The North Wind
Prologue
For ArtosStark. Happy Birthday Darling.
It begins with a whisper – a whisper of a name, and a tiny trailing thread of fate caught up and held tightly by a spirit on the wind.
"Viserys," the voice croons softly, rushing down through Westeros, echoing across the Dornish sea, and soaring over the lands of Essos. "Viserys."
In his bed, in a house with a red door that sits upon a hill in Braavos, the sleeping prince turns over and dreams of the sky – open and free, and of a voice that sings to him in the night. He does not wake, not yet, but this is the beginning of change.
The voice comes again the next night, echoing south, rushing across the skies like the wind – because it belongs to the wind, belongs to the sky. It whistles through the sails and masts of the ships at harbor, and through the streets of Braavos… up and up and up, passing the little red door and brushing though the nearest open window.
"Viserys," it whispers, but the sleeping prince barely stirs, exhausted. There are faint tear tracks on his cheeks from where he has cried himself to sleep. He is miserable. His father and brother are dead, his home has been stolen and he is far away in a strange place… and now his mother is gone too. Her life traded for his squalling infant sister who looks so much like the late Queen that he cannot bear to look at her.
The voice takes shape in a flurry of a breeze, coalescing into a young woman dressed in all in white - with skin reminiscent of the bleached sands of Braavos, flyaway hair in loose curls of pearly-white silk and eyes the color of a tawny harvest moon. Quietly, with nary a sound, she settles herself on the bed next to the sleeping child and brushes a hand over his cheek, wiping away the tears and gently combs out his hair, which is tangled from neglect. The wind spirit hums softly as she tends to the boy.
The unexpected cry of a baby echoes down the hall, and the spirit turns her head in its direction. She silently rises from her seat on the bed and moves to the door. She follows the cries down the short corridor and into a room decorated with a sparse amount of furniture – a dresser stocked with linen and rags for cleaning the baby, and a crib – a crib in which the crying princess lies.
The wind spirit sighs, looking down at the tiny girl with violet eyes and a dusting of silver hair on her head. The crying child squirms as she is lifted into warm arms and stares wide-eyed at the pretty lady with the pretty hair. The spirit hushes the baby, gently bouncing her on her hip and starts to sing a lullaby, her voice soft as a summer's breeze:
"A naoidhean bhig, cluinn mo ghuth, Mise ri d' thaobh, O mhaighdean bhàn…"
The little babies' cries fade away as she sings, and soon the spirit is holding a sleepy child who is gumming her own fist. Slowly, so she doesn't startle the little princess, the spirit lays her down in the cradle once more, and gently drapes the blanket over her.
"Sleep well little one." Then there is a soft breeze ruffling the curtains, and the spirit is gone once more.
The next night the wind spirit returns, once the full moon has risen high in the sky and coalesces just inside the window, causing the curtains to move gently around her. She settles herself on the bed once more, untangling the little princes' hair like she did the night before and humming softly. The little prince grumbles in his sleep, twisting his body and rolling over to face the window, to face her.
"Mama?" He mumbles sleepily, his violet eyes bleary as he burrows into her side, still dreaming of his mother, of a time before his sister was born. He does not see the spirit's face sadden, or hear her sigh. She is not his mother.
It is a week before she returns this time, but this time the prince is not sleeping. His bed is empty. Like a ghost, she silently wanders down the hall to where there is an open door. Inside it, she can see the little prince standing beside his sisters' crib, glaring down at the sleeping child with a wretched expression on his face. She waits in the doorway, watching the royal siblings sadly. 'Too young,' she thinks 'Too young to be so alone in this world.'
Viserys huffs angrily as he stares at his sister, and then roughly pushes past the cradle to make for the door. He stops when he sees the spirit standing there.
"Who are you?" He spits out grouchily, the picture of a proud and spoiled prince. She just smiles at him – a child's ire is hardly something to fear.
"I am Havā," she tells him, and it is an effort to not smile, "and I am here to help you."
"Why should I believe you?"He demands haughtily, every bit his father's son and she smiles.
"If I planned to hurt you, I would have done so before." She tells him, moving into the room on silent feet. His eyes narrow.
"I know you," He murmurs, frowning as he remembers the dream of the woman he thought was his mother. "You were in my room. Why?"
"Because you needed me." His eyes dart between her and the door, obviously trying to gauge if he can get past her.
"Why are you here?" The fact that he spares no thought to his sister is worrying, if not outright sad.
"Why?" He demands, clenching his hand into a fist when she does not answer. Beside him, his sister stirs in her sleep.
"Because you are alone," Havā replies, reaching down into the crib to stroke Daenerys' cheek, "and that is unfair."
Viserys is not sure how to react to Havā. All he needs to do is scream and Ser Willem will come running, sword in hand, but for some reason he does not. The strange woman rocks his sister's cradle gently, easing her back into sleep. She doesn't look dangerous, she looks like a noble who has never had to fight a day in her life, but something is telling him that she is not what she appears to be. Her white gauze dress whispers as she moves around the crib to stand in front of him, lowering herself to her knees in order to share his height, and he peers curiously at her.
"What are you?" He says, realizing that he is finally asking the right question when she smiles mischievously.
"Not human." She replies, and there is a look in her eyes that tells him that she isn't joking. The little prince gulps, and lifts his chin defiantly. He is a Targaryen, he is the blood of the dragon, and will not be cowed by this stranger.
Tumblr Page: arrowsbane-thenorthwind dot tumblr dot com
Havā is Punjabi for Wind.
Lullaby Lyrics taken from "Noble Maiden Fair" from the Disney movie 'Brave'.
("A naoidhean bhig, cluinn mo ghuth, Mise ri d' thaobh, O mhaighdean bhàn."
"Little baby, hear my voice, I'm beside you, O maiden fair.")