Viserys and Daenerys

One-and-twenty years before, she had been anointed with the seven oils and named in Baelor's Great Sept. Visenya, her brother Rhaegar had chosen her name. Visenya for Aegon's warrior queen.

His hand was already pledged to the Dornish girl by then, her mother had told her. It would have looked ill to have broken an alliance of a year's standing just because a sister had been born. But your brother promised me that when you came of age, he would take you to wife as well just as the dragons of eld took more than one wife. Gentle Elia would be his Rhaenys, he said, and you would be his fierce Visenya.

Aegon's sister had wielded Dark Sister and soared through the skies on dragonback before her army, breathing fire and destruction and terrible bloodshed. Rhaegar's sister wielded her smiles and her courtesies and waited for the army Doran Martell had promised her for ten years.

I have waited all my life and more, she thought bitterly. Waiting was a woman's lot, they had taught her in Dorne. Waiting, wailing, weeping. From Dragonstone, Ser Willem Darry had smuggled her and her infant brother, Daeron Stormborn, to the safety of Dorne - the safety of exile. When she was nine, Doran had betrothed her to his six-year-old son, Quentyn. They had dyed her and her brother's hair black and passed them off as Oberyn's bastards. She had been raised in the stifling luxury of the court of Sunspear, the suffocating opulence of the Water Gardens. Had they hoped to dull her wits with the fruits of comfort, to take the edge off the only purpose she lived for?

Never.

The dragon does not forget. Her wits were as keen as the Valyrian blade her brother had meant for her to wield. Her appetite had only been whetted.

In Dorne, the septas had taught her and her foster-sisters that courtesy was a lady's armour, tears her weapon. That might be true of ladies, of weak, snivelling women, the lesser beasts of the field. It was not true of dragonesses.

Obara had discovered that one spear was better than a thousand tears, Tyene that the tears of Lys worked a better magic than tears of salt and Arianne and Visenya had learnt that the weapon between their legs was the best of all.

They say that the greatest whores of Braavos can buy an army of sellswords with but one night's work, Visenya thought idly. From the shadows, she watched the boys sparring in the courtyard as was her custom. Daeron was paired with Doran's youngest son, Trystane. His footwork was not very good, she thought critically. He really was a pathetic creature, not at all the equal of their noble brother, the peerless Rhaegar. To be sure she never seen Rhaegar sparring, she could scarcely remember his face now. But he had been magnificent, she was sure. The Usurper had slain him by some vile had been the last of the dragons and the boy stumbling before her was but the shadow of a snake.

I was a fool to ever put my faith in him, she thought bitterly. Stormborn - those had been dark days. When he had been born, she had allowed herself to hope. Their mother had died in birthing him but she had counted the loss of a queen against the birth of a prince and thought it worth the price. She had craddled her baby brother and cooed a lullaby into his little ears while the Silent Sisters dressed their mother's cold body. Rhaegar had named her and she had named their brother - Daeron, for the Young Dragon who had conquered Dorne, Daeron, for the king who had held the realm against the Blackfyres. She had thought he would do great things, that he would protect her because he was her brother.

Rhaegar could not protect me. Daeron cannot either - I would have done better to name him Aenys or Baelor, for a mummer's king is all that he is fit to be.

She turned her mind to other things. Doran has promised me an army for years. He will promise me for years more, until I do something. Doran is a liar and when I am queen I will tear his tongue out with pinchers and chop off his hands and his feet, what does a gouty old fool need of hands and feet? But I shall be merciful of course, a queen must show mercy. He saved our lives once and for that I will spare his life.

Arianne though... Arianne was not her father. Blood ran in her veins, in place of milk. And Oberyn, he was a man. He hungered for justice, for vengence for Elia and her butchered babes. I will serve him the Usurper's children, chopped up like pigs. I will rip out the younger boy's heart with my bare hands and let the little girl live for a while. Then I'll force the Lannister queen to dine on the raw, bloody heart and if she refuses I'll roast her daughter in the flames, before her eyes. The thought made her smile. She had always been so clever. Arianne and Oberyn have gathered Lemonwood, Spottswood, the Darkstar and sellswords from Pentos to our cause. They would not fail her.

Quen can have the green-haired Tyroshi girl he was sweet on. There is no shame in breaking off a betrothal - Doran failed to marry us though I have been a woman these five years. Doran the doublecrosser. She would flay him alive in the hot sun, in the marketplace of Sunspear and then she would have him bathed in salt-water, it would itch, oh yes it would... but she would be merciful. She would spare his life. He had once been like a father to her - not as great and noble as her own wise father, of course, but still...

She would marry Daeron, the soft, snivelling boy she'd once loved because she had thought that he would grow to be a man who would win their throne back. The dragon did not mate with lesser beasts of the field. It had been wrong to break with custom, the gods had frowned when Rhaegar had wed Elia and sent the Stark whore to break the marriage and break their rule. They ought to have waited for her to grow up, but she would make amends, she would wed Daeron though she loathed the idea. Things would not have come to such a pass if they had waited. She would have been Rhaegar's beloved queen, beautiful and wise and compassionate, the mother of his sons.

Daeron will have to do. The stupid boy stumbled and slipped. Laughing, he let Trys pull him up. That was disgusting. He'd slipped. And now he was laughing, laughing as though it meant nothing, as though he had not lost.

The gods have made a jape of us, she thought furiously. I was to have wielded the sword. I would have been the legendary warrior, a thousand times better than this worm. She was Rhaegar's sister, she was as great as him.

"Daeron," she said coldly. "Come to me, brother."

The boy stopped laughing quick enough and meekly trudged towards her. He looked like a sheep being led to slaughter. So he was frightened of his own sister, was he? The weakling. What had she ever done to make him fear her so?

"Yes, sister?"

She drew back her arm and he flinched before she could slap him. The look on his face gave her pause. Instead of slapping him, she stroked his cheek. "Daeron, my sweet," she whispered and startled the boy opened his eyes wide. His eyes were indigo, darker than her own lilac ones. Not even a true Targaryen purple. "Did you think that I would slap you?"

He looked at his feet. She raised his chin up. "No, you must not be frightened," she said. "What have I taught you?"

"The dragon fears no one," he said softly.

"And you have faced worse than a little slap from your loving sister, yes? And you will face worse on the battlefield, won't you?"

He mumbled something in response, too frightened to answer her back properly. She had made him face worse - she had whipped him with a spiked club, struck him with an iron pole... oh all to toughen him up, of course. She loved him too much to really hurt him. I am too soft on him. Gently, she straightened his shoulders. "Don't slouch. You must remember that you are the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, that all that is lacking is the Iron Throne."

The look on his face said only that but he said nothing. She had trained him not to talk back to her. "I've been watching you," she lied. "You've improved."

His face brightened. "Really?" he breathed. His delight was palpable. Really, it was disgusting - a prince ought to have more dignity. Rhaegar had, she was sure. "Do you think maybe one day I'll be as good as Rhaegar, perhaps?"

"No, of course not," she snapped. "Who put such a fool idea in your mind?" Then she relented, noting the crestfallen look on his face. "But perhaps you'll be passable someday, not as good as I would have been had I been a man but passable, I suppose, quite passable. There now, don't smile, it makes your face look lopsided. Let me hear you recite the names of the dragons, like I taught you to. All the dragons, mind, the ones up to eight centuries before Aegon the Conqueror." That made three hundred dragons in all, but she was too gentle on him. She ought to have told him to recite the names of the dragons going back fifteen centuries - that made over seven hundred names in all.

"Baene, dragon to Queen Rhae the First..." he recited dutifully.

Empty pitchers make much noise, she thought, ticking off the names and shaking him when he muddled the names up. No matter, Daeron was thirteen now. Old enough to get her with child. After she had a son with him, he could be dispensed. The thought made her smile.