. "Your fall would have been fatal had there not been a pile of hay in the courtyard at the time. You had three broken ribs, a dislocated left shoulder and a head injury. It was the last one that worried me the most, but you finally woke up! After all that time, it's a miracle!"
"Luck, you say," Visenya murmurs hoarsely. "Is that what you tell yourself every night before you go to sleep? That you were lucky not to have gone to the sword like all those who supported my brother during the war?"

The Grand Maester loses his smile.
"Your Majesty, I..."
"Get out."
He complies, but Daemon enters. Their eyes meet.

"Aegor must be very sad to know that I am going to live. I'm sure he was already looking for a little Bracken whore for you to marry."

Daemon moves closer, but chooses not to answer. She is certain, however, that she has hit the nail on the head.
"You almost died."
"That's what I wanted."
"I know."
They stare at each other warily, unable to guess what the other is waiting for.
"Why?"
This is perhaps the first time in her life Visenya hasn't known what to say.

"Why did you do it?" he insists as he approaches the bed. "Why now? You could have tried to kill yourself a thousand times before this."
"It never seemed to bother you."
"Because I didn't think you were capable of going to such extremes," he retortes. "The Visenya I know would never have done something like this. It's beneath you."
When you try to die, you always seem to act with panache. When you fail, it suddenly seems harder to justify such a selfish and desperate act. Visenya feels something akin to shame.
"I want you to talk to me," he says, sitting down at her bedside. "I want you to really talk to me. Like in the sept after father died. Like at Daeron's coronation. Speak, Visenya."
She'd never been one to obey, and a bastard certainly wasn't going to tell her what to do. But Visenya... Visenya is hurt, a deeper hurt than the one hitting her body. And all she has left is Daemon. So she speaks.

"The last time I saw Daeron, I promised him we'd win this bloody war. I promised him your head on a spike. Do you know what he did? He took me in his arms and he told me the only thing he wanted was for us to eat honeyed almonds at Summerhall together again. He wanted me to live. And I did: I survived my injury, I survived the impossible grief of not being there when he died, I survived the loss of Baelor and Maekar and all my grandnephews. But that's all I've done, Daemon: survived. My hatred for you is all I have left, without it, without you I'm nothing at all. You've become all I have left. And I can't look myself in the mirror knowing that, I can't go on when all I have left are your blood-stained hands."

You can see the pain and fatigue in Daemon's eyes.

"I never wanted things to be like this between us. I always knew you'd make a magnificent queen. Better than Rohanne or Daenerys. I wanted you. I wanted to possess you as much as I hated you, to show you the kind of pleasure a pure-blooded Targaryen could give you that the Baelor you were so fond of could never give you. It was even more than that, in fact."
He stands up and turns his back to her, briefly, before seeming to make a decision. He turns to her and regains the warrior glow she had always known.

"You have no idea what it was like growing up here."
"I think I have a pretty good idea, on the contrary," says Visenya.
"No, you don't," replies Daemon acidly.
She is surprised. It's the first time he's spoken to her in that tone of voice.
Her head hurts and her ribs won't let her rest. But she keeps quiet. She listens.

"I had no mother and a father I had no right to think of as such. You hated me and you dragged our nephews into your hatred. You kept Daenerys from spending time with me. You fueled Daeron's paranoia. You ostracized me more than anyone. It's your fault I was never accepted."
Visenya sits on the edge of the bed, grits her teeth and pulls her hands away when he tries to restrain her. Black dots dance before her eyes, but she chases them away.
"You were a bastard that my father kept putting you forward! You were a danger to Daeron! You had to know your place, and everyone around you had to remember it too! You were too handsome, too clever, too strong for me to do anything but try to destroy you! You were too Targaryen!" screams Visenya.

"I didn't ask to be born. I deserved this family. As much as it deserved me. It's not my fault father hated him! I wouldn't have killed them if I could have avoided it. Won't you admit your responsibility for this mess?"
"No! You've never made a secret of your ambitions, that's what's kept you away! Brynden and Shiera are of the same species as you, yet they earned their place at court by proving themselves trustworthy and grateful for the chance they were given despite their shameful birth!"

“Brynden and Shiera shared Daeron's love of dusty books! He chose them! To me he never had anything but distrust."
"So now it's Daeron's fault and no longer mine? Do you hear how you talk? You sound like a whining child! Aegor at least has the good taste not to make excuses! He hates us and always has! Take responsibility for your hatred of my family! Take responsibility for wanting to destroy us! You say you always knew I'd make a fine queen, but that's just an excuse: what you wanted was to humiliate me! Every breath since our wedding has been filled with shame for me, Daemon! I'm ashamed every minute of every day! You have no idea what it feels like!"

This time, Visenya has to close her eyes to stop herself vomiting. The pain is intense, but she refuses to lie down again. When she opens them again, she meets his hard, violet gaze. He looks down on her from all his height and gives her a raw look.
"They wouldn't be dead if you hadn't spent thirty years turning them against me."
A silence greets these words.
Visenya did not expected this. What he says hits her in the stomach, grips her heart in a burning vice. Because it's cruel. Because somehow it's true, too. She has always believed that this rebellion was inevitable, that Daemon was untrustworthy. That he wanted to be king. But in the end, was it she who forced this idea on her family? On Daemon, Aegor and the others? Was it she who prevented the slightest alternative from arising? Did she precipitate the war?

Memories overlap in her mind, in an anarchic fashion. She remembers Daeron debating philosophy with Brynden, Baelor trying to wring a smile from Maekar and Aerys reading, unperturbed. She remembers Myriah and Jena sewing, Dianna and Alys dancing with Rhaegel... She remembers the children running. She hears them laughing.

Did I take that from them?

She can feel the ghost of their arms and lips. Most of them are long dead, reduced to dust. The laughter died down so long ago.

Did I take that from them?

Would they have lived if she had never been born? If she had died in her mother's womb, like Daenerys's twin and those before them? Would their lives have been happier? Visenya had lived to protect them, but what if she had actually taken them to the tomb?

Did I take that from them?

She should never have turned them against Daemon believing she could save them. But Visenya is a Visenya. Not a Rhaenys, not even an Alysanne. She only thinks of herself and she has her own family's blood on her hands.

I did that to them.

"I'm sorry."
She doesn't know who she's talking to.
Daeron? Baelor?
Daemon?
"I'm sorry for everything."
Hands rest on her. They are solid, immovable, somehow. Visenya clings to them as if they were her salvation.
"I'm sorry too Visenya," Daemon whispers, head down. "So sorry."
A sob escapes from Visenya, then another. She starts to cry before she can try to control herself.
It's the first time she's cried since the end of the war. She has so many unshed tears, so much sorrow buried inside her. She's a never-ending well of pain. Daemon is the only anchor she has.
And she's the only one he's got.
Daemon presses his lips against her temple, where the scar from her fall has been imprinted in the shape of a star.
"I wish we'd been born in the same bed."
Visenya meets his gaze. Purple against purple.
"You in mine or me in yours. For us to be one, to share the pain of being bastards or the pride of being prince and princess. You are the heart of the Targaryen family, Visenya. You always have been. All the others revolved around you. They loved you. They would have given their lives for you. They would have done anything to please you."
"And today I have nothing. I'm no longer the heart of anything."
"You are my heart."
There is a silence. A hesitation. His hand hovers over her back.
"You are my heart, Visenya. Do you think that could be enough?"
Visenya doesn't know what to think. Everything is a blur. Something is banging against the window. She ignores it.
The only thing she knows is that she can't move away.
"Maybe it can. I haven't got anything else."
"Neither do I."
Visenya opens her arms and Daemon slides into them. They cling to each other. Something knots.
Something fragile and vital.
Something rotten and bad.
Outside, the raven flies away.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The child is tiny.
Fragile.
A little grotesque.
Purplish veins stretch across her closed eyelids like fine cobwebs. A silver curl protrudes from her bonnet and rests on her pale forehead. She looks a lot like Naerys, but at three months old, she's healthier than her poor mother ever was.
Visenya can't remember ever seeing such a delicate creature.
"Do you want to hold her?"
"No," she replies immediately.
Her nails are dug into the wood of the cradle. Daemon is smart enough not to push.
He hovers over her shoulder, his breath on her neck, to catch her if she falls. There was a time when she would have pushed him away violently. Visenya no longer has the strength.
In fact she no longer has the strength for anything.
Hatred has given way to a great emptiness in her heart. She feels light, a lightness that threatens to burst under the slightest pressure.
Visenya looks at the child. His child. Their child.
She can't get used to it, doesn't know what she feels. One thing is certain: she doesn't love her.
It's a terrible thing to think and it would be even more terrible to say, Visenya knows that. Especially when she sees the fascination with which Daemon looks at her.
She finds it surprising that he should attach such importance to her. She's only a girl, not an heir.
"What's her name?" asks Visenya. "Nobody told me."
The servants and her ladies-in-waiting are too afraid to speak to her. Visenya doesn't blame them: she looks like a dead woman.
Daemon moves closer and brushes the sleeping child's cheek.
"I chose Rhaenys."
He turns to her.
"What do you think?"
Visenya almost wants to laugh. That he should ask her what she thinks of their daughter's name, three months after she was born and when she has tried to defenestrate her, is ridiculous. Suddenly, she feels ashamed.
The first Visenya betrayed Rhaenys' memory by usurping her lineage to put Maegor on the throne.
Visenya tried to kill the fruit of her womb and cannot find it in herself, even now, to love her.
She knows that Baelor would not approve.
Daemon is waiting. She forces herself to speak.
"It's a good name."
He nods.
"I'm glad you like it."
Visenya chokes. She doesn't want to stay in this room any longer. She doesn't want to see her any more.
"I'm tired."
She leaves the nursery as quickly as her legs would carry her. Daemon follows her wordlessly to her bedroom, where Visenya collapses heavily into an armchair, her forehead dripping with sweat. The slightest effort threatens to kill her. She has never been so weak in her life.
Daemon sits down opposite her. He stares at her, his face inscrutable.
"And now?"
Visenya looks at him without answering.
She knows what is behind his question.
It's an outstretched hand. Wary, but outstretched all the same.
There is the absence of hatred. The semblance of forgiveness. The child. There is no raven, gone for weeks. There is the terrifying abyss on the edge of which she dances. There are dead people and Daemon.
"Now we try."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is not surprised to hear Daemon enter her room. He often comes, even if he doesn't stay long. He finds her sitting in the shadows, in her nightdress, on an armchair where she has been reading the same page of the same book for weeks. She can't concentrate enough to understand what this is all about.

He moves forward and, as always, stops in mid-step. Too close, too far, he doesn't know what to do to avoid rushing her. Visenya doesn't know what he's most afraid of: that she'll break or that she'll turn back into the violent, terrible storm he's always known.

Daemon never stays very long, barely long enough to make sure she's alive and to be turned down when he offers her something.

She refuses the presence of her former ladies-in-waiting. She refuses to choose new ones. She refuses a walk in the garden. She refuses her favourite food. She refuses musicians. She refused new books. She refuses new dresses. She refuses to see Rhaenys. She refuses to see Aelor, Aelora and Aemon. She refuses and refuses again. She's surprised he hasn't got angry yet.

"It's our anniversary today," he declares out of the blue.

Visenya hadn't expected this.

Cut off from the world, she has lost all sense of time. They are thirty-one years old. An age that Baelor will not reach in three months' time. An age he will never reach, like Maekar and all their children.

"Happy birthday," she says, because it seems like the thing to say.

"Happy birthday to you too," he replies. "I've got something for you," he adds, slipping a hand into his tunic pocket.

"There's no need to..."

She pauses as he pulls out a bracelet. A very fine gold chain with tiny amethyst pearls at regular intervals.

"This is your bracelet. You lost it in your fall. I had it repaired and kept it. I thought I should give it back to you now that you're better."

Now that I'm not in danger of losing you.

Daemon doesn't say it; he comes to meet her and she holds out her wrist for him to place the bracelet on. Even at its tightest, it threatens to slip off her wrist.

"You've lost so much weight," Daemon murmurs, something like horror in his voice. "Even a bird would have thicker bones than you. The slightest breath of wind would blow you over. You used to be so strong. Remember when we fought, in Hedge Stone park? Do you remember, on the battlefield during the war?"

"I remember."

He recoils, as if she's burned him.

"You look like your mother not long before she died. You look like a spectre."

He stares at her.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she breathes after a long silence.

"What do you want, Visenya?"

What does she want? All desire has deserted her, all passion, hatred and courage. She doesn't particularly want to live, but she doesn't have the strength to end it either. She exists in a permanent fog that only Daemon comes to visit. Everything is so heavy and bland.

The bracelet finally slips from her wrist and falls to the carpet. Visenya painstakingly bends down to retrieve it.

The purple of one of the stones made her freeze.

That shade of purple. It's exactly the same shade as the child's eyes in her dream. The one shown to her by the raven as she was about to succumb to her wounds. The one with the round head like an egg, playing in the gardens in the middle of the desert.

She sits up straight, the bracelet clutched so tightly in her hand that it leaves a mark.

She had forgotten all about the egg-boy when she woke up.

Now she remembers.

It's only a dream, it doesn't mean anything, but Visenya clings to it. A ray of sunlight breaks through the mist.

She looks at her husband.

"A gift. I'd like a gift, Daemon. After all, it is my birthday."

He stares at her dumbfounded. She doesn't know which surprises him more: that she answers his question honestly or that she uses his first name.

"What do you want, Visenya? Ask and I'll give it to you. I promise."

"A trip," she says. "I don't want to stay here in King's Landing. I'm suffocating here. I want to see the sea, smell something other than the putrid stench of the lower town. I want to forget."

He kneels before her and slowly places his hands on her hollow cheeks.

"I'll expect you to eat and sleep. Dress and go out. To talk. To live. Do you hear me? To live, Visenya."

She nods.

He smiles, relieved to see a glimpse of hope.

"If I grant your request, where would you like to go?"

"To Dorne."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When Visenya sees Daenerys coming to meet her in the courtyard of Sunspear, she has the impression of seeing a stranger. Her sister is tanned and radiant, with a pearly smile on her lips. Her features have become more refined with age; the last time she saw her was on her wedding day in Summerhall. Her sister was fifteen and Visenya seventeen. Today they are twenty-nine and thirty-one. The war has passed and left its mark on Visenya, robbing her of her life. Her sister, on the other hand, seems to carry nothing but her joy.

"You look so pale, Visenya! I sometimes forget that King's Landing is so much colder than Dorne!"

She does not tell him that her pallor is not only due to the lack of sunlight, that it is also that of the Stranger who has come to visit her. It is also the ghosts she carries, their brother and their nephews. Visenya is not sure Daenerys would understand.

She stiffens as she sees her sister's gaze dart over her shoulder to Daemon, who is undoubtedly coming to meet them.

"Hello, dear sister," he greets her with a smile. "I am glad to see you so resplendent in health."

"Your majesty," she replies with a curtsey. "The pleasure is mutual. Did you have a good journey?"

The discussion begins between them. It's easy. Just like old times.

She resents Daenerys so much right now that, if offered, she would trade her life for that of any of her nephews. Brynden's gods could do that, couldn't they? He always said balance was what mattered to them.

She's beginning to regret asking Daemon to come here.

Visenya turns away and presses her hand to her mouth, gagging as her vision blurs. A warm hand rests on her elbow.

"Your majesty."

She raises her head and meets Maron Martell's dark gaze. He squeezes her arm a little harder.

"You are dressed quite warmly for Dorne; I will take you to your chambers so that you can refresh yourself and rest a little. It has been a very long journey."

It has been, all right. More than three weeks of travelling. In her condition, she thought she wouldn't survive. Visenya let herself be led like a doll, not daring to look at Daemon and Daenerys. She doesn't know if they see her leave.

Her brother-in-law leads her through marble corridors with shimmering drapes and luxurious furniture, all made of oriental wood and covered with baskets of bright fruit. Visenya enters the room whose door is opened to her and lets Maron sit her down on a low chair. He places a jewel-encrusted gold goblet in her hand and tells her to drink. She drinks. Visenya puts a hand to her sweaty forehead and slowly recovers from her confusion.

"Thank you."

Maron nods, understanding. He presses her shoulder with his dark hand. Visenya should bristle at this blatant lack of protocol, but this is Dorne and she's starved for kindness. The only kindness she's been offered in almost five years is Daemon's. It feels good not to feel guilty. She looks at Maron and, in one look, she sees resentment, concern, a hint of jealousy, too. He doesn't want Daemon here, he doesn't want him as king. He remembers. It warms Visenya's heart.

"I have to get back to the king. I'll see you at the banquet."

Visenya nods and tries to smile; it hasn't happened to her for so long that her muscles ache.

Maron stops at the door to her room, hesitates, turns to her.

"Go wherever you please. You are free here, your majesty. Free."

___

Dornians are welcoming people by nature, but they are also people who don't forget. Daemon is happy, flattered by the magnificent reception and the light atmosphere, the music and the fragrant food. He is blind to the looks Visenya sees. They remember that the former queen was Dornian, that the next king should have had black hair and tanned skin. They remember that Baelor and Maekar were beheaded and that Aerys died alone in Oldtown. They remember that Rhaegel is at the other end of the continent, dressed in black on a wall of ice.The Dornish nobles don't want anything to do with Daemon, but he'd be hard pressed to notice without interrupting the heated discussion he's having with Daenerys. Visenya supposes she should be angry with him for stealing her sister, but she's partly relieved. She's never been very close to Daenerys and she couldn't bear to see her acting as if nothing had happened.

To her right is Maron, holding two of his children in his lap and chatting to them. He tried to hand one to Visenya, but she wasn't comfortable. They're her nephews, but she doesn't know them. She drinks a little spiced wine and closes her eyes. For a moment, she can believe she is in King's Landing, six years earlier. It's Daeron's birthday, he's forty. There's a huge party, dancers and musicians, Mariah has had Dornish wine brought in and the cooks have made traditional pastries. To her right, Daeron's voice buzzes, low and soft as he speaks to his wife. To her immediate left is Maekar, looking as sullen as ever, and Dyanna is trying to wring a smile out of him, something only she can do. In the distance, Baelor's loud laughter. Somewhere, not far from her, in the shadows, Brynden is keeping watch.

Daemon hits her arm as she stands up and her dream is shattered. Disorientated, Visenya takes a moment to realise that he is escorting Daenerys to dance. Daemon is a good dancer, always has been. That's not why people look at them. Her skin tingles as the eyes move from them to her. Under the table, her left hand is clasped so tightly around her right wrist that her fingernails are digging in.

Visenya knows what they're all thinking. They remember the rumours and then the justifications put forward by Daemon's supporters during the war to win over the crowds: a war for love. A war against this half-brother who had refused him the hand of the beautiful, gentle Daenerys whom he loved and whom she loved in return. Visenya watches them move gracefully down the runway, taking in their beauty and majesty. The king and queen he would have chosen if he could.

Daenerys laughs at something Daemon says. He smiles at her. The song stops, another begins, and they continue to dance.

Visenya is just a consolation prize for Daemon, they all know that.

It hurts to think that there's nobody left in the world who loves you.

"I'm going to retire," she said to Maron. "I am tired."

"I understand your majesty."

He understands that she can't bear the humiliation. Even if she didn't want to be queen, mostly because she didn't want to be, in fact. Visenya is unhappy with the life she leads. Terribly so. But tonight, tonight, Daemon shows the world that he didn't want her to be his queen either.

Maron is good; he says nothing.

"Djada will show you out," he says, gesturing to a maid who approaches, bows and waits for Visenya to follow.

She leaves the room and everyone sees. She leaves the room and Daemon doesn't turn his head.

When her bedroom door opened hours later in the dead of night, Visenya is only half surprised. Before he discovered she was taking moon tea, she could count the nights Daemon didn't share her bed. But it's been months since she announced her pregnancy that he hasn't tried to sleep with her. Visenya assumed that, like most men, he had mistresses or prostitutes to satisfy his desires. Perhaps Dornian women are not to his taste.

She pretends to be asleep; he never touched her in these cases. He just lay there and slept, although she didn't know why. This time, though, a hand comes to rest on her shoulder, where her nightgown meets the skin of her neck.

"Visenya? I know you're not asleep."

She straightens up; there's no reason to make a fool of herself. All she can make out is his silhouette sitting on the bed in the dim moonlight.

"'Are you not feeling well?"

Visenya says nothing.

"You left in a hurry earlier. You didn't tell me you were going to bed."

Visenya widens her eyes in disbelief.

"I'm sorry I displeased you, my lord," she retorts in the mocking tone she always used when she called him that.

He sighs. She can hear the relief in his voice, as if the idea that she had enough energy to speak to him like that was good news.

In the darkness, a hand brushes against her cheek.

"The Prince has agreed to show us around his Water Gardens, as you wished. You must rest. Let us sleep."

She guesses more than she sees him remove his tunic, boots and trousers. Visenya lies on her side and he slips under the sheets, his muscular back against her skeletal one.

And if, an eternity later, when he thinks she's asleep, Daemon turns round, puts an arm around her waist and presses his mouth to the back of her neck, Visenya chooses not to move away.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The Water Gardens are a marvel, Visenya agrees.

She walked around the pink marble palace, listening religiously as Maron described his project and its realisation. She thinks how stupid she and Daemon must look, contemplating what one man's love can create. Walking side by side without touching or even looking at each other.

Everything is splendid, tastefully thought out and sculpted so that the sun is reflected in every moulding, so that the Summer Sea can be seen from every window.

Visenya had never asked whether Daenerys was happy in her marriage. One thing is certain: Maron loves her. Madly.

The prince promises them a magnificent show that evening; Visenya understands that it will be one of those famous fireworks from Essos.

But she's not interested, because she's obsessed with a single thought: finding the egg-boy.

This palace is exactly the one she saw in her dream, and so are the gardens she glimpsed. She can't have imagined them with such precision, it has to mean something. It has to. The boy has to exist, she just has to find him. And then...

Then Visenya has no idea what she'll do. But it's what got her out of the Stranger's clutches, so maybe that will make sense of it all. At least, she hopes so.

"Can I visit the gardens? I hear the fountains are very refreshing."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Maron replies hastily. "I'll take you there myself. Please, follow..."

"Actually, I'm going to the gardens with my wife," Daemon interrupts.

"You know, these were designed more to please the female eye," Maron retorts as charmingly as possible. "I could show them to the queen while my chief of guard shows you my personal collection of weapons from Essos, what do you say?"

Daemon squints, looking annoyed. Visenya doesn't understand why. And, above all, she doesn't want him to come. Sneaking away from Maron would be a lot easier than sneaking away from him.

"I say I wish to visit the gardens with my wife. Alone."

Prince of Dorne that he is, Maron understands that it is better to accept. He nods.

"As his majesty wishes."

"Come my queen," Daemon says, placing Visenya's hand authoritatively on his elbow.

She exchanges a glance with Maron. She can see the frustration in his eyes. It suddenly occurs to her that perhaps he wanted to speak to her in private. About Mariah, his sister, who died of grief a few months after she was sent back to Dorne? About Rhaegel, the last of their joint nephews still alive?

Maron Martell bows to Daemon before abruptly taking her free hand and kissing its knuckles. Visenya feels him slip something into it, over which she closes her fist.

"Your Majesties, I will see you later."

Visenya and Daemon have been walking for several minutes along one of the paths, surrounded by lush vegetation and fountains with white stone basins. Children's laughter can be heard from time to time.

"Are you happy with this trip?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes."

"And you're not too tired?"

"No."

"Good."

Visenya longs to open her hand to see what Maron has slipped into, but she's afraid Daemon will notice. Which wouldn't be difficult, by the way, given that his eyes are fixed on her.

"We haven't really had time to talk since we arrived and I promised Daenerys I'd let her show me the beach later. It seemed appropriate that we should take a few steps together, just you and me. Unless you'd like to come and see the cove with us? I hear there are some quite amazing shells there."

"Not at all, thank you. Just looking at the waves makes me seasick."

"These Dornians have strange habits," he continues undaunted. "Nevertheless, you can't accuse them of not knowing how to live. It would have been a pity if the Conqueror had decided to raze everything to the ground."

He says this as if Aegon and his sisters hadn't tried. As if peace hadn't been signed in exchange for Rhaenys's dead body. Visenya is not blinded by pride like the late Daeron I or her father. She knows that Dorne stands apart, unbroken. She knows that her brother made history by bringing the Seven Kingdoms together peacefully. But it's best not to point that out. So she remains silent.

There is more childlike laughter.

Daemon smiles as he sees three children running in the distance.

"Daenerys is very good to have accepted both noble and common orphans in this place. Few nobles would have done the same."

"Yes," Visenya replies, rolling her eyes. "It is a great pity that not all women are made in Daenerys' image."

Daemon raises his eyebrows in surprise and stops, forcing her to do the same. He looks at her in a way Visenya doesn't like, as if he can see inside her skull.

"Have I hurt you, my queen?"

"Hurt me?" she repeats, surprised.

"Last night you left after I started dancing with Daenerys. I didn't ask you because you've always refused to..."

To dance with me.

The words aren't spoken, they float between them.

"I'm not hurt. Everyone knows you love her."

The silence that stretches between them this time is tense. Visenya isn't sure why.

"I am not in love with Daenerys. My feelings for her disappeared long ago."

"I see."

Daemon doesn't answer, doesn't move. Visenya doesn't know what else to say, doesn't know what he wants from her.

He takes both her hands in his.

"I really need you to understand this. I do not love Daenerys."

"Your heart belongs to you, Daemon. Do with it as you see fit."

"I can't. Not while it's yours."

She flinches and looks away.

"I thought I had made myself clear, but perhaps I need to make myself clearer, Visenya: I love you. I am in love with you. Madly. Terribly. Even though you trample my heart over and over again. Even though I know I can't expect anything from you. I adore you with every fiber of my being and if I had to build a thousand palaces like this to get paid back, I would."

He squeezes her hands a little harder.

"I don't want you to just survive, Visenya. I don't even want you to tolerate me. I want you to give our marriage a chance. A chance to be happy. The dead do not return. The past doesn't come back. It never does. There's no point dwelling on it because you think you're doing the morally right thing. Be happy. Be happy with me. Be my queen, my wife, my sister. Let me be half of you as you are half of me."

He releases her abruptly and Visenya staggers. She hadn't expected this. Not here, not now. Not from Daemon, whom she'd never imagined would bare himself like this. He, the Warrior made man. He who represents the Westerosi and Valyrian tradition, far removed from the letters and the arts, from sweet sentiments. She realises, once again, that she doesn't actually know anything about him.

"I... I don't know what to say, Daemon."

"Just think about it. That's all I ask. I'll wait."

He turns and walks away without another word, leaving her alone in the middle of the gardens.

She can't think about it now. There is something else, something more important. Something important enough to push Daemon's face from her mind.

Visenya opens her hand to find a bright pink flower, crumpled from being clutched in her fist.

She stops a woman to ask her where she could find a tree producing such flowers.

She is shown the way.

She follows.

She walks.

A long way.

To a pond overlooking a small grassy slope. A huge tree with pink flowers shades it. A child is playing in the water and a woman is sitting on the stone ledge.

She turns round when she hears Visenya approaching and they face each other, speechless with surprise.

Visenya would recognise that long black hair and slender figure a thousand times over. Those violet eyes, too, even if they are now veiled in grief and no trace of laughter clings to those lips.

"Dyanna."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

"Visenya."

She never thought she'd hear that voice again.

She never thought she'd see that face again.

The tears in Dyanna's eyes tell her the same thing.

They fall into each other's arms and hold each other tightly, even though Visenya feels an unpleasant smell hit her nose. She doesn't pull away.

And Dyanna... Dyanna is there.

They have always loved each other so much.

"Look at you," Dyanna whispers, cradling her face in her hands. "You're so thin I could break you in two... What have they done to you, Visenya? Oh my dear friend!"

Their hands intertwine as they walk towards a bench, unable to take their eyes off each other.

For Visenya, the past comes alive before her eyes.

In a dizzying kaleidoscope, she remembers Maekar's smile, so rare and precious, she remembers Dyanna dancing with talent at her wedding, she remembers her, radiant, playing with her children in the castle corridors...

There is so much sorrow in Dyanna's beautiful eyes. She has lost so much.

So Visenya speaks, even if it costs her to talk about Daeron and Aerion's deaths again. Even if, so far from King's Landing, she must imagine its walls gorged with the blood of her family and filled with enemies who rejoice in their misfortune. She tells the story because Dyanna has a right to know what happened and to get to know her only surviving son, Aemon, through her.

Between her pregnancy and everything else, Visenya hasn't seen him for almost a year. She is careful not to tell Dyanna, weaving a web of lies and truths. She knows that Aemon is an intelligent child, she knows that he is kind. She knows that Daemon will eventually give in and let him become maester. When she has finished speaking, there are more tears, but strangely they are not as bitter as those shed over the years. Perhaps because they are no longer alone for the first time in almost five years.

Visenya glances at the egg-child who is still playing in the water behind them. She doesn't dare ask. She's too scared.

That's why she came.

For him, the child of her dream.

Her dream.

If she made a mistake... if she crossed the continent for nothing...

Visenya turns to Dyanna.

"It was for him that Maron led you to me."

Visenya stands up and advances towards the egg-child.

Towards the one who pulled her from the Stranger's arms.

As if he had sensed her, he turns and looks at her with his big violet eyes. The same ones she'd been dreaming about.

In an instant, the certainty of knowing what he is comes over her, clear as day.

"His name is Aegon."

The name of a king.

Of

the

king.

"I'll be joining them soon, you know," Dyanna says suddenly with a faraway look. "Maekar, Daeron and Aerion."

"Why you..."

“My heart is full of poison: a snake has bitten it.”

Dyanna discreetly moves aside the top of her dress and Visenya sees a bandage soaked in blood and pus wrapped around her breast. She realises where the smell she smelt earlier is coming from and sees Dyanna's white, blistered face with new eyes.

The disease of old women. The bite of the Stranger, some call it.

It's not grief, but illness that's devouring her.

"The masters can't help me any more. They've never seen it happen to a woman as young as I am."

"I'm sorry, Dyanna."

"You don't have to be sorry, it's the usurper who's to blame. He destroyed everything in his path. He took everything."

Visenya thinks about Daemon's hands on her. She thinks of the tiny child waiting for them in King's Landing. She thinks about what he said to her a few minutes ago.

She thinks. She thinks. She thinks. And she can't hate him anymore. She doesn't have that strength in her, she's too tired and too hungry for it.

Dyanna wouldn't understand. So she doesn't say anything, but something must be in her eyes because Dyanna's nails are digging into her arm.

"The usurper they call their king, that you call your spouse, he did all this. He took the lives of my husband and my sons. He took the life of Mariah who buried her children and her love before dying of despair here. He took the life of Jena who threw herself off the tallest tower in Blackhaven. He took your life and mine. The sickness is killing me, but it's not the gods, it's

him

. He corrupts everything. I need you to step up, Visenya."

Dyanna's hand comes to squeeze hers.

The last free Targaryen stands before Visenya. A little boy of four and a half. The one to whom the raven guided her.

Visenya feels sorrow for him, for what he has lost without having any idea, for what his life will be. She wonders if there is any fate more terrible than growing up uprooted, shuffled from place to place without belonging anywhere. She wonders if, lulled by half-truthful stories about one's family, one might not go mad.

"I'll take care of him."

She won't commit to anything more.

Because her soul is in tatters and her tired mind is in doubt.

But that's enough for the half-dead mother who shakes her hand.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

When, on the day of their departure from Dorne, Daemon tells her without further explanation that they will be stopping at Summerhall, Visenya thinks that it will simply be to resupply.
However, Daemon has given orders and they are settling in for what he says will be an indefinite period.
Visenya wonders if this isn't his way of getting back at her, some kind of twisted punishment after she didn't return his feelings.
There are so many memories here...
She wanders around the castle, resting her hand on every stone, every hanging, sitting on every bench she remembers seeing Daeron use. He loved this castle. He had built it to celebrate the union of Dorne and the rest of the kingdom. How many hours had she spent eating honeyed almonds with him? How many sweet, bright nights had she spent getting drunk with Rhaegel and Baelor on the battlements up there?
All lost. Gone. Destroyed.
From the very first night, she could see in Daemon's eyes that he didn't like this place. Surely the architecture and decoration are too dornish for him.
This satisfies Visenya: she doesn't know if she could bear him taking over this place as he has taken over her life.
Sitting on a windowsill in an alcove, Visenya looks out over the courtyard, wearing a dress as light blue as the fabric is light. It's warm here, but not the sweltering heat of Sunspear; something gentler, like a warm breeze caressing the back of your neck.
Visenya thinks and thinks about that child she doesn't know what to do with. He came to Summerhall with them, hidden among the servants who make up their retinue. She told the farrier to teach him his job, so he agreed. Because she is the queen and she can.
But Visenya doesn't know what to do with him.
She doesn't even know what exactly his mother told him about his inheritance.
"A penny for your thoughts."
Visenya turns and sees Daemon enter the alcove.
"I didn't know we were playing hide-and-seek, my lady. Otherwise, I would have gone after you more rigorously."
He's not used to talking to her like this, so lightly. She doesn't know if he's forcing himself to make her smile or if he considers everything forgotten.
Visenya forgets nothing.
Especially not Aegon.
Her gaze slides to Blackfyre, always at his belt or, when he undresses, beside the bed.
"What have you done with Dark Sister?"
Daemon stops smiling, bewildered.
"You didn't give it to your brother. Aegor wouldn't have failed to show it to me otherwise."
"It's your sword. I didn't give it to anyone."
"It was Brynden's sword," she corrects him.
Daemon's face twists in anger, which surprises Visenya. He moves closer until she can feel his breath on her face. He grabs her right hand, her sword hand, and squeezes it until it hurts.
"I can't believe Daeron would do this to you. To take away your right, what father gave you... Even if Brynden is a man, it should never have happened. It is your sword. It always has been."
"It was I who gave it up. Daeron didn't steal anything from me. Nor did Brynden, for that matter."
"Why?" asks Daemon, unable to understand. "It was father who gave us the swords. It was his will. His reward for distinguishing us. It is our strictest right."
Visenya finds it strange, incomprehensible even, that Daemon should react in this way. As if he and she were an indivisible entity. As if stealing from her meant stealing from him too.
“What are you talking about? This is what we are made for."
"I believed it. But not any more.”
She pushes his hand away.
"I am not worthy."
Daemon looks at her as if a second head has been poked into her. There's disappointment in his eyes. It makes Visenya angry. She opens her mouth to tell the truth, to say that she was sorry she hadn't killed him, that she knew Brynden wouldn't have had that weakness, but he interrupts her.
"Do you still think so?"
Visenya hadn't expected this question.
She looks at Daemon, then looks out.
Does she still mean it?
The answer comes without delay: yes.
But I can't afford it any more, she realises immediately.
Visenya can't go on letting others decide for her, shuffling her from place to place, decision to decision like a simple doll.
Not if there's Aegon. Aelor, Aelora and Aemon, too. Not if there's any hope of things changing. Not if she wants to be a Visenya.
Visenya stands up.
"I would like a sword."
"Now?"
"Yes. Now."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya can't train for long.

She hasn't held a sword for almost five years, her hands have lost their holds and, without gloves, her palms start bleeding within minutes. Her movements have become stiff and predictable as her muscles have melted away, and her weakness since her suicide attempt doesn't help. Her stamina has also been reduced to a trickle; her breath comes too quickly, her lungs constrict and she has to stop, panting, half lying on her sword.

And yet...

Yet Visenya rejoices. She gets a new lease of life each time her dull blade strikes the wooden dummy. She loves the sweat that runs down her back, the red that rises to her cheeks, the sound of metal slicing through the wind, the weight of the sword, like an extension of her arm.

Visenya is born for this.

She had forgotten all about it.

How could she?

Her body tells her to stop. So she stops. For today.

And tomorrow...

Tomorrow, she'll start again.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

At first, Daemon doesn't make his presence known. She knows that he is watching her train. He doesn't seem to be able to do anything else.
And then she senses him: his shadow behind a window, his silhouette leaning against a door.
It takes him two weeks to come and sit in the courtyard.
Three more days to join her.
"You're slow and clumsy. A drunken old man would get the better of you."
"Good thing father's dead, then."
Daemon laughs.
She can't remember ever hearing him laugh. The few times they've spoken have been marked by grief or hatred. And after they married... well. It's strange to see him throw his head back, exposing his pale, muscular neck, to hear his voice changed by hilarity.
It's hard to know what foot to stand on at times like this. Visenya has lost the ability to hate him and it throws her off balance. Daemon makes her sway without her having anything to hold on to.
Not knowing what to do with herself, Visenya turns away and starts hitting the wooden dummy again.
He's not leaving.
"What do you want?"
"Aren't you tired of fighting this piece of wood? You need a worthy opponent."
Visenya freezes.
She hears him stop breathing.

That's what you've been hesitating to ask me for days, then.

The last time they each held a sword, they were on opposite sides.
The last time they faced each other was on a battlefield.
"Aegon and Visenya often trained together, so they say."
"And they say Visenya always won."
She faces him and holds out a blunt sword. He looks relieved when he takes it.
Obviously, Daemon doesn't fight like he's capable of. He doesn't fight at all, in fact. He just blocks her attacks. They don't talk because Visenya needs to save her breath. Daemon analyses her every move and makes precise, fair comments in a neutral tone.
Visenya wonders if he knows that she would slit his throat if she thought it would improve her situation.
She tires quickly, stumbles, and Daemon takes the opportunity to press his sword against her side.
"Dead. Looks like I won."
She doesn't know if it's his smug smile, his words or simply her crumpled pride that makes her act, but Visenya hoists herself up on her tiptoes and kisses him.
Startled, Daemon doesn't resist when she drops him to his knees and rests her blade against his neck.
"You were saying?"
Satisfied to have had the last word Visenya leaves him there and heads for the armoury adjoining the courtyard to put away the swords.
He enters after her a minute later.
"Don't be a sore loser, you..."
Daemon closes the distance between them and kisses her without warning, one hand on the back of her neck and the other tangled in her hair.
He presses her between the wall and his hard body. She feels his chest against hers, the heat of his leg against her crotch.
"You have no idea what you've just done, Visenya," he rumbles, kissing her cheek, her ear and then her eyelid. "None. I am a man. I have desires. I have urges. You have no idea what I want to do to you."
"Show me then."
His mouth is burning, devouring.
He puts his hand down her trousers and she moans, her head hitting the wall.
She has no intention of losing and places her hand on the bulge in his trousers. She squeezes.
Part of Visenya realises the grotesqueness of the scene: the queen being fingered by the king whose cock she is holding in an armoury. It would be better if nobody found them like that.
Daemon must share her conclusion because he lifts her onto his shoulder and exits the armoury.
"Are you mad? Let me go!"
He doesn't. Not until he's closed his bedroom door on them. He sets Visenya down, who slaps him before pulling him by the hair to draw him into a kiss.She realises that they have never kiss before. Even on their wedding she refused.He tears her shirt in half and removes her trousers and boots in a single movement. His clothes also disappear in the struggle. After that, it's just a fight to see who gets the better of the other.
It's different from what their sex has been for the last four years. It had always been dispassionate, even on Daemon's side. He was horny, but always focused, always in control, as if someone was watching and he had to deliver a performance. To live up to it.
There's no respect or politeness there. It's not about licking her a little to get her wet before taking her. It's about domination.
Visenya scratches his back and Daemon retaliates by biting her neck.

"I'm going to eat you raw," she growls in his ear. "Crush you until there's nothing left of you."
His hands tighten on her hips in response, so hard she can almost hear her bones crack. There will be marks tomorrow. There will be marks everywhere.
Daemon kisses her and bites her tongue bloody.

Visenya finds herself on top of him without really knowing how and tackles him onto the bed. She's only done this once and his cock is different, but it feels as good as she remembers. He lets her set the pace but wraps his hand around her throat and squeezes.
Through the haze of pleasure, Visenya tells herself that this is it. This is exactly how it should be.It takes them a while to dare look at each other after that.

They lie in bed, side by side, their bodies damp with sweat, his too-warm leg pressed against hers.
"You were right."
He rolls onto his side to face her, his head resting on his fist.
She notices that bruises are already starting to form. One on Daemon's left side, another on his shoulder. His back must be in a terrible state.
"About what?"
"The swords. Bestiality. This is what we are made for."
He tucks a lock behind her ear.
"We're monsters."
It feels good to admit it.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Aegor is the first person they come face to face with after crossing King's Landing in jubilation at the return of their king and queen.
He does not look pleased.
He stares at them with dark eyes, arms crossed, his mouth forming a thin, hideous little line.
"Spending a month at Summerhall was a mistake. What were you thinking?"
Daemon sighs, as if he had expected the rebuke but was suffering to face it.
"I needed some peace."
Aegor's gaze drops to their clasped hands and his face twists a little more, if that's possible.
"The nobles are talking. They haven't understood why you..."
"Brother," Daemon interrupts him, raising an authoritative hand. "That's enough blaming. Why don't you tell me how my daughter is?"
Aegor softens.
"Rhaenys is well. She's started crawling, a real nightmare for her wet nurse."
At these words, Daemon smiled.
"I'll go and see her."
He kisses her hand.
"My queen."
He doesn't offer her to come. Daemon knows that there are limits he must not cross if he wants to keep the fragile peace that has been established.
Visenya waits until he has left before she stops smiling. She rises to her full height and stares coldly at the bastard who serves as Hand to the Iron Throne.
Aegor doesn't hide his disgust.
"You left looking like a walking corpse. I was hoping you'd succumb to the journey."
"I hope you're not too disappointed, bastard."
"I don't know what you've done to him to make him worship the ground you walk on, but it's not working with me. I see the monster in you. I see the danger you are to Daemon. I won't let you crush his heart like you crushed his children."
Visenya raises an eyebrow in surprise.
"I know it's you," Aegor accuses her. "I know it was you who killed them all. Daemon the younger. Haegon. Aenys. I don't know how, but you did it. Just like you tried to kill every heir he tried to give you. Just like you tried to murder Rhaenys. And one day, I will convince Daemon to see you exactly as I do. When that day comes, I'll kill you myself."
The hatred suddenly leaves his features and he steps back, hands behind his back.
Aegor turns away, having finished with her.
It's a shame Visenya doesn't see it that way.
He doesn't see her coming when she grabs him by the hair and presses a dagger against his neck.
Aegor gasps, first in surprise, then in pain as she twists his head at an uncomfortable angle. He doesn't dare try to free himself, the sharp blade held against his pulse.
Visenya presses her mouth to his ear and inhales, feasting on the smell of his fear.
"You're right, bastard. The monster is back. And I'll bleed you like a pig before the gods call me back to them."
Aegor has the courage not to tremble. She gives him that.
"For you I have only contempt. For him, sorrow."
"I am the queen," Visenya simply says. "I am queen, and the king loves me. I can do anything. I have power you will never have, you upstart little bastard. You will fear me, Aegor. Perhaps not today. But tomorrow... tomorrow you will. For when the time comes, he will choose me."
Their eyes meet.
"I won't let you hurt him."
Visenya smiles.
"Try and stop me.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Daemon had her escorted to his room, which was rare enough to be worth mentioning.
He usually came to hers.
Well, could one call ‘usual’ something that used to happen more than a year ago?
Daemon opens his palms and she places her hands on them.
It's so easy. So easy, she just has to let him do it. To let herself float without ever sinking. Visenya can do that.
He draws her further in, his masculine face imbued with a gentleness that only becomes apparent when his eyes rest on Rhaenys or on her.
Visenya refrains from thinking about Daeron who lived here. Daeron who is dead, his ashes long ago scattered to the four winds.
There is a weapons rack with two notches against the wall. The first is empty and the second...
The second houses Dark Sister.
It's been five years since Visenya last laid eyes on the sword.

Hers. Brynden's.

The first Visenya's.

Daemon has kept it there all this time, sheltered, sleeping beside Blackfyre when he's not wearing it.
He draws it from its notch and admires its weight, the sharpness of the blade, the workmanship of the guard.
He looks at her and for a moment Visenya wonders if he's not going to keep it for himself. Daemon might want to take Visenya's glory on top of Aegon's. To finish stealing everything from her family.
Yet he holds out Dark Sister to her, one hand supporting the guard and the other the blade.
Daemon bows his head imperceptibly. Not as a sign of submission, no, he's a man. A man like him would never submit to a woman.

Visenya picks up the sword.
It's recognition from a brother to a sister. From a king to a queen. From one Valyrian to another.
In turn, she bows her head.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Daemon lets out a grunt of pain as he straightens up in bed.
"You didn't pull any punches," he says, looking at the four red welts across his chest.
"I have just as many at your service," replies Visenya, running a hand over her bruised neck. "I'll have to wear high collars for at least two weeks."
"Don't complain. I had to claim a training accident to explain the one you gave me on my jaw. You'll get your revenge next time."
Visenya's smile fades. She turns her head to look at Daemon's profile, naked as the day they were born, one hand behind his head, looking out of the window at the city. His city, now.
"I'm afraid we have to stop."
He turns his head sharply towards her. Visenya is getting to know him well and she can see a mixture of fear and shame in his eyes.
"Was I too hard? I thought you liked it when I was tough. I thought it suited us both."
A euphemism for the brutality of the sex they've been having since that day at Summerhall. She feels, in retrospect, that Daemon never really liked sex before that. And that's the only way Visenya won't feel guilty.
"No," she says. "It's not that."
Distrust settles in the depths of his violet eyes. He closes his heart, worried she'll revert to her old hatred. Try, at least. He can't really anymore. It's too late for that.
"It wouldn't be reasonable. For now," she continues. "I'm pregnant, Daemon."
He blinks, staring at her as if she had a second head.
"How?"
She raises her eyebrows.
"Since when?" he corrects himself.
"I haven't had a period since my... accident. The Grand Maester isn't sure. Two months, maybe three."
At Summerhall, no doubt.
Daemon lies on his side and traces with two fingers the curve of her breast, the hollow of her waist, the bone of her hip.
"You're so thin," he murmurs. "Frail as a bird."
Visenya catches his hand in hers and squeezes. Hard enough that he winces.
"It's this hand that scratched your stomach, scratched your back. This is the hand that holds the sword you face every morning. Its strength is that of the dragon."
Daemon moves their clasped hands effortlessly to her belly, which he caresses with his knuckles, seeing the bulge he had previously refused to see.
"And you carry a dragon inside you. That requires far greater strength than you have right now, Visenya. You are slowly recovering from your mistakes. I thought we would have more time. If you and the child are to live, you must be even stronger. You must eat more. Train more."
"Don't talk about things you know nothing about," Visenya retorts as she straightens up, displeased at being scolded like a child. "You're only a man. Motherhood is an area in which you have no control.”
Daemon puts a hand on her stomach and his mouth on hers.
To silence her. To soothe her. He knows her well now too.
And Visenya stifles the feeling deep inside her that she's carrying death.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The children watch her warily as Visenya enters.

A parody of an intimate dinner party has been set up: the curtains are closed, candles light up a table so small that she's sure her knees will knock against theirs when she sits down.

Aelor and Aelora hold hands so tightly they turn white. As if they feared some bad news, that she had been sent like a bird of ill omen to tear them apart. To cause them more pain than they've already suffered.

The twins are twelve years old, each as thin and small as the other. If Aelora wasn't wearing a dress, Visenya isn't sure she'd be able to tell them apart. She sees Aelor's gaze brush briefly over her belly, the roundness of which is beginning to show. They both know that if she carries a boy, he will no longer be the heir to the throne, but a nuisance. A danger.

Daemon isn't a child killer, but what about Aegor and all the others? Visenya isn't sure of anything. But she will do everything she can to protect him. She hopes he can see it in her eyes.

Aemon comes towards her and leans forward, a book tucked under his arm. He's eight years old and his hair is too long and falls into his eyes. Visenya pushes it aside with a barely trembling hand and gazes into the child's violet eyes. The ones he takes after Dyanna.

"I saw your mum, my dear. She told me to give you a thousand kisses and to tell you that she thinks of you every day."

She told me she was going to die.

She told me you have a brother.

I brought him here. He's cleaning the stables as we speak.

Visenya says none of this.

Aemon throws himself into her arms, threatening to topple her over.

"I'm glad to see you."

As if waiting for this gesture, the twins approach in turn.

"We've missed you, my aunt."

My aunt.

It had been so long since she had heard that. Their father, Rhaegel, always called her that.

Without letting go of Aemon, she opens her other arm. Aelor and Aelora throw themselves into it, hungry for contact.

Who tucks them in at night? Caressing their hair, smothering their sorrows?

Visenya kisses Aelora's forehead as she begins to cry.

"I'm sorry to have left you alone, dear children. But I'm here now, and I promise you that things will change."

And Visenya has no intention of going back on that promise. Or any of the others.

A knock on the window. A caw can be heard.

The raven is back.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Her room is silent except for the sound of forks scraping the bottom of dishes.

Suddenly, Visenya bursts out laughing.

" What's the matter ?" asks Daemon, raising his head.

Visenya points at them with a vague wave of her hand: she, leaning against the pillows of her bed in her nightdress, her plate balanced on her distended stomach. He, sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet dangling, his plate in his left hand and his fork in his right.

"Look at us. This must not be what the nobles imagine when they hear that 'their majesties are to dine privately in the queen's flats'."

Daemon smiles.

"Good thing they'll never know."

He stands up and approaches the table that had been set for them before Visenya complains about the chairs being too uncomfortable for her back.

"What fruit would you like?"

"I'm not hungry any more."

"And I say you're going to eat. Hasn't the Grand Maester, rest his soul, told you often enough that you need to put on weight? You've put on a bit of muscle, I'll give you that, but it's still nothing like your ideal weight. You're over six months pregnant. You need to eat for two."

"Yes mother," Visenya scoffs. "What fruit is there?"

"Apples, pears, plums," Daemon lists. "And one... I don't know what it is," he says as he picks up a round, orange-red fruit. "One of those strange fruits from the East."

"It's called a pomegranate."

"Can you crunch it like an apple?" he asks, sniffing it warily.

"No, you have to open it. You eat the seeds inside. Give it to me."

He hands her the pomegranate and watches her open it circumspectly. Visenya hands him half without touching hers and beckons him to try.

"It's pretty good," he admits after a long moment.

"By the gods!" exclaims Visenya, sarcastically. "The great Daemon Blackfyre? Admitting that a product from the East is tasty? Is the sky about to fall?"

"They are strange people with strange customs. We have enough fruit and vegetables on our Westeros lands without bothering with their oddities," Daemon retorts.

"You're very quick to forget that father was half Essosi. Larra Rogare, our grandmother, came from Lys."

Daemon doesn't answer, his eyes suddenly darkening.

"What? All I did was tell the truth."

"Larra Rogare abandoned her husband to return to Essos. And my mother... Lady Daena... everyone thinks she fled there. Two kings abandoned by two women who gave them children. Will you do the same, Visenya?"

She sits up slowly, wary.

"Where did that come from?"

He sits back down on the bed facing her, looking very serious.

"If I stopped having members of the Kingsguard escort you every step of the way. If no more doors were closed to you, not even the one at the entrance to the city. Would you leave me, Visenya? Would you disappear, never to return?"

She looks out of the window, sees a black shadow flying in a circle without ever landing.

"I would think about it," she finally replies. "Some days more than others; when it's too hard to bear being around you. But, in the end, I don't think I could."

"Why?"

"What's waiting for me out there? Nothing. There's nothing left for me but you."

Visenya digs her fingers into the pomegranate, plucks out a handful of seeds and swallows them whole.

She holds Daemon's gaze.

"I amm selfish. I am a coward. I will stay."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The delivery comes too soon.
Everyone is bustling around the bed, and while Visenya can't see what's going on between her legs, she can see the new Grand Maester's white face quite clearly.
He's young, a prodigy it seems, having earned his chain in half the time required. Visenya isn't sure this is a good sign.
"Don't push," he tells her in a shaky voice. "The child will come out when he's ready, there's no point in forcing him."
Through a haze of pain Visenya discerns the reproving gaze two of the midwives exchange.
"You..."
"My lord!" the Grand Maester suddenly exclaims, losing interest in her.
Visenya painfully turns her head towards the open door and discovers Aegor there.
"What are you doing here, bastard? You have no right to..." the end of her sentence dies on her lips, choked with pain.
"I'm making sure you don't try to throw this one out the window."
Aegor takes another step into the room and leans against the wall. He scrutinizes her face, dripping with sweat, and the sheets she's torn from pulling them between her hands.
"The king is hunting. By the time the news reaches him and he returns, I'm the one who must make the decisions regarding the birth of the future prince or princess."
An icy terror grips Visenya. Unlike Daemon, she knows that Aegor would have no qualms about killing her to get the child out of her body alive.
"How is this engaged?" he asks. "Will the child live?"
The Grand Maester dabs his forehead with one of the cloths normally provided for her.
"The child is moving in the womb, so it's very much alive. If the mother doesn't wrap the cord around its neck, it will live."
"And how am I supposed to do that, you idiot?! By force of will?"
"Obviously," replies the Grand Maester scornfully. "The mother has control over her body. You're the one who decides to move your hand, aren't you? It's exactly the same thing."
"I'll have you... by the gods!" shouts Visenya as she lies back down, her head spinning from the pain.
"Did you give her something for the pain?" asks Aegor. "Milk of the poppy?"
"No. New studies suggest it would be detrimental to children. I agree. Thousands of women around the world give birth without the benefit of such a luxury. Our queen is capable of it too, I'm sure."
This time, Aegor avoids Visenya's gaze, uncomfortable.
A midwife, who has come to sponge her forehead, leans over and whispers in her ear, in a trembling voice: "Push, your majesty. Push with all your might."
So Visenya pushes. She pushes as if her life depended on it.
Because her life depends on it and she doesn't want to die.
The child screams at the top of its lungs.
The child is alive.
And, for the moment, so is Visenya.
"What is it?" asks Aegor, tense.
"A girl, my lord," whispers a midwife as she places her in her arms.
"Tell the king he has my deepest sympathy," exclaims the Grand Maester, shaking his head apologetically.
Aegor doesn't respond, concentrating on the newborn. He holds up a finger, which she catches and, but she could be mistaken, Visenya gets the impression he's smiling.
"Show her to me," she demands.
Surprisingly, Aegor complies, pushing aside the swaddling clothes and presenting her with the baby's red, crumpled face. She doesn't look like anything yet. It's impossible to say who she'll resemble more.
Visenya is too exhausted to think about her feelings and looks away.
Aegor hands the child back to the midwife, who leaves the room, presumably to wash her.
"Good," says the Grand Maester. "Now that it's all over, please stand up."
Visenya looks at him, dumbfounded, then turns to Aegor to confirm that she has heard correctly.

"Why?"
"The queen needs to evacuate the blood and moods of pregnancy. Standing and walking is the best thing to do."
"I've never heard of such a thing."
"But, if I may say so, you didn't study at the Citadel either, my lord Hand," replies the Grand Maester, bowing.
"Aegor..."
He turns to her. Visenya has never relied on him for anything. But even he must realise the stupidity of this order. With Daemon absent, he's the only one who can oppose an order from the Grand Maester in this situation.
"It's my job," he insists. "I know what's best for the queen."
"Very well," says Aegor. "Raise her."
Visenya is hoisted onto her two feet despite her groans of pain. Her head spins as a shawl is placed over her sweaty shoulders. Without quite knowing how, she finds herself walking down the corridor, leaning heavily on Aegor.
"I can't believe..." she pauses and grits her teeth to stifle a cry of pain. "That you'd let him do this. Is he a maester or a butcher?"
They descend a flight of stairs and Visenya takes great care to dig the nails of both hands into the arm she's leaning on. He doesn't flinch and puts his other arm around her waist to keep her from falling.
She catches Aegor's gaze on her.
"What?"
"You don't look... good."
Visenya sneers.
"I've just given birth without painkillers and the Grand Maester is making me walk through the castle. Of course I don't look well, you idiot!"
"No, I mean... you're sweating a lot."
Infection. Puerperal fever.
He doesn't say the words. But they're both thinking them.
"Why are you here in the first place?"
"It's not for you. If you fall and smash your skull you won't be able to give Daemon a son. He wants a purely Valyrian heir and you're the only one who can give him that."
"And here I thought you were beginning to like me..."
"Nothing would please me more than to see you die."
"If I die, Daemon will..."
"Daemon loves you and that's his only mistake. But don't think he'd choose you over an heir to the throne. You are queen and, as such, providing a son for the crown is your highest duty. Your life is worthless in comparison."
"I understand why Shiera left. I hope she lives happily surrounded by books and falls asleep thinking of Brynden."
Aegor flinches. Nobody's talked about Shiera since the end of the war. Too bad she has little interest in his feelings.
He abruptly stops supporting her and, deprived of his force, Visenya stumbles and falls to her knees on the stone floor.
The shock reverberates through every bone in her body. She feels something writhing inside.
Visenya lets out a howl. He lifts her unceremoniously.
"Stop making a spectacle of yourself, you..." the rest of her sentence dies on Aegor's lips.
Daemon appears at the end of the corridor, dressed in a hunting outfit, dishevelled, panting from running. He freezes, startled.
"Visenya? Aegor?"

"The child is well. It's a girl," Aegor clarifies.
"A girl?" Daemon lets his disappointment show for a brief moment. "Is she all right?"
"Yes."
"Good. Visenya?" he adds abruptly. "What are you doing up?"
She must be frightening to see, trembling, very pale, covered in sweat and her face reddened with tears.
"I..."
"By the gods!" swears Aegor.
Blood drips from beneath her dress. She falters.
Daemon grabs her shoulders to keep her upright.
"Visenya! Visenya, what's happening to you?"
She's being torn apart from the inside. She doesn't realise she's starting to scream.
"It's moving!"
"What?"
Everything. Her organs. Her muscles. The world around her.
Daemon and Visenya don't understand.
Fortunately, Aegor is quicker.
He crouches down and unceremoniously puts his hands under her nightdress.
Just in time to catch something slimy sliding between her thighs.
Very pale, Aegor stands up, his hands covered in blood, a yellowish substance with a very strong odour, and holding something covered in this mixture. He separates the thing from Visenya with the point of his sword.
As if it had feel it, it starts screaming.
The baby is screaming.
Daemon, holding a half-collapsed Visenya against him, looks appalled.
"There were two of them," says Aegor, dumbfounded.

"Twin girls."
"No," corrects his brother. "This one's a boy."
"Daemon..." moans Visenya.
It seems to bring him back to himself. He puts one arm around her waist and another under her knees to lift her. Aegor follows him down the corridor, carrying the naked, bloodied and still wailing child.
The people they pass move aside, stunned by the macabre spectacle they're witnessing. Eventually they come across the Grand Maester, who has just emerged from Visenya's room.
"What the..." he stammers as he sees the baby.
She can't see Daemon's face, but the Grand Maester takes a step back. Visenya no longer has enough strength to reproach him in the slightest, but Aegor does.
"The king will have your head for what happened today."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

"You tried to kill my wife!"
"No!" cries the Grand Maester, weeping.
"To humiliate me, then!"
"Your Majesty... I would never... I..."
Comfortably ensconced in an armchair, a blanket on her lap and a cup of mulled wine in her hands, Visenya watches with pleasure as Daemon confronts the Grand Maester. On the king's orders, she was given a dose of milk of the poppy strong enough to make her feel nothing below the waist.She'd probably sleep without the pleasure of seeing this stupid scum shrivel up before her very eyes.
Daemon is not a violent man, either in his actions or in his words. He doesn't break vases, he doesn't hit servants, he doesn't shout at those who annoy him. Yet before her very eyes, he is transformed: he screams, his face distorted by anger, his eyes gleaming with rage.
"The queen gave birth to my son, the heir to the throne, your future king in a fucking corridor! Delivered by the Hand and me! How do you justify such an outrage?"
"I would never have made her majesty stand up if I thought she was expecting another child," the Grand Maester defends himself."Really? And why make her stand up at all? I've never heard such a stupid idea in my life! And don't tell me I don't know anything about it! I've seen a lot of childbirths and never, never in such circumstances! You made the queen give birth like a peasant!"
"Your Majesty," replies the Grand Maester in a soothing voice, "there are many mysteries that medicine cannot yet explain. The presence of a second child in the womb was quite surprising. You can be sure that I regret the circumstances of these births, but both your children are doing well. And so is the queen. You have an heir," insists the Grand Maester. "Your first boy, it's worth putting the upset behind us, don't you think?"
Daemon stiffens. Something changes in his gaze, Visenya sees it.
"Sixth."
"What?"
"He is my sixth son."
"But the others are dead," the Grand Maester replies stupidly.
She really doesn't understand how he could have been chosen to be the king's maester.
Visenya slowly leans back in the armchair. Her gaze shifts from Daemon to the young fool. She sees him standing straight as a statue of salt, his mouth twisted in a strange way. She waits.
Daemon never talks about his five dead sons. Visenya hasn't even heard their names since their funerals.

Aegon, Aemon, Daemon...

She can't remember the names of the other two.
Visenya is a little curious to know how he feels. He's a man, so surely he's not suffering as much from their loss as poor Rohanne, who ended up dying from it. But she doesn't know Daemon well as a father.
"Out of here," Daemon says calmly, too calmly, his gaze fixed on the wall behind the Grand Maester. "Out of this room. Out of this castle. Out of this town, even."
"But, I..." stammers the other, bewildered.
"I am the king and I dismiss you. The Citadel will send another Maester. Get out of my sight.""It was a bit rude to have him escorted by the Kingsguard, don't you think?"
"I don't want to talk about him any more."
The sleeping twins were brought in at Daemon's request; to Visenya's surprise he barely gave the boy a glance. She was to be the one to hold him while he carried the girl.
"I can't believe..."
Visenya doesn't finish her sentence. She can't believe that she has survived this pain, that she has given birth to two healthy babies, that she is a mother.

With Rhaenys things were different; she hasn't really held her, or seen her, for that matter, even since she recovered from her fall. Visenya acts as if Rhaenys doesn't exist and Daemon makes sure to talk about her and bring them into each other's presence as little as possible. It's almost as if that first pregnancy had been a bad dream.

But here they are. One in her arms, the other in Daemon's sitting on the armrest of her chair.
"I should have known there were two of them. Rohanne had a big belly too when she was expecting twins. My first twins," clarifies Daemon without looking her or the boy in the eye. "But you're so slim that I thought your belly just looked... swollen, compared to the rest. I'm glad the three of you are okay."
"I can't believe they're here," Visenya repeats. "When I was pregnant it was... abstract. It scares me."
A year earlier, she would never have imagined saying something like that to Daemon.
"I was scared the first time too."
Once again, he doesn't mention Rhaenys, acting as if this was her first childbirth. He doesn't talk about his sons either, just skirting around the subject. Daemon's gaze is far away; even though his shoulder is touching hers, Visenya has the impression that he is untouchable, bogged down in thoughts to which she has no access.
She wonders if it's the fact that they're twins, like his first children Aegon and Aemon, that's disturbing him so much.
"What are you going to name them?" asks Visenya to get his attention.
It works because Daemon stares at her, eyebrows raised. The girl makes a sound and he begins to rock her, without thinking about it, like second nature. The boy is like dead weight in Visenya's arms; the gods forbid he wakes up and cries. She's not good with babies, never has been, even when it came to Baelor's, Rhaegel's and Maekar's.
"I thought we were going to make this decision together. That's what most parents do, they discuss it."
"You're not going to make me believe you were giving Rohanne a say," Visenya scoffs.
"Of course I do."
"You chose alone for Rhaenys."
This time it's Daemon's turn to chuckle, although the smile doesn't reach his eyes.
"Was I to wait three months for you to wake up and call her 'the girl' in the meantime? Don't be dishonest in your reproaches, Visenya."
"Dishonest?" she retorts, squinting. "I was broken, broken beyond repair. I tried to kill her, Daemon, and then out of shame I threw myself from that window, right there! And what did you do? You chose to call her Rhaenys. The sister of the Conqueror and the first Visenya. And do you know what the first Visenya did? She spat on Rhaenys' memory by stripping her grandchildren of the crown. Visenya betrayed Rhaenys and you knowingly chooses our daughter's name. It is an insult I have not forgotten."
Visenya has been careful not to speak too loudly so as not to risk waking the twins, but she is struggling to contain her emotions from the milk of the poppy and her voice, against her will, has ended in a tremolo. Daemon stares at her with wide eyes, seeming to fall head over heels.

"I never meant to hurt you by choosing her name! Not for a moment did I think... Visenya, I chose Rhaenys because..."
"It doesn't matter," she interrupts him, ashamed of the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "What's done is done. These need a name now. You want us to do it together, fine. Get started."
"Let's choose the one for the little princess first," Daemon says, stroking a finger down the cheek of the child in his arms. "I suppose we can agree on a Valyrian name?"
If I had my way, she'd be called Dyanna, Visenya muses bitterly.
She's not stupid enough to make such a suggestion.
"Yes," she simply replies.
“Right, then. Obviously she can't be called Aelora or Rhaenys. Maybe not Visenya either," he adds hesitantly. "Rhaena is too close to her sister's name. Daenerys?"
"No," Visenya objects firmly. "I suppose Daena or Elaena are out of place too?"
"Yes."
He probably would have named Rhaenys after his aunt if she hadn't fled the moment he took power. Impossible to name a princess after an enemy of the crown, even if she is the one who raised you like a mother. As for his real mother... Daemon probably hated her.
"I don't want her to be called Rhaenyra either. It'll send the wrong message."
“May the gods preserve us from a woman standing up to men!" replies Visenya, rolling her eyes.

"Alysanne is a good name," suggests Daemon. "She was a good queen and a just woman, pious and humble."
"Father's first bastard is called that. She's a pinched-mouthed little bitch with a soul as black as soot," retorts Visenya. "That's a no. Alyssa?"
"It'll be Alysanne or it won't be."
"Fine. Let's come up with another idea, then. Naerys? My mother was a pious and good woman, you can't argue with that."
"That's true," agrees Daemon, looking at the sleeping child. "But I..."
"You what?"
“I think I'd rather she wasn't named after someone who's suffered as much as your mother. I'd like her to have a name that brings her luck, something that represents hope."
Hope for what? she wanted to ask. For the Blackfyres? For whoever she will marry? Or for herself?
Visenya looks at the child, her tiny mouth half-open, her little eyes closed, oblivious to the dangers and cruelty of the world into which she has just been born. She doesn't know if it's what you'd call maternal instinct, but Visenya suddenly shares Daemon's desire to see her happy.
"Daenys," she finally suggests. "The one who protected her family. The one who guided the Targaryens to their future."
“Daenys," Daemon repeats as he lifts the child upright. "I like that. Princess Daenys Blackfyre, I welcome you."
He places Daenys in the cradle that a maid has brought and looks at her for a long moment. Visenya, for her part, tries to occupy the boy who has woken up and is trying to suckle her breast through her dress. She gives him her little finger and he starts suckling hungrily, calmed for the moment.
"What about him? What do you want to call him?"
Daemon turns but doesn't come any closer.
Neither of them says anything. Both are afraid to say something.
There were few women in their families. But men... boys…
Visenya rejoiced when Daemon's twins fell on the battlefield.Daemon killed her brother and nephews without hesitation.

All the dead around us, what do they think of us sitting here together? What would Baelor say about the way I let Daemon touch me? What would Maekar say about the way I give birth to his children? What would Daeron say about me usurping Mariah's place?

Their shadows hang over them, heavy as winter coats. And with it comes the guilt that devours them.
"I think it would be better if it was a name that hasn't been around for a long time," says Visenya. "A name that all of us can hear without..."
"Yes."
She looks at him, but he has a blank stare and offers nothing.
The baby continues to suck dutifully on her little finger. He probably can't see much yet, despite his indigo eyes. But there's something piercing about them. Something honest and frank, Visenya likes to think.
"Baelon?" she suggests. "There was only one and he was a good man.”
And he didn't become king.
Daemon seems to think about the question and then, finally, he nods.
"Baelon it is, then."
Unaware of the decision that has just been made, Baelon closes his fist on a curl of Visenya's that brushes her cheek. She feels Daemon's gaze upon them.
"Do you want to hold him?"
She holds out her arms and he steps back.
“What's got into you?" she exclames. "You've been acting strange ever since. You should be happy. The heir you wanted so badly and, on top of that, another girl to bargain with a lord! What's wrong with that? That it's twins? That he was born second? That he obviously doesn't have your hair or your eyes?"
"No."
"Then take your son," she demands, handing him the bundle of laundry.
Daemon finally complies. He walks over, takes Baelon from her and, to Visenya's surprise, sits down on the floor, his back pressed against her legs. He pushes the cloths aside a little to get a better look at Baelon's face, which he has placed on his lap. The child attempts a smile - his first.
Suddenly, Visenya notices that Daemon's shoulders are shaking.
“What's the matter with you? Daemon?"
She tries to lean over to see his face, but his hair hides it and he presses his back so hard against her legs that she finds herself trapped.
"Don't."
His voice is husky and low, so low she has to strain her ear to understand what he's saying.
"Daemon?"
"He's my sixth boy. The sixth. And he's the only one left."
He says nothing more.

But his shoulders shake, shiver with something other than cold.
Sorrow.
Haegon and Aenys. She remembers now.
Visenya is silent too, letting him do what no man is allowed to do.
And she wonders for the first time if his pain is not at least as great as hers.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is almost surprised when she enters the stables to discover a child with a bald head covered in dung.

She shouldn't be.

I'm the one who brought him here. I'm the one who forgot him, too.

Visenya feels guilty. She imagines Maekar's disapproving look. Remembers Dyanna's dying one. She promised to take care of Aegon, and yet what has she done? She did nothing. Left him alone for the last ten months, torn from Dorne to Summerhall, then from Summerhall to King's Landing.

He stares at her intently, his big deep violet eyes seeming to pierce her skin.

"Good morning, Egg."

"Good morning your majesty."

She sits down on a pile of straw without bothering about the state of her dress. She has plenty more.

"Sit with me."

The child obeys. He is calm, almost too calm. It's prudence. Because he doesn't trust her.

And why should he?

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner."

Visenya does her best to ignore the blisters on his hands or his stained clothes. This is not the life a prince should lead.

"I want to go back to Dorne," he says.

"You can't."

"Why not?"

Why not?

That's a good question. A question she doesn't want to answer.

Because I'm a fool. Because I shouldn't have told your mother that I would protect you better than Maron Martell can. Because I wanted to hurt Daemon, to prove that I hadn't given up, that my loyalty was still to the Targaryen family. Because I put you in danger doing it and there's no turning back.

"Sending you out on the roads would be dangerous. It's not what your mother would have wanted."

"Is she dead?"

This time something breaks in his voice. Visenya curses herself for using the past tense.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want you to find out like this."

She grabs his hand to comfort him, but he pushes her away. He's not really afraid of her, but he's wary. She's a stranger.

" Egg, I was very fond of both your parents. Your father was like a brother to me, was my nephew," she adds much lower. "Your mother was my best friend. You mean a lot to me and I have no intention of leaving you here to rot. I need a bit more time, but I promise you things will change. I'm going to take good care of you."

This time, when she grabs his hands, he doesn't pull away.

Visenya puts all the confidence she doesn't have into her smile.

"I am your family and you are mine. Have faith, the gods didn't bring us together for nothing."

Footsteps accompanied by chatter can be heard. Visenya stands up, wipes her dress and turns towards the entrance to the stables.

Aemon, a septa and a Kingsguard appear in the doorway. The adults bow silently before turning back.

"Ah, my dear! Come, come closer."

He joins her and presses up against Visenya, encouraged by the hand she places on his shoulder. He exchanges a shy glance with Aegon.

"This is Egg, your groom."

"My groom?"

"Yes. He will look after the horse I gave you for your birthday. Egg, greet Prince Aemon, son of Prince Maekar, my grandnephew, as you should."

Aegon's eyes light up. But he doesn't forget to bow to his brother.

His brother.

"Why don't you show the prince his horse?"

The boys walk away, disappearing together into one of the stalls.

It doesn't take more than a handful of minutes for their voices to be heard, chatting, laughing, joking as only children can.

Visenya smiles, but it's a bitter smile.

She's not sure whether Maekar and Dyanna approve, from where they stand, of the meagre extent of what she's doing for their sons.

"What more can I do?" she murmurs.

A caw answers her.

The raven has landed beside her.

"What's the point of me having flown across the world for him? He may not be Daemon's prisoner like his brother, but he's certainly not happy or free. What life awaits him? A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing."

Another caw.

"Give me something," Visenya retorts. "Give me something to keep my faith in you. Something to make me sure that I'm not crazy and that it all makes sense."

The raven flies away and disappears.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya didn't give the servant time to announce her arrival; she simply pushed the door open with the flat of her hand, unimpeded by the guards posted at the entrance. Respect is something she didn't lose after the war. Perhaps the only thing in her head, in fact. And if their respect is tinged with sadness for some and fear for others, Visenya chooses to ignore it.So she enters, her long braid flapping around her loins, her step quick, vibrating with energy. Daemon raises his head from the map he is studying with Aegor and looks at her with a mixture of surprise and concern. It's been a long time since he's seen her so determined. He must fear the reason behind it. The fear of seeing her become that tornado of hatred again never seems to leave him completely. It's as if the calm was only a dream. He straightens up and walks around the table to meet her."My queen, what...""You are going on a royal peregrination. You are going to the North, to Winterfell."You don't interrupt the king, even when you're queen. She sees the indignation reflected in the eyes of her husband's advisors; she doesn't care. She owes no respect to a usurper, and even Daemon has come to understand that this would never happen. He is the only one who has stopped caring. Visenya sometimes wishes he would."That's right," he concedes. "The trip to Dorne had good repercussions. It only seems right to visit the other half of my kingdom."My kingdom.A roundabout way of warning her against what she might say in public."I'll be there.""Your Grace," the Grand Maester interjected to make up for Daemon's surprised silence. "Prince Baelon and Princess Daenys are only one month old! Surely you cannot abandon them!"As if that would have the slightest effect on her. She's not a nanny, it's not her job to look after them. Daemon spends enough time in the nursery for the both of them, anyway."I'll be there," Visenya repeats without looking away from Daemon.She sees the precise moment when he understands why she wants to come. What draws her there, in that cold, distant north. Who she wants to see."Why?"He wants to see what she dares to answer. What lie, what half-truth she will invoke to obtain his agreement.Visenya doesn't want to play any games."I want to see my family."A slap would have had the same effect; after all these years, after three children, he's still not her family. Visenya would tell him he never will be, if she wasn't afraid to push him out of his depth."That's out of the question," hisses Aegor."If you have even an ounce of respect for me, you'll let me come."She glares at Daemon with a strength he doesn't reciprocate. Visenya has struck a nerve, she knows it. They both know that if they refuse, something, the glass bridge she has agreed to let exist between them, will be broken.Daemon turns his head away first."The queen will accompany me on my journey."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Years later, when Visenya thought back on that day, she would find herself unable to describe Castle Black, the Wall, or even remember the Lord Commander's face.

Everything around her is just fog and distant whispers. Visenya moves forwards, stops, moves backwards, like a doll being shaken about. Her mind is far away. Only her right hand, clasped around the amethyst bracelet, ties her to this world.

Everything else is here, just a few steps away.

Visenya has waited nearly seven years for this moment.

And she is terrified at the thought of seeing them again.

Have they changed? Will she recognise them? Worse still, will they recognise her? Could she have bumped into them before and not recognised them?

She hears herself stammer the name Rhaegel, interrupting the Lord Commander.

A hand grabs her elbow, perhaps that of Daemon whose blurred, vaporous silhouette has followed her here. But she doesn't care. He doesn't matter, he's not really here.

She repeats her nephew's name over and over again.

This time she is led down a flight of stairs, across a courtyard and through a door.

She discovers a low-ceilinged room that smells of alcohol and grease.

Even if she doesn't realise it, men remain silent as she passes, staring at her with lustful eyes, their yellowed and broken teeth revealing dangerous smiles. They haven't seen fresh flesh for a long time. She is lucky that Lord Stark, the Lord Commander and Daemon are there, even if she can't see them.

All Visenya can think of is that her beloved nephew, her precious child, her tiny one, has no place here. Rhaegel is a spring child, made for the warmth of the sun, not for this dark, unhealthy place surrounded by cruel ice.

Rhaegel, Rhaegel, Rhaegel. Where are you? My rosebud, where are you?

Suddenly she meets two blue eyes staring back at her.

She doesn't know that wind-scarred face with its three-day-old, unkempt beard. She doesn't know these damaged hands with broken, blackened nails. She doesn't know these rags of black boiled wool.

But those eyes, those eyes, by the gods, she recognises them.

"Rhaegel."

"My aunt."

She jostles the table, knocks over a tankard of mead that splatters on the rotting wooden floor and slides onto the bench, between his arms, wrapping all her strength, all her presence around him. Because she wants to feel his heart beating against hers. It doesn't matter that he smells of dirt and sweat, it's her nephew, her boy, her almost-son that she has held in her arms, just a few hours old.

She feels trembling fingers combing her hair, destroying part of her plait.

"Prettier like that," he murmurs.

Visenya's laughter is strangled by a sob.

She lets him trace her forehead, nose and lips with his fingertip.

"You've changed," he says.

"So have you."

She doesn't know what else to say to him, so she holds his hands in hers to feel his skin.

Rhaegel, too, seems to crave contact and he curls up against her like a cat, his head resting on her shoulder, twisted at an angle that can only be uncomfortable so that he can look into her eyes.

"How are my children?"

"They're fine. Very well, in fact. They look exactly alike, especially since Aelor decided to grow his hair out. He's pretty good with a sword. Aelora is the sweetest girl I know, able to calm her brother's anger with just a few words. They're beautiful and kind. They are good people, Rhaegel. They look like you."

Her nephew's smile is dreamy, his gaze unfocused. Perhaps he is trying to imagine them, far, far away. Visenya regrets not having thought of having a portrait done.

Suddenly, a man is there.

"Ranger, go and get ready. It's almost time to relieve the others."

Rhaegel stands up and so does Visenya.

"So soon?"

"He's a lad like the others, he's no longer a prince. And it's his turn. Now."

"I'll be back," she says hastily. "Soon."

Rhaegel shakes his head.

"No, Visenya."

"Of course I will," she insists.

And I'll get you out of here. The sun will caress your skin again. We'll dance, we'll drink, just like before.

"Come on," growls the sworn brother. "We haven't got all day."

Visenya clutches her nephew's hand.

"Lamprey pie is still your favourite, isn't it? So by the time I get back, you'll have one every week. I'll ask Lord Stark to see to it. And you'll see that you won't have time to get bored before we're together again."

He takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead.

"Goodbye, auntie. And don't worry too much; uncle is looking after me."

Rhaegel follows the man and disappears behind a door, not without giving her one last smile.

Visenya doesn't have time to think about how she feels, she has to find Brynden.

So she follows Daemon and the others through Castle Black, eyes wide open but blind to what the others are watching. She looks for a tall figure. She looks for an eye of blood. She doesn't find it.

The raven circles above her head for a while and then, with a jerk, it is gone, disappearing into the distance.

"Your majesty, would you like to set foot beyond the Wall?" offers the Lord Commander.

Daemon accepts, of course, and Visenya finds herself standing beside him in front of the snowy immensity. There is nothing but a vast expanse of ice as far as the eye can see.

The north wind slaps their faces and thick white flakes, like cotton, begin to fall from the sky. A storm is coming, explains Lord Stark.

Visenya doesn't listen.

There's something in the distance.

A group trudging towards them.

A hooded figure towers over all the others by a head and a half.

"Brynden."

The others turn to her, Daemon says something, but she knows she's right despite the distance.

It's him.

Something black swirls above his head: the raven. The raven has brought him back to her.

A hand rests on her elbow again as she tries to take a step forward.

He has come back for her.

So Visenya dashes forward, leaving behind the iron grip that tries to hold her in a present she doesn't want. She runs towards the past, towards the future, in this white and arid, cold and burning in-between, which knows neither gods nor time.

She runs, hoping that on the other side, fate will catch up.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Someone is shouting her name. Behind, far away, it doesn't matter now.
She runs, runs as fast as she can, but Visenya sinks calf-deep into the snow that grabs her, tries to hold her back. Her leg muscles burn from the effort, but she won't give up.
The icy north wind slaps her face and Visenya feels as if her ears and nose are slowly falling away from her face. The tie that held what was left of her plaits breaks and soon it is her hair that are hitting her face and disorientating her.
In the distance, the tall, dark figure that is Brynden's, that can only be Brynden's, dismounts. His steps are immense, precise as if he knows exactly where to place his foot.
It takes three of his giant steps before she finally, finally throws herself into his arms.

Brynden lifts her off the ground and presses her to his heart, one arm around her waist and his other gloved hand pressed against the back of her neck to protect her from the cold.
"Brynden."
"Visenya."
His voice rumbles, makes his ribcage vibrate. It's a little deeper, fresher in a way. But she recognises it. It is his. It's him.
Visenya digs her nails into the wool of his cloak as he lifts her with authority to place her behind him on his horse. She holds him as if her life depended on it.
And the raven leaves.The library is a huge room, filled with what seems like thousands of books. Yet it is empty, except for a man in his fifties with a mutilated face.
Brynden leads her to a wooden table that has been damaged by years of use.
Visenya stares at him.
Brynden is twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight now. His face is still long and thin, hard beyond his years. His eagle nose splits his pale face, topping his pursed lips. He is as white as the snow outside, as if all his blood had left his body to concentrate in his bloody eye.
"You've changed," says Visenya.
He's even taller than she remembers. Or is it an illusion? Has she simply forgotten? His shoulders have broadened, that's for sure. And the strangeness that has accompanied his every step since birth has become even more pronounced. Visenya doesn't know how she knows, but she does. He is different.
"You too, your royal highness."
"I have missed you," she confesses.
Brynden smiles.
"I was always there."
Visenya leans forward, closer, her eyes riveted to his.
"Tell me I'm not crazy," she whispers, her heart pounding. "Tell me it was you. That the raven was there for me."
"No need to whisper, the librarian is deaf. And no one comes in here."
Visenya grips his arm.
"Please, Brynden. Please. I've done so much for you... at least thinking I was doing it for you. Tell me I didn't cross the continent back and forth for a folly. Tell me the truth."
Brynden pulls away slowly.
"You're not a fool. It was me. Everywhere, all the time. I never left, Visenya. You were never alone."
She gasps.

Visenya thinks back on everything he has seen and heard. She tried to die. She kissed Daemon. She encouraged him to touch her. She gave him three children. What does he think of her? Does he think she is a whore? That she could have done more?
This time, he puts a hand on her shoulder to bring her back to the present.
"We have little time, Visenya, and much to discuss."
"Aegon," she says, straightening. "Why did you lead me to him? Why did you bring him back?"
"I didn't wanted him back. I just wanted you to know he existed."
"But Dyanna wanted me to..."
"You shouldn't have accepted, he was safer in Dorne. But that's all right," Brynden resumes. "I saw another path."
"A path? Where?"
"You have to look after him. Train him in the use of weapons, teach him politics and history, languages and geography. He must receive the education of a true prince. And then he must go."
"Where should I take him? And for what?" asks Visenya, confused.
"A man will come for him and take him all over the kingdom to meet the people and the nobles. He will be known as Egg. And then, one day, he'll be the one to come for us and the war will return."
"Wait," Visenya replies, standing up abruptly. "Wait, I don't understand. I understand that unlike the other Targaryen children he's not a prisoner, but Aegon is only Maekar's second son. Aemon is older. And Aelor is Rhaegel's son, he comes first in the line of succession."
"Forget Aelor," Brynden retorts with a careless wave of his hand.
"Forget him? What does that mean?"
"He's not important. He never mattered. But he'll make a good smokescreen to protect Aegon's existence."
"And Aemon?"
"Convince your husband to send him to the Citadel."
Your husband.
She receives the words like a bucket of cold water.
"You mentioned... war. Is there going to be a civil war? Is Daemon going to die?"Brynden purses his lips"I don't know who will win. No one can tell. But if the Blackfyres win, then there will never be another Targaryen on the throne. However you must protect Daemon at all costs. The last thing he must do is die before the war."
"And... my children? What will happen to them?"
Brynden looks at her strangely.
"Your descendants will live on through the centuries."
Visenya nods, reassured.
"This will be your last war, Visenya. Are you prepared to fight it?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" insists Brynden.
"We must mend what has been broken. For Daeron."
The answer came without thinking. It is the only way, the only truth: the one she has been repeating to herself for seven years. There is no point in asking further questions.
He looks satisfied.
"For Daeron," Brynden agrees.
Suddenly, footsteps are heard on the staircase and two members of the Kingsguard enter.
"Your majesty. The king awaits you to leave."
Visenya rises, but he closes his huge hand around her wrist and squeezes.
"Brynden?"
He rises, terribly tall, dark-faced, glassy-eyed. His mouth forms a sad crease.
"Before it all comes to an end, there will be fire and blood, Visenya"
"What?"
"Fire for you. And blood from you."
She swallows.
"Am I going to die?"
This time there's no doubt: it's grief Visenya sees in his eyes.
"You're going to die in many ways."
"What does that mean?"
"Your majesty."
She is startled, and Brynden immediately resumes his usual neutrality. He releases her hand and offers her his elbow, which she takes hold of.
"Come, let's not keep the king waiting."
When they join Daemon outside the gates of Castle Black, for the first time of the day, she can see him clearly. His face is closed.
"We're going," says Daemon, all too calmly.

The raven caws, hovers and lands on Visenya' shoulder.
"Farewell, ranger," says Daemon coldly.
Visenya resists when he tries to pull her back. She doesn't want to take her eyes off Brynden. Not yet.
"Will we see each other again?" she asks.
He nods.
Good.
Visenya unties the gold and amethyst bracelet and places it in his gloved hand.

If part of you comes with me to the south, then part of me must stay with you in the north.

"Goodbye then, brother."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya can't contain a moan of pleasure when the wheelhouse finally stops in the courtyard of the castle. All those long weeks of travelling had brought back her old wounds; the ribs she broke when she jumped from her bedroom window are burning horribly.

The door opens: it's Daemon. She blinks, surprised, because they've hardly seen each other since they left the Wall. He has insisted on riding all the way so that his people can see him and has spent his evenings conversing with their hosts.

"My lady," he says, presenting her with his arm.

Visenya takes hold of it and feels, through the doublet with which he is clad, his stiff muscles.

"What is the matter with you?"

"Not now."

His dry tone displeases Visenya, who abruptly takes her arm away. She is not a servant to be scolded, she is a royal princess. He has no right to speak to her like that.

Visenya opens her mouth, ready to say all that and more, but Daemon moves forward and she is forced to follow.

For the first time, she notices that around twenty people are waiting for them at the bottom of the steps leading to the Red Keep. There are courtiers among those close to him from the beginning. Traitors, in Visenya's opinion. And their esteem for her is not much higher. The only glances they give Visenya are a mixture of disdain and disgust.

In the centre, of course, is Aegor, his Hand brooch gleaming as if he had polished it especially for the arrival of his dear brother. He and Daemon exchange a frank hug.

As for Visenya, she just stands there, embarrassed. If the stairs were clear, she would have already left for her chambers. She refuses to slip between the courtiers like a common linen maid. So she waits.

Suddenly, Aegor takes a step aside, revealing a young girl performing a flawless curtsy. It takes Visenya several seconds to realise that this is Rhaenys.

Visenya hasn't been this close to her since the day she was born. She has to agree that she is a delightful child. Her hair is silver and her eyes a deep violet. When she smiles at her father, Rhaenys reveals two beautiful rows of white teeth. She looks like Naerys, but a healthier, stronger version than her poor grandmother ever was.

"Your Majesty, in your absence, my heart was as frozen as the snow in which you walked. Today, a single smile from you is enough to warm it," she recites in a soft voice. "Welcome back."

Charmed, several nobles applaud as Daemon lifts his daughter and holds her close to his heart.

"Thank you my dear, you have learned your lesson well. I'm so proud of you. And how you've grown! My word, will you be as tall as Lady Jocelyn was in her day? In any case, you undoubtedly have her beauty."

"She behaves well for her age," says Visenya awkwardly.

"She's four," Daemon replies curtly without looking at her.

Whispers erupt between the nobles present and Aegor's lilac gaze shifts from Daemon to her, calculating.

Visenya wants to say something, but Daemon, with Rhaenys still in his arms, takes the stairs accompanied by his Hand. His courtiers follow and, in the blink of an eye, all that's left is Visenya and the servants unloading their bags.

Sitting by the fire, Visenya watches Aelora and Aelor engaged in a game of cyvasse. She can't get Brynden's words out of her head, the carelessness with which he told her to forget Aelor. That he didn't matter. She prefers not to think about what that means.

Her gaze then shifts to Aemon, absorbed, as usual, in a book. He shouldn't show much opposition to the idea of being sent to the Citadel.

But there's still the problem of Aegon. How can I look after him, guide him, when he is nothing more than a common stable boy in the eyes of the world?

Suddenly, the door to her chambers opens on Daemon.

Aemon stands up and Aelora does the same, curtsying. Aelor, on the other hand, does not rise, his gaze resolutely fixed on his game, as if the man who has just entered was a common servant and not the self-proclaimed King of the Seven Kingdoms.

Daemon realises this and purses his lips. His mood is as black as it was in the morning. Visenya clears her throat to get his attention.

"I can have them escorted back to their room if that suits you."

If you want to spend the night.

But Daemon shakes his head.

"No, it's fine. I just came to inform you that from now on I expect you to do your duty as queen."

"My duty as queen?" repeats Visenya, surprised.

"Yes. You have neglected your duties for too long. The ladies of the court need to be received, to attend dances, readings, concerts... I refuse to let it be said any longer that my court is a dull and sad place."

"Who says that?"

"I don't care. The steward will come to see you tomorrow to tell you the budget that has been allocated to you."

"Anything else?" asks Visenya mockingly.

"Yes," replies Daemon. "House Strickland has suffered a terrible outbreak of plague. All died except the youngest son of the late Lord Jonas. In memory of his commitment to my side in the war, I have decided to welcome the young lord here. He will be educated at court, with members of the royal family. He should arrive within two weeks, and I want you to look after him."

"I suppose I have no choice."

Daemon smiles bitterly.

"Of course you do. You never do anything against your will."

Visenya stands up, tense, aware of the children's gaze on her.

"What are you trying to tell me? What's the point of all this?"

Daemon stares at her, as if looking for something. Whether he finds it or not, he turns away.

"Just do your duty, Visenya. That's all I ask of you."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

If someone had told Visenya that she would be organising a poetry reading in the royal gardens, she would no doubt have laughed heartily. Besides, Maekar and Baelor must be laughing at her from where they are.But Daemon insists that she must fulfil the role expected of a queen. Daemon's been angry lately. Daemon... is used to accommodating her. She can do that. Even if it costs her.It's a stupid activity, perfect for all those silly gooses, Visenya muses as she crumples and uncrumples the sheet of paper on which she's rewritten the lines of the poem she's chosen.There are about ten of them present. Among them are Clarissa Rosby and Rosamund Peake, the daughters of the Master of coin and the Master of ships. But also the widow Costayne, and the wives of Lord Sunderland and Lord Chauney.All the longest standing supporters of the Blackfyre cause. Traitors, rotten to the core, who had rejoiced in the death of her family. Visenya forgets nothing.She gives them a smile that must look more like a grimace as they take their places in the chairs around her. Visenya clears her throat, unused to the role of hostess.“Ladies, I'm delighted you could join me.”"It is rather for us to thank you, Your Majesty, it is so rare that we are admitted to your presence."
"Yes," adds Lady Rosamund, "I was so surprised that at first I thought it was a bad joke on your part, Clarissa."

"My dear! You lend me too much wit; I could never have imagined anything so improbable."
The two friends exchange mocking glances and Visenya has to take a deep breath not to stand up and slap them.
These girls are only fifteen, she snarls. Don't stoop to their level.
"In my invitation, I suggested that you come with a poem of your choice to share with us. Who would like to start? Yes, Lady Chauney?"
"I just want to say that I came with nothing."

You had one thing to remember, silly.
"Didn't you find a poem to your taste?" Visenya asks politely.
"I can't read," Lady Chauney replies, her chin raised and a hint of pride in her voice. "My father always thought it a waste of time to teach girls to read. Our heads are just big enough to learn the prayers by heart, he used to say. There's no need to stuff them with useless things."
"I see," Visenya replies, bewildered. "Lady Costayne? Do you have a poem to share with us?"

At least I know she can read. She spent the war sending letters to Mariah telling her that the Dornish scum had killed her husband but that she would have her revenge.
The old lady, dressed in black velvet despite the heat, pompously pulls a thin roll of paper from her sleeve. Through her black veil, Visenya can see her wicked little eyes and pursed mouth.

Come on, you old crone, the sooner we get started, the sooner it'll all be over.

Lady Costayne unfolds her paper and begins to declaim the verses:

Behold, we know not anything;

I can but trust that good shall fall

At last—far off—at last, to all,

And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?

An infant crying in the night:

An infant crying for the light:

And with no language but a cry.

All the ladies applaud politely.
"A choice as pious as it is virtuous, my lady," agrees Lady Sunderland.
"My husband distrusts poetry," adds Lady Chauney, "but even he would no doubt agree that this text is that of a man of faith."

Lady Costayne nods her head imperceptibly in acknowledgement, but Visenya feels her gaze on her, as if daring her to say anything.

"Septon Tennyson's verses are beautiful, it's true, but I find them very sad for such a lovely afternoon. How can you feel sorrow in the face of such beautiful sunshine," Visenya adds with a smile.

But no one replies. Suddenly, Lady Costayne stands up.

"I feel ill, probably the heat. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
Visenya watches her leave, surprised by this sudden change of mood.
"Lady Rosamund," she says to cut short the awkward silence. "Why don't you share your poem with us?
She does so without being asked twice, clearly proud of her find:

O my Luve's like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June:

O my Luve's like the melody

That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi' the sun:

I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve!

And fare thee well a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Though it were ten thousand mile.
She curtsies to mark the end of her speech.
If she had been looking for a more empty poem, she would probably have pierced the sheet of paper on which it is written, Visenya muses.

"Charming," she replies. "As charming as these lovely ladies I'm surrounded by this day."

Equally boring and stupid.
"Lady Sunderland, Lady Rosby. Whoever wants to, go for it."
There followed two tedious readings, but for very different reasons. Lady Sunderland's poem was six full pages long, so it took her nearly twenty minutes to finish reading it. Clarissa Rosby, on the other hand, took the same amount of time, to say half as long, because she stumbled so much over the words. Her laborious deciphering made it impossible to appreciate or even understand the verses being read. Lady Chauney even stood up to look at a bed of lilacs, bored.

“Good," Visenya forces herself to say. "Thank you for sharing so many interesting things. Now it's my turn. These few lines are taken from a very long poem that I'm particularly fond of. Here's how it goes:

The Spear-Danes in days gone by

And the kings who ruled them had courage and greatness.

We have heard of those princes' heroic campaigns.

There was Shield Sheafson, who drove the enemy before him

And struck terror into the hearts of the people.

He was a foundling, a waif, who had been abandoned.

But his strength and bravery made him rise to power,

And he grew mighty, his fame reached all lands.

Visenya pauses briefly to let the weight of the words sink into their hearts before continuing, but the ladies take this as an invitation to comment on the text.

"It doesn't rhyme," blurts out Rosamund Peake. "Does it, Clarissa?"
"It doesn't. I'm not sure you can call it poetry if it doesn't rhyme," replies her neighbour.

"On the contrary," explains Visenya. "What counts is not the rhyme, but the subject. The words, the phrasing. This work is about..."
"War," interrupts Lady Chauney. "Blood, death.”
"I suppose some would find its darkness comforting, wouldn't you, Your Majesty? I, for one, prefer the purity of an ode to peace," says Lady Sunderland.
"Very sad for such a lovely afternoon, don't you think, Your Majesty?" asks Lady Rosby slyly.
Visenya is mute, humiliated.

She had never wanted to associate with these women. Now, for the first time, she realises that they too despise her.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

‘Your Majesty.’

Visenya nods and rises, beckoning the servant to lead the way.

‘Leaving us already?’

‘Alas yes,’ Visenya replies, smiling at the ladies around her. ‘A distinguished guest has just arrived and it is my duty to welcome him among us. But please continue with your work. My embroidery is far inferior to yours, Lady Chauney, and I cannot wait to see the result of your work.’

Without waiting for an answer, she left the room at the same time as her smile.

Visenya had always hated embroidery. A thousand times in the last hour she has thought of sticking her needle in the eye of one of those shrews. Young Strickland chose his moment well.

"Where is he?"

"He has been taken to your flats as agreed."

"Good."

The way is short, but still too long for Visenya. She wants to get this over with and quickly.

When she enters, she discovers a man in a bure robe, his neck adorned with the rings of his guild. Beside him stands a child who can't be more than seven years old. His cloak is in good condition but very simple, and does nothing to hide his sickly appearance.

He looks more like a rough peasant than a lord's son, Visenya muses.

His big brown eyes are red from crying too much.

"Your Majesty, it is an honour to meet you. I am Maester Janus, Maester of House Strickland. Former Maester. I am on my way to Oldtown where my new duties await me."

"I see,’ replies Visenya without masking her boredom. "So you bring me the heir to Stronghold."

"That is correct. May I present Lord Marcus Strickland. Go on, my lord," the Maester encourages him.

The boy takes a step forward and bows awkwardly.

"Good morning your majesty."

Visenya cannot hide her surprise. The boy's articulation is so bad that she almost doesn't understand a word. She doesn't dare imagine what it sounds like when he says something other than a polite formula learnt by heart. Maester Janus seems to have guessed what she is thinking.

"My young lord is a little slow when it comes to speech, but he has a good heart and learns quickly. He knows his heraldry, I can assure you. The art of the sword has not yet been mastered, but he is young and..."

"Please, save yourself the trouble," Visenya interrupts, holding up a hand. "Our acceptance of your protégé is not conditional on any particular skills. My husband knows what he owes to House Strickland. As for me..."

Visenya crouches down in front of little Marcus and gently strokes his cheek.

He's younger than Aemon, barely older than Aegon. He is alone. No one left in the world but this Maester, who will also soon be gone.

"I know what it feels like to have lost everything," Visenya concludes. "Marcus is welcome at court."

The Maester seems to relax.

"I thank you on his behalf and that of House Strickland, Your Majesty. I am reassured to leave him in your hands."

"Let us say no more about it. I'm sure he'll get on splendidly with his cousins."

"His cousins?"

Visenya sits up laughing.

"Silly me! I meant the royal children. Princes Aelor, Aemon and my son Baelon when he's older. I'm sure they will form a strong bond."

"May the gods hear you, Your Grace."

"Good! Maester Janus, I have given orders for a carriage and supplies to be prepared for you. Two soldiers will accompany you to Oldtown. They await you in the courtyard."

"What? Already?" exclaims the Maester, visibly disappointed. ‘I was hoping to stay in King's Landing for a few weeks. Get to know the royal library, talk to the Grand Maester... Marcus might be lost without me!"

"Lord Strickland is with me now, he cannot be lost," Visenya replies, wrapping a motherly arm around the child's shoulders. "Unless you doubt the King's hospitality, Maester?"

"No! Of course not, your majesty!" he cries, worried that he has offended her.

"Good. In that case, it's time to say your goodbyes."

The Maester leans over Marcus, whose eyes have started to fill with tears again, and places his hands on his thin shoulders.

"My young friend. Do not be sad. It is a great honour for you to have been accepted by their Majesties the King and Queen. I know that you have experienced many sorrows, too many for such a tender age as yours. But those times of pain are behind you. A brilliant life awaits you, I promise. Be obedient, be good and diligent in your studies. That way, when we meet again, it will be a man full of nobility that I have before me."

Maester Janus starts to walk away, visibly moved, and Marcus pretends to run after him. Visenya then takes his hand in hers and gives the Maester an encouraging smile.

"Farewell. May your journey be smooth."

"Thank you, your majesty. Thank you for everything."

As soon as the door is closed, Visenya loses her smile.

"Not a moment too soon. I thought he'd never leave."

She turns to Marcus and drops his hand to pinch his chin between her thumb and forefinger. The boy won't look her in the eye.

"A bit slow. A gentle way of saying a bit stupid. Good news at last."

Visenya turns to the window behind which the raven is cawing to show his agreement.

She dryly pulls his hood down over Marcus's head.

"Follow me without making a fuss."

Visenya leads him down one corridor, then another, down a flight of stairs, taking care to take the most tortuous and least frequented paths. The fewer people who see them, the better.

The path to the stables seems interminable but, fortunately, Visenya and Marcus make it unhindered.

"Egg, are you here?"

The child emerges from a stall, a strand of straw stuck between his lips.

"Your Majesty?"

"Come on. Come, hurry," she urges him. "We don't have much time."

She makes the two children stand side by side. They are the same height and build.

"
Good, that's very good. You don't have any hair and that will no doubt provoke questions. But we'll invent a reason. What did the Stricklands die of again? The plague? Yes, plague. We'll say that to prevent its spread, the Maester recommended shaving your head. Like for lice. Of course, you have to let them grow and then there's the problem of colour... Never mind! We'll dye them."

"You're scaring me," says Egg. "What's going on?"

"See that boy?" replies Visenya, shaking Marcus's arm as he stares at her with wide, worried eyes. "This is your chance. The chance to join the court, to live with me. With Aemon."

A flash of understanding pierces his gaze.

"You want me to take his identity."

Euphoric, Visenya takes his face in her hands and kisses his forehead.

"Exactly! You are indeed the son of my dear Dyanna. Come on," she continues more calmly, ’change your clothes."

Neither of them obey.

"What will people say?" worries Egg. "I don't know him. I don't know anything about him or his family."

"They're all dead. Nobody knows him here. This is your chance! Seize it, there won't be another!"

She sees in his eyes that he hesitates, watches Marcus Strickland with reddened eyes and a lost look.

"Think of your mother. She's done everything for you to have a good life, she asked me to bring you here. To reunite you with your brother, to raise you. You have a destiny, Aegon. The gods have said so. But you can't fulfil it if you're still a stable boy with a shaved head. If your father were here, he'd tell you to listen to me. That's what he always did, even when we disagreed. Because he had faith in me. I've never let him down in twenty years, would I have let you down in two?"

The mention of his parents seems to convince Egg, who begins to undress without the slightest modesty.

Satisfied, Visenya turns to Strickland. She shakes his shoulder to make him react.

"Come on. Take off your clothes."

The child shakes his head.

"If you don't do it yourself, I'll do it for you."

Deaf to the threat, the child turns away, as if to escape.

Visenya grabs hold of him and does so, to the screams of the agitated boy. She has to dodge kicks and punches. Luckily for her, he's small and scrawny, nothing to be frightened of. She motions to Egg to get dressed as she goes, which he does.

This is a good thing, because two guards soon enter the stables, swords drawn, alarmed by the noise. Seeing the Queen, they approach.

"Your Majesty? What's the matter?"

"You've come at just the right time! I was showing young Lord Strickland around the stables when this... this savage," she says, pointing at Marcus, “burst out of a stall.”

"He must have been sleeping near the horses, looking for warmth. How did he get into the castle grounds?"

"Get him out of here. Put him back where he belongs, on the streets of the city. I will not have a madman in my castle."

"Yes your majesty."

The guards approach and Marcus, panicked, begins to cry and scream.

"No! No! Liar! I am Marcus!"

Annoyed by his lack of cooperation, one of the guards slaps the boy, who falls silent, stunned.

Visenya doesn't take her eyes off him until he has disappeared from the stables.

"What's going to happen to him?" worries Egg.

"It doesn't matter at all," replies Visenya with a broad smile.

With authority, she takes his hand.

"Come, Lord Strickland. I'll show you the rest of the castle. And let me tell you, you will be treated like a prince."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

There are undeniable advantages to being queen.

Being able to enter the office of the king without the guards daring to physically interfere is a good example.

Daemon is sitting at his desk, immersed in documents that Visenya couldn't care less about. He looks up at her.

"I asked not to be disturbed."
"What's the point of all this?" replies Visenya acidly. "I took care of that brat Strickland. I entertained those fat, silly gooses who serve as wives to your advisors. And yet you resent me. You avoid me. Weeks we've been back and you say nothing. Why?"
Daemon stands up and walks around his desk. He doesn't approach her, not really, but his gaze holds hers with such depth that Visenya feels as if she's being laid bare. And not in a nice way.

"I've done everything you asked," Visenya continues. "And you didn't even congratulate me."
"Congratulate you on what? They all hate you. You told Lady Costayne you thought her poem was morbid."
"Because it was!"
"Her husband and son died in the war, Visenya!" snaps Daemon. "And you tell her that her sadness is ruining your day."
"Is it my fault that her family decided to wage war against their rightful king?"
"Do you even know who killed them?"
"A loyal ally of the crown."
“You."
There is a silence.

Surprised, Visenya tries to remember what Lord Costayne or his son might have looked like. It's impossible to remember. She can't even say which battle they lost their lives in. There were so many deaths.

"You killed them both. And yet she accepted your invitation. She came because I asked her to, because she is highly respected by the other ladies at court. And you insulted her."
"I don't see why you're making such a fuss! We all lost a lot in that stupid war you started. Does she have any empathy for Aelor and Aelora? For Aemon? For... for anyone who's lost anyone? No. Why should I? She's a mean, lonely old woman who gets what she deserves."
Daemon shakes his head in disgust.
“You're incapable of making anyone love you, Visenya."
His words sting harder than a slap.

Visenya feels anger rising inside her.
"A lot of people loved me. Too bad you killed them all! You talk about that poor Lady Costayne who had to endure my presence at that stupid poetry reading? What about me? Me, who has to share a bed with the man who killed my brother and my nephews. Me covered in their blood every time you lay your hands on me. When has anyone ever felt sorry for me?"
"It's been seven years since they died, Visenya! Do you even remember their faces? Their voices?"
"Of course I remember! They are my family! Baelor was more than that."
There is a silence.
Daemon lifts his chin.
"Baelor."
He smiles, but there's nothing pleasant about it.
"It was him, then. Years I've been wondering."
"I gave him my virginity on Daenerys's wedding day, after he made you eat dust."
Daemon's gaze hardens. He's angry.
Good.
"He didn't even crown you that day."
"He didn't had to. I gave him everything. And we continued for years. Sometimes several times in one day."
"Shut up. You're making a fool of yourself with your words."
"Don't turn away from me! You wanted to know, so let me speak!"
"You've said enough."
"The night before the Battle of the Redgrass Field I slept with him."
Daemon half turns to her. He listens.
Visenya takes a step forward.
"I slept with him. Twice. And I prayed to the gods that his seed would germinate in me, that I would give birth to his son. I would have pass him off as yours. He would have got the crown back. There would have been no Blackfyre on the throne but a Targaryen."
"Pity your dream remains just that: a dream. It is indeed my son who will ascend the throne after my death."
"I..."
“You know, Visenya," Daemon interrupts, "I know you well enough to know what you're trying to do. Make me angry, distract my attention from the central issue."
"And what is that?"
"That you refuse to live in the present. You'd rather stay surrounded by ghosts, reliving moments that are no longer. Professing your love for people who are no more. Do you think Baelor and the others are applauding you in the afterlife? Are they happy to see you throwing your life away by refusing to be happy? I think he'd say it is a waste."
Visenya says nothing, any desire to create conflict gone.
Daemon's right. About everything.

"They're dead, Visenya. Dead for so long. And you still prefer them to me. To Rhaenys, Daenys and Baelon. That doesn't make you a martyr, let alone a good one. It just makes you a bad wife and a bad mother."
Visenya gasps. He's never come after her like this.
Daemon sits on his desk, looking very calm. Looking tired, too.
“I waited patiently. I'd wait another ten years if I thought you could change. But you don't want to, do you? You don't want to love me, you feel guilty every time I make you smile, every time you fall asleep in my arms, every time you moan under my hands. It's not a question of time, or even a question of forgiveness. I understand that now."
He turns to his secretary, opens a drawer and takes out something.
Visenya stands in the middle of the room, dumbstruck. She waits for him to come to her. For the first time, she has the impression that he is terribly taller than she is.
"I don't want this to go on any longer. I'm letting you go. You can go, Visenya."
"Go?" she repeats, suddenly panicked. "Go where? Are you repudiating me? You're sending me to the Silence Sisters? Or... am I banished? I am banished, right?"
"No, nothing of the sort. You will remain my wife and queen. You will simply no longer be part of this court. I don't suppose you'll mind, given the lack of interest you've shown in your royal duties. Here," he says, opening his fist to reveal a key. "It's the key to the royal suite at Summerhall."
“Are you exiling me to Summerhall?"
"I'm offering you Summerhall," he corrects her. "I thought I'd do it after the twins were born, as a present. Take it as a sign of the love I have for you."
She closes her fingers over the key he has placed in her hands.

It is so cold.
"You show me your love by putting several hundred leagues between us. That's not what most people would call love."
"On the contrary; I love you enough to let you go. Go, Visenya, and be happy with your ghosts. I'm done."
He turns away. Just like that. As if the discussion is over. As if that is enough.
"What about you, then? You think you can be happy without me?"
His face is open. But she can't see anything.

He's changed. How could he have change so quickly? How could I not have seen it coming?

"I'm going to do everything I can to be happy. Seven years I've been holding my breath, waiting to be fully happy because you' would finally love me. Because, like Argella Durrandon, you would come to appreciate what your husband has to offer. Because you would understand that the past must stay where it belongs. I was looking forward to experiencing with you what I couldn't have with Daenerys. But, once again, the gods have mocked me. I must accept that this happiness I imagine is nothing more than a dream that I must put an end to. I need to find my happiness, or maybe just satisfaction, elsewhere. And I can't do that if you're around all the time. Maybe one day I'll be able to look at your face again without passion burning my heart. I hope so."
“This is goodbye, then."
"Yes."
"What do you want me to say?"
"Don't you understand? That's the beauty of it, Visenya: I expect absolutely nothing from you.”
He walks around her and opens the door.
"You'd better start packing."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Daemon,

I could ask how you're doing, but that would be a hypocrisy neither of us could bear. So I won't.

This castle is empty, terrible. The ivy has grown over the walls and two stones are missing from under the watchtower. You wouldn't notice it. You don't know this place. But I do. It's nothing like it used to be. Maybe because the people who loved it are dead. Maybe because I've changed myself.

I'm alone, apart from a handful of men and women, in this sinister castle. So I walk and listen. I've got nothing better to do. I walk, tirelessly, head up, eyes squinting, on the lookout for the slightest sound, the slightest movement.

I walk and listen because you mentioned ghosts. And I say to myself, are they there? Is that why I am the way I am? Because they're there, whispering in my ear, squeezing my heart?

I hear nothing. I see nothing. But I shiver. Perhaps it's their icy breath I feel on my skin?

I'm not crazy. Not yet. I prefer to say it because, reading this letter, I can guess what you must be thinking.

I'm not that pathetic. Not yet, anyway.

Besides, I'm not asking you to let me return.

Quite the opposite.

What I want is to bring some life back to this place. Would you let me do that?

Visenya,

I won't start my letter in the same way. As always, we differ.

I am doing well. Better than I thought I would be. There's something terrible about loving someone who can rip your heart out with a word. Even more terrible is knowing that you already done it so many times.

Today I realise that I no longer have to worry about your mood. I no longer spend hours trying to find out what you're thinking. I no longer worry about what terrible or dangerous thing you might do. You're far away and that protects me and my children.

They're fine. You don't ask, but I'm telling you anyway. Rhaenys is growing in leaps and bounds. She's taller than Alice and Margaret. More beautiful, too.

I'm writing these words, and I wonder if you even know who I'm talking about. These are her favourite playmates, if you're interested.

Her septa is delighted with her progress. She's a diligent, intelligent and polite pupil. She's nothing but grace, delicacy and kindness. A true princess.

The Grand Maester tells me that the twins are developing normally. As for me, all I can see are their smiles and their big, curious eyes.

Daenys has the same curls as you, but they're golden like mine. She has your mouth and nose, but her eyes are the same violet as mine. She seems to be the perfect mix between us. At least we've managed to create a semblance of harmony through her.

Baelon... I struggle to see what he will be like. I suppose time will tell. But he is a beautiful child and the intelligence that shines in his eyes, I know, will not be denied.

I'll try to send you a portrait in the near future.

I hope you are well, Visenya. I really do. I still love you, I just can't bear to live with you any more. It's too much for me.

Feel free to hire the personnel you want, buy the decorations you want and do the work you think is necessary. Let your steward get in touch with mine and you'll have the money you need.

May the gods protect you

Daemon,

I know nothing of my own children.

A cry in the night, a little hand clasped around my finger, a look that I didn't know how to interpret before it disappeared... that's all I have for the three of them together.

I don't know what their laughter sounds like, what their favourite colour is, whether they like honey in their milk.

I haven't been good. I haven't been present. Because I let hate consume me without leaving the slightest room for anything. For anyone.

If you can change your life, then can't I?

Would you send Rhaenys and Daenys and Baelon here, even if only for a little while? Would you allow me to get to know them, to see them grow up, if only for a moment, before they become strangers forever?

The countryside around Summerhall is splendid, as is the weather. They'd do well here. You could take the opportunity to offload Aelor, Aelora and Aemon. Marcus Strickland could come too.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Visenya,

What's on your mind? You don't like them. Why ask me this? And why now? Is this your way of forcing me to make you come back?

You can't have my children.

Take the others if you like.
Daemon,

I'm begging you. If you don't send them to me, the day I see them again, it will be too late.

Don't let me become the first of their ghosts. You and I both know what a burden they are to those who remain.

You of all people know what it's like to lose children.

Let me see them.

Daemon,

It's been two months and I still haven't heard from you.

The castle has come back to life. The walls are hung with curtains and the corridors are filled with whispers, footsteps and laughter.

In the mornings, when I lean out of my bedroom window, I can smell the warm bread being baked.

From your window, all you could smell was chamber pots. It was so awful that the servants would burn incense when they were forced to open it.

There are no politics here, no conspirators, no foreigners.

What if we let them spend six months here and then six months in King's Landing?

I enclose four curls of my hair.

One for each child.

And one for you.

Daemon,

I want you to love me. To care. To come to me.

I have forbidden anyone in Summerhall who could to tell you about me.

Yet you do not write to me.

I would like to not care. I want to hate you. I can't do it any more.

I need you to send me Aegon. He's been chosen. Brynden told me. Brynden knows everything.

The others are just a smokescreen to hide him from you.

But... I don't want to settle for them. I really want to try to be a mother.

Maybe if I'm good enough you'll love me again.

Not in a dull, stale way.

Like you used to.

I want everything to be like it was.

Visenya,

An epidemic of shivers has broken out in Flea Bottom.

I'm sending you the children. All the children.

Don't make me regret my decision.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Visenya is annoyed.
No, that's not the right word: she's worried.
With the children comes a man she doesn't know. A newly ordained knight. A gift from Daemon.
‘Welcome to Summerhall ser...’
‘Garrett Bracken, Your Majesty.’
Bracken .
Visenya purses her lips, feels the anger rising in her, boiling.
He dares to send her a Bracken. A spy. A dog in Aegor's pay.

What am I going to do if he's watching everything that happens here? Everything I'm building could be blown away...

‘What branch of the family are you from?’
‘I am the eldest son of Lord Bernard, my lady.’
‘The Hand's cousin, then.’
She stares at the boy before her. He is no more than that, barely eighteen. Fairly good-looking, though not particularly remarkable: pale skin studded with freckles, black hair that reaches to his shoulders, brown eyes and features that lack the sharpness that would come with age.
‘I'm here to protect you and your children, Your Majesty. It is an honour and a joy,' he says as he kneels.
‘Good, good. Stand up, ser. The journey must have tired you. Show him to his quarters.’
Visibly grateful, Garrett Bracken follows the servant without making a fuss.
One worry at a time , Visenya muses. I'll have plenty of time to think about what to do with him.
Her attention returns to the children. They are all there, except for Baelon and Daenys, who have been taken straight to the nursery.
Before she can say anything, Aelor steps forward. He is twelve years old and, like his father, his slim build is matched by his tall stature. He tosses back a lock of pale hair and fixes his gaze on hers. This time, he looks like Maekar. She sees the same inflexibility shining in his eyes.
‘My lady, House Targaryen is reunited again.’
Visenya smiles.
‘Indeed, my prince. It is.’