Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire it is owned by G.R.R. Martin.
Return of Valyria
Chapter 9
In the region of Westeros known to its denizens as the Reach, amidst the green hills and fields and on the banks of the Mander, there stands Highgarden. An ancient castle that goes back into the days of myth and legend, it is without a doubt the most beautiful out of all the homes of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.
Once, it had been the seat of House Gardener, Kings of the Reach in times past, from the days of legend to the coming of Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya, from the depths of the sea on wings of fire. Then it became the seat of House Tyrell, Lords Paramount of the Mander, High Marshalls of the Reach.
A large castle that sprawls out over the surrounding hills and fields along the flowing waters of the Mander, Highgarden was built as much for comfort and beauty as it was for defense. Three rings of white stone around a collection of square forts and towers all built out of the same white stone, the space in between was filled not with murky and stinking water, but briars of flowering vines and bushes, orchards of fruiting trees, stables for the finest horses in all of Westeros, even ponds, streams, and waterfalls fed by the waters of the Mander, piped in through an elegant and cunning construction of lead tubes.
Along the river there were quays for barges and riverboats, and it was not uncommon for the denizens of the castle to go out and spend their days in the warm sunlight on the waters of the Mander, feasting on fruit, bread, and meat to the music of pipers, fiddlers, and singers. Indeed, it was for these reasons that many claimed that Highgarden was a castle in name only, for all that its walls and towers were high and strong, held by the hundreds if not thousands of household guards and knights sworn to House Tyrell.
But to such claims the Tyrells merely laughed, and offered invitations to feast and drink with them at the table. For the Tyrells could afford to feast their rivals and enemies in their own halls, or to lavish their home's beauty and comfort, their true strength lying not in Highgarden, but in what lay around it.
The Reach was a rich and fertile land, blessed with good weather all year round and plentiful water from the Mander and its tributaries. It lent itself well to farming and pasturing, and put forth a bounty of food that allowed families that dwelt upon the land to grow large, and still there was plenty to send abroad, to feed the families and lords of less fortunate lands, and in return gold flowed back to the Reach and to House Tyrell.
That was their greatest strength. That was the true strength of House Tyrell. There's was the food that fed much of the Seven Kingdoms, the food that gave them gold surpassed only by the Lannisters and only because of their possession of the continent's richest gold mines, and there's was the food that allowed them to become the most populous of the Seven Kingdoms.
Populace that allowed them to field the largest army out of any of the Seven Kingdoms, up to a hundred thousand swords if need be, including the finest cavalry on the continent. And the largest fleet as well, sailing under the banners of House Redwyne of the Arbor, sworn vassals of House Tyrell.
Highgarden was beautiful, the most beautiful out of any the castles of the Great Houses, and its lords an easygoing and gregarious lot. But challenge them at your own peril, and face backbreaking hunger long before the lances of their knights and the swords of their men-at-arms would have a chance to cut you down.
And on this day, in the heart of Highgarden in one of its many ponds, its members gathered in an outdoor lounge. Set in the middle of the pond, it was connected to the shore by a narrow causeway with a paved path on top, and the lounge sheltered from the Sun by a canopy of white stone. Slender pillars of matching stone held up the canopy, vines spiraling up the stone and blooming with blushing flowers.
A table was in the middle of the lounge, on which was set a feast. There was freshly-baked bread, still hot from the oven, freshly-picked fruits speckled with clear water washed from the Mander, there was steaming soups and sauces of various kinds, and roasted fowl fresh off the spit. There was wine, beer, and water, all to sate whatever appetites those at the table might have.
And Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, High Marshall of the Reach, Defender of the Marches, and Warden of the South, had such an appetite. Joining him at the table was his wife Alerie, his mother Olenna, and his eldest child and heir, Willas. They ate more sedately but with no less gusto, servants silently standing nearby to attend to any need they might have.
Mace finished off a leg of partridge, and washing it down with Arbor Gold, gestured for a servant to bring him water to rinse his hands in, and a clean cloth to wipe them dry with. A servant obliged, even as another refilled his goblet. "My thanks, my good man." The lord graciously said even as he took a drink of wine before nodding in satisfaction. "Now that we have been fed and watered, perhaps we should get down to business."
The rest of his family finished whatever they were eating at that moment, Mace giving them time to freshen up before continuing. "I received a missive from King's Landing the other day." He said. "It was a long and tiresome thing, filled with the usual pap and platitudes, but the gist of it was that that old man Jon Arryn wanted to ask for my dear Margaery's hand for Lord Baratheon."
"Renly Baratheon?" Alerie asked.
"Yes, Renly." Mace confirmed.
"It's not a bad match." Willas mused. "He is Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. It would tie us to the Baratheon Dynasty, further closing wounds leftover from the rebellion, and would secure our borders to the east."
"Yes," Mace said with satisfaction, and swirling the wine in his goblet. "Renly's pedigree is beyond question, and it would give us an 'in' to the court at King's Landing, and other places beside where we are suspect for our past allegiances. The offered dowry was quite generous too."
Mace paused and took a drink, and set his goblet down firmly. "I refused, of course." He said with a smile.
There was a moment of utter silence, and then Olenna burst out laughing. "And why would you do such a thing?" she asked archly. "An opportunity such as that…why in the names of all the gods both old and new would you pass it up?"
"You have all heard the news from the east, and know it to be true." Mace grandly said. "Legend has become reality, and now casts its shadow and gaze over the whole known world."
"And…?" Olenna prompted.
"I will not see all our family has built for the past three centuries be reduced to ash." Mace said, his face and voice uncharacteristically serious, a rare moment when the High Marshall of the Reach set aside his façade of simple-minded hedonism and ambition, and showed who he truly was. "I will not see all of you dead by dragonfire."
"…loyalists are gathering at Volantis." Willas conceded. "And there are whispers too, of a Targaryen Dragonlord flying with their kin in the skies of Essos, fighting to rebuild the Freehold."
"Sooner or later the dragons will turn their eyes to the west." Mace said with a nod. "I know the tale of Garrin the Great. And I have no doubt the Usurper and his confederates will suffer the same fate come sooner or later. But when that time comes, we will not burn with them. On the contrary, we shall take root among the ashes, and grow stronger than ever before."
Olenna rolled her eyes. "How very poetic," she sarcastically remarked. "The Usurper and his minder will not be pleased at your refusal."
"What does it matter?" Mace scoffed. "He will not start a war over a refused betrothal. And even if he would, Jon Arryn would not allow it. And neither would Stark."
"And Tully and Lannister?" Olenna asked.
"Tully might support the Usurper." Mace admitted. "Hoster can hide behind his house's words as much as he wants, but he deceives no one but himself. He is just ambitious as ourselves and that damned Tywin Lannister."
"And the Lannisters?" Olenna asked while taking a drink.
"A pox of Tywin Lannister and his heavy-handed…obsession, to prove himself the mightiest out of us all!" Mace spat with rare anger. "That man would, no, has already brought down the dragons' wrath on the Seven Kingdoms. There is no stopping it. Only waiting for the storm to break, for the dragons to descend on wings of fire, and hope to survive their wrath."
"So you've said." Olenna said with a nod before narrowing her eyes. "But it doesn't really answer my question: between the Usurper, Tully, and the Lannisters, there may be war for refusing Jon Arryn's offer."
"So be it." Mace said. "We have the largest fleet and army in the Seven Kingdoms. And with the Lannister Fleet still in ruins, only Stannis Baratheon and his Royal Fleet can oppose us at sea. Your nephew should be more than capable of handling him."
"Will our army be enough to take on the combined might of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms?" Willas worriedly said. "Stark and Arryn might oppose war, but if it erupts, then they will side with the Usurper regardless."
"True…but we will not be alone." Mace pointed out. "Dorne would stand with us, simmering with hate and the desire for vengeance against Tywin Lannister as they have been for nearly a decade now. That adds at least twenty thousand swords to our banner."
"…will that be enough?"
Mace was silent for a moment, and then he smiled. "It should be." He said. "Not to win, but to not lose."
"I've never heard of wars being won by not losing." Olenna dryly remarked.
"Perhaps…but these are different times." Mace said with a smile. "You see, if such should happen, then we show our value as allies to potential friends in the east. Especially since I've heard that Prince Oberyn has recently set out for Volantis himself."
"…I see." Olenna said with narrowed eyes. "So that's how it is."
"The Usurper and his dogs will come for us." Mace continued. "And so we offer them as sacrifices to the dragons."
"Will the Martells vouch for us, though?" Willas worriedly asked.
Mace gave a dismissive wave. "Our actions will vouch for us." He said. "But I suppose it would do to be prudent. And for that reason, I have offered your brother's hand to Prince Doran's eldest child and heir."
"…Arianne Martell?" Willas breathed, and Olenna laughed.
"My son, you surprise me today." She said with evident glee. "Yes, I doubt the Martells would pass up this opportunity to have an ally outside of their deserts."
"True…" Willas thoughtfully said. "Unlike Jon Arryn's past proposal to marry Princess Arianne to Edmure Tully, the princess would not have to give up her inheritance and title, as Garlan would be her consort, and not the other way around."
"And would gain for himself the royal title of 'prince' in the process." Olenna said with a nod.
"And cement an alliance between them and us." Mace said. "And through them, a dynastic link, no matter how tenuous, to House Targaryen."
"And another means with which to shield ourselves from the coming wrath." Olenna said with another nod.
"Precisely." Mace said with a beaming smile, raising his goblet and taking a drink. "Though, this is all largely academic. As I've said before, it's very unlikely war will erupt. Jon Arryn won't stand for it. Not that it will stop me from continuing to forge an alliance with the Martells, of course. As I've also said before, it is…inevitable, for the dragons to turn west. And we must make what preparations we can for their coming."
Still smiling, Mace had his goblet refilled, and took a deep drink of Arbor Gold.
Viserys sat in his cabin aboard the Myrish ship Sickle Stars as they sailed across the waters of the Summer Sea, on a roundabout route to the city of Volantis. With the ongoing embargo against Volantis and Valyria by the western Free Cities, they needed to avoid patrols from Tyrosh and Lys…as well as from Myr as well.
It was, after all, a complete secret that Myr was plotting to turn on its allies, and sell them out to the Freehold and the Volantenes in exchange for their favor in the future. Known only to a number of magisters, should they be caught trying to break the embargo by Myrish ships…well, at best, they would be forced to turn back. At worst…
…Viserys didn't want to think about. And it was galling to think that he, the heir to the Iron Throne, would have to fear to such an extent, and not for the first time he cursed the Usurper and his confederates for taking away his family's possessions and forcing them into exile as beggars, to say nothing of that northern whore who had seduced his brother Rhaegar and so led them to ruin.
That said, perhaps those worries need not be needed now.
Initially sailing south supposedly for the Summer Islands, they'd then turned north and east towards Volantis. After several days at sea, they encountered Volantene patrols, and who while initially suspicious, had turned respectful once they realized who the Myrish were providing transportation for.
That had been a rare moment of gratification…
"Vis! Vis!" Daenerys Targaryen shouted as she burst into Viserys' cabin, shouting and gesturing excitedly. "Come and look! Come and look!"
Viserys grit his teeth and forced his irritation back under control, unwilling to lash out at his sister – his only family (the rumors of a Targaryen Dragonlord in Volantis notwithstanding) left – for disturbing his contemplations. "What is it, Dany?" Viserys asked, getting up and walking closer. "Look at what?"
Daenerys responded by grabbing Viserys and pulling him along, excitedly gesturing as she went. "Come and see!" she excitedly said.
Viserys sighed and obliged his sister, letting him drag him up and out onto the deck, where she pointed up at the sky. "Dragons!" she shouted.
Viserys saw and stared. Daenerys was right. There were dragons.
Three of them, a patrol from Valyria far to the east, or more likely from Volantis, from where they conducted their plans to rebuild the Freehold. They flew through the skies above, wings seemingly beating in a leisurely manner, as though to allow their riders all the time they needed to view their surroundings for any threats.
How else could Daenerys have the time to run down to his cabin, and then back out again to see, if they had been in a hurry?
The dragons flew by, many of the crew also looking and gesturing and murmuring among themselves at the sight of the dragons in the sky. And as he watched and saw them fly amidst the clouds, Viserys felt shame at what their family had become.
Once, they too had ridden among the clouds. They too had soared on wings of fire, above the lands and waters below.
Compared to that…what was losing the Seven Kingdoms?
How far have we fallen?
The Golden Company's encampment along the banks of the Rhoyne bustled with men at work. This wasn't an unusual sight, of course. Unlike some other Free Companies, the Golden Company, while allowing its members their luxuries, also demanded they maintain the highest possible standards with regard to weapons, armor, equipment, horses, skill and tactics, among other things.
And the Golden Company had already struck a deal with the Volantenes, to fight alongside them and the Valyrian Freehold against the Norvoshi. In exchange, the Golden Company would be paid their usual fee, and would be guaranteed Volantis' good word with regard to future developments once Norvos had been brought to heel.
Jon Connington hurried through the camp, accompanied by Aegon and a number of other knights. All of them were exiles too, cast out of the Seven Kingdoms for refusing to bend knee to the Usurper and his ilk, and left to fend for themselves.
But now…
…soon…
…justice would be served.
"DRAGON!" the shout came from the lookouts even as Jon and his companions arrived at the space allotted for landings. Nearby were a number of Volantene soldiers, identifiable with the brigandines and Rhoynar helmets they wore, along with Valyrian legionaries, distinct in their hauberks and mailed and guarded caps.
Eyes turned to the direction the lookouts pointed to, and there it was. A dragon, winging its way towards them. Sunlight flashed off scales the color of steel, though the dragon's horns, crest, and wings were a deep, rich blue.
Powerful gusts were kicked up as the dragon descended and used its wings to slow itself down, and it roared once as it landed, and then growled as it regarded its surroundings. The rider loudly said soothing words in High Valyrian, though the accent…
"So that's how High Valyrian is supposed to sound like." Jon thought.
Then he drew himself up, as the dragonlord dismounted, and patting her dragon, approached. As she came closer, she lifted her hands and took off her helmet…
…audible gasps could be heard from Jon's companions…and from Jon himself. For it was as if a goddess had appeared before them.
They'd seen other Valyrians before, and they looked no different from others of strong Valyrian descent, like many of the Old Blood of Volantis, or the people of Lys. And while they'd met another dragonlord before, that dragonlord hadn't taken off his helmet before them.
Jon remembered well the sad beauty of Queen Rhaella, or the aged but still beautiful countenances of her aunts. And he remembered Rhaegar too, his Silver Prince, who he had failed at the Bells, and who had fallen at the Trident.
But now…compared to the dragonlord which stood before them…
Her hair truly looked as though it had been spun from the finest white gold, and shone with such vibrant color that Jon had never thought possible. Her skin was like alabaster, and her eyes shone with inner afire and were as clear and sharp as jewels…
Jon remembered how the people of Dragonstone had regarded their overlords as gods in times past, and had thought he understood whenever he remembered his Silver Prince…
…but now…now he realized he had never truly understood. Only now when he stood before a dragonlord as they had been at the height of the Valyrian Freehold did he truly understand why her kind had at times been seen as gods or akin to them.
"I am Lord Freehold Jaenera Targaryen." The dragonlord introduced herself, and swept them with her eyes. "And I have been told that you, the members of the delegation sent to greet me on my arrival, were all exiles. Exiled, for refusing to abandon your oaths to my brother's descendants, and to bend knee to the one who usurped their throne. And for that, I honor you."
Closing her eyes, the dragonlord gave an elegant bow of respect, and causing the knights present to stutter out modest thanks and to give sheepish bows of their own. And then Jaenera was rising, and regarded Aegon with her sharp, amethyst gaze.
"I have also been told," she began. "That you bring one who claims to be my distant nephew."
"…we do." Jon said, and motioning Aegon forward. "This is Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Elia, true heir to the Iron Throne."
"…we shall see." Jaenera said before gesturing to the nearest legionaries, and barking orders in High Valyrian. "Bring me the chest on my saddle, and get me a sacrifice!"
Jon blinked at the last part, and then paled as minutes later, he saw a tightly bound Dothraki male being brought forward and forced to his knees. He remembered the stories, of how Valyrian magic was rooted in fire and blood.
Don't tell me she's…?
The Valyrian legionaries brought Jaenera's chest to her, and she slid her finger on the bladed edge above the lock. Blood hissed and boiled on glyphs carved into the metal, and with a click the lock disengaged. Opening the chest, she reached into its silk and velvet-lined interior, and withdraw a narrow and sharp-edged shard of obsidian: a glass candle.
Taken from the depths of the Fourteen Flames, bathed in the blood of sacrifices and remade in dragonfire to songs of magic sung in the old tongue, it allowed for the reshaping of reality, the recreation of miracles, and to bend the rules of the world to one's will…all for a fair and reasonable price, of course. And this time, the price would have to be paid in blood and life, for to ascertain this child's claim, Jaenera would need to pierce the veil for a time.
"So be it." Jaenera thought. "If I can prove it to be true…that dear Aenar's blood still exists in this world…I would spill as much blood as I need."
Holding the glass candle in one hand, she slit the Dothraki's carotid with an obsidian dagger, and taking her bloody hand imbibed the sacrifice's blood. At the same time, she slit her fingers on the glass candle's edges, and causing the obsidian to begin to glow a shimmering, emerald green.
And then she offered it to Aegon. "Prove it." She said. "Prove you are blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, soul of my soul. Prove that you are of us, the Targaryens of the August Forty, of Those of the Azure Sky."
Aegon hesitated, and then looking at a troubled and torn-looking Jon Connington, back to Jaenera. She just stared at him, her face carefully neutral, and then reaching forward, Aegon slit his fingers on the glass candle's edges.
An inky cloud of black erupted and swirled around the glass candle, as Jaenera began to chant in the old tongue. Spoken in times long before the rise of the Freehold, now it was known only to the loremasters, and to the sorcerers, and never written down, instead taught by word of mouth from master to student, from parent to child, and from brother to sister. A harsh and guttural tongue, it hurt to speak, but it reverberated with every syllable shaking the surrounding air, and causing the Andals to look worriedly around them.
"By the power of my blood," Jaenera chanted while placing a hand, claw-like, on the Dothraki's head. "Fueled by this paltry sacrifice, I split the veil and reach forth into the realms beyond. With the blood of the child as an anchor, I reach that which I seek, and pull them back once more into the realms of the living. So I say, and so it shall be!"
That was all magic really was, to be honest. Bending reality to one's will in defiance of the rules of the world, with words shaping and giving form to one's will which in turn drives the power to make miracles reality and have them be.
The glass candle blazed bright with emerald light, the clouds of inky black exploding away as an oppressive feeling crushed the surrounding area, the air stinking with the sharp stink of iron. The Dorthraki sacrifice screamed as his scalp burned at Jaenera's touch, and the blood spilling from his neck boiled away, and indeed, continued to boil away as it leaked out, fueling Jaenera's spell.
Amorphous forms swirled out of the glass candle, the light dimming as they emerged into reality, and Jaenera let go of her sacrifice. Clouds of inky black once more shrouded the glow of the glass candle, as the forms which had emerged from it took shape and form, becoming ever clearer and more defined, more real, if not and never completely so.
And Jon Connington sank to his knees, tears falling from his eyes, as he saw once more his Silver Prince, standing before him.
"Rhaegar Targaryen, I presume." Jaenera asked.
The shade of what had once been Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone stared at Jaenera. "Yes...yes..." the shade answered, softly at first, then growing stronger and louder as memories of what had once been reasserted themselves. "I was...I am...Rhaegar Targaryen...Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms...Prince of Dragonstone...who are you? What are you?"
Jaenera ignored him, and walked over to the cowering shade of what had once been Princess Elia Targaryen nee Martell. As she walked closer, the hand holding the glass candle dropped, the clouds of inky black trailing behind it through the air, drifting lazily before vanishing. Nearby, the Dothraki sacrifice heaved heavy breaths as blood trickled out of his slit artery, blood which boiled away moments after escaping his body, consumed by the glass candle to keep the veil torn and the shades of the dead in the world.
"Elia...Elia...niece...calm yourself...the nightmare is over...rest you already have..." Jaenera gently said as she knelt down next to the shade, and patted it on the back. "But I need you to focus for a bit...for your son's sake, if nothing else."
"My...son...my son..." Elia gasped, her face twisting with grief and horror as she clutched her head. "That...monster...he...he...he killed my son! He...!"
"No. He did not. Loyal lords had exchanged him for a double beforehand, and smuggled him to safety. And when the time comes, I will have him sit on his throne, and all those who conspired and acted to see my brother's line ended and all those who rewarded them for it, dead at his feet. As the old saying goes, lesser men defy the dragonlords of Valyria at their own peril."
Elia stared at Jaenera. "...what?" she whispered.
Jaenera stood, and gestured at a hesitant Aegon. "Aegon," she said gently, and truly smiling for the first time since they met. "Won't you meet your mother?"
Aegon stared at Jaenera and then at Elia's shade. "Are you..." he whispered. "Are you really...are you really my mother?"
Elia stared at Aegon, and then slowly getting to her feet, staggered towards Aegon. "Aegon...my son..." she whispered. "You're...alive...you're alive!"
Crying in happiness, Elia pulled her son into an embrace, mother and son falling to the ground crying. Jaenera smiled at the sight, and then her face turned cold as she glanced at Rhaegar from the corner of her eyes. Colder her face grew, as she saw something...cross Rhaegar's face. She couldn't quite put her finger as to what it was, but she didn't like it.
"Thank you...thank you..." Elia babbled from the ground. "Whoever you are...no matter what you've done...thank you for letting me see my son one last time...one last time before I return to my rest."
"You are welcome, my niece."
"Niece?" Elia echoed.
And then Jaenera smiled, Elia and Rhaegar's eyes widening as Aelarys lumbered over, and snorted affectionately at his rider. Jaenera smiled up at her mount, and patted his snout. "I am Jaenera Targaryen," she said. "Lord Freeholder of House Targaryen, and youngest sister to Aenar Targaryen, called the Wise."
A/N
I LI~VE!
Ah, Highgarden and those wacky Tyrells. My favorite out of the castles of the Great Houses of Westeros, and my favorite among the Great Houses too. Compared to Winterfell or Casterly Rock, it's warm and homey, plus beautiful too (and the Tyrells are just so nice). I mean, yeah, they're no less ambitious, but at least they know how to be subtle about it, and in a way that doesn't piss off everyone around them.
Compare to Tywin 'Do as I say or I'll have you watch as your family is raped and then murdered' Lannister, or Ned/Robb 'Muh Honor' Stark. And let's not get into Fat Robert or Renly (respect for the Mannis though).
On other news today, we get Viserys get some much needed humble pie, at the realization that the Targaryens of the present truly are a pale shadow of what they once were. Jaenera shows off her skill in blood magic (I decided instead of something stereotypically-mystical to just go for a simple 'magic is bending reality to your will shaped by your words and fueled by life in the form of blood') to summon Rhaegar and Elia's shades from the dead. Yes, that means Aegon VI truly is who he claims to be, at least in this story.