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Chapter One
Dragons and Dreams
Clouds cleaved apart as the dragon cut through them with ease, wisps trailing from his gleaming claws and pale wings. Viserra nudged Abraxas's flank with the heel of her boot, and the dragon easily corrected his course at her command, dipping left to fly toward the western horizon.
The sun hung high and unhindered in an endless blue sky above the cloud cover, and Abraxas's spiked scales glinted copper, gold, and white, reflecting in Viserra's eyes like a mirage. The dragontamers had nicknamed him the Pale Doom once he'd reached maturity, and she thought it an apt moniker. Her father had balked, sputtering that it was a bad omen to name a dragon after the Doom that had taken Valyria, but the Doom had shaken the world, and that was just what she wanted to do. An omen, indeed, perhaps, but not in the way that King Viserys thought.
She shifted in her saddle, leaning into Abraxas as she guided his reins and he banked on a gentle air current, taking them below the clouds. Viserra shivered at the passing moment of cool moisture before it tapered off, the rushing wind whisking it away. Abraxas glided toward the ground, and it rushed at them in hues of forest green, earth brown, and stone grey. A grassy ridge overlooking the western lands outside of King's Landing appeared, and on her unspoken command, Abraxas made for it with a subtle adjustment to his leathery wings.
He landed with a thud, his heavy feet creating gouges in the soft dirt and wavy grass. Viserra climbed down from the saddle, taking care not to tread too much on the wing he offered as her step-stool. Her boots hit solid ground, and Abraxas immediately flopped on his belly with a small, happy snort. The grass and open air were a welcome change from the sandy, dark depths of the Dragonpit, and his golden reptilian eyes closed in pleasure.
While her dragon rubbed his face in the long grass, Viserra walked to the edge of the ridge and gazed out. The tourney grounds were teeming with men, crawling and scuttling about like ants. The tall, tiered stands were being tended to by the stonemasons and their apprentices, while the jousting grounds were measured, the dirt packed and flattened by servants and stableboys. Banners of different colors and houses fluttered in the breeze, and rows of black and red flags snapped and whipped, the three-headed dragon sigil of House Targaryen lording over all the rest.
By high noon on the morrow, the grounds would be filled with even more bodies, lords and ladies, hedge knights and freeriders, commoners and nobles alike, all there to celebrate the birth of King Viserys and Queen Aemma's new son—a son who, as of that morn, still resided in Queen Aemma's womb.
Viserra glared at the tourney grounds before seating herself beside Abraxas. One jeweled eye half-opened to acknowledge her before it closed again. She peeled off her black glove and ran her fingers over the spiked ridge of his brow. A low sound rumbled in his chest that she had come to recognize as something akin to a cat's purr.
"We should joust tomorrow," she jested. "Show all those highborn cunts what a true knight should be."
Abraxas snorted.
"I know. You're not a horse. It wouldn't be fair." She smiled to herself. "But it would be awfully funny."
He made a chirping noise as if to agree.
Viserra's good humor leeched away as they sat in the mid-morning sun. Clouds came and went, dappling them between warmth and shade. She began ripping up the grass that swayed around her, weaving some strands together while the rest floated away in the breeze. Several blades tickled Abraxas's nostrils, and he lifted his sinewy neck to shake his head. He huffed at Viserra.
"Sorry," she said. "Would you like me to weave you a crown to make up for it?"
He huffed again and set his head back down, purposefully angling himself away from her. She laughed under her breath.
Suddenly, his head snapped up again, his nostrils flaring as his eyes scanned the sky. Viserra understood what had captured his attention only a moment later, when a large shadow passed over them, ruffling the grass and the loose pieces of hair around her face. She sighed when a familiar yellow dragon touched down on the ridge beside them, the earth trembling under her feet.
Abraxas eyed Syrax, bored, and snorted. His spiked tail casually curled around Viserra's form, separating her from the newcomers as Rhaenyra hopped from her dragon's back. She patted Syrax's flank before turning to Viserra with a grin.
"I figured you'd gone for a ride when I couldn't find you in the maester's chambers," Rhaenyra said, approaching Viserra and Abraxas while Syrax settled herself in the grass. She was longer and skinnier than Abraxas, and older. She glared imperiously at the paler dragon, and he studiously ignored her. Viserra copied him, even as Rhaenyra kept chatting.
"Maester Mellos also begged me to tell you to find a different place for your new rats," she said, stepping over Abraxas's tail. His eye flickered open, but when Viserra made no movement, he shut it again. "Said he couldn't stomach the stench any longer."
Viserra scoffed. "If the smell of decay bothers him so, then perhaps he shouldn't have become a maester."
"Perhaps then you can take his place." Rhaenyra plopped down beside her with an indelicate grunt. "Since you're always puttering about and doing your experiments."
"Death is the ultimate experiment," Viserra said. "It's the fate of every living thing, yet we know so little about it other than how to cause it."
"Hoarding dead rats infected with maggots hardly seems like it would provide answers."
"I've told you before. All I need is one to give me the breakthrough that I need."
"Not even you can reverse death, Serra," Rhaenyra said quietly.
Viserra ripped up another clump of grass. "Did you need something from me, sister?"
Rhaenyra studied her for a long moment. Her pale lilac eyes shone more like periwinkle in the sun, and her silver-gold hair gleamed just as brightly. At seven-and-ten, her beauty could rival any woman in the Seven Kingdoms, and Viserra felt small and dirty by comparison. She refused to meet her sister's gaze.
"Maester Mellos also mentioned that there would be a Small Council meeting this afternoon," Rhaenyra said after a pause. "Will you not come?"
"And help you serve cups to Father and the Council?" Viserra asked scathingly. Rhaenyra's small mouth pinched. "I'd rather leap from the tallest tower of the Red Keep."
"It was merely a suggestion," Rhaenyra said. "You're always squirreled away in that dank chamber you call a laboratory these days. You don't even ride with me anymore."
"I didn't realize my presence was missed so much." Viserra sniffed. "Perhaps I'd be more inclined to be around you again if you didn't insist on dragging that sniveling Hightower girl along everywhere."
Rhaenyra frowned. "Alicent is my lady-in-waiting. She's rather obligated to be with me. Besides that, she's a dear friend, too. Don't be harsh." She sighed. "You'd have your own lady-friend too if you didn't keep scaring away all the ones Mother tries to give you."
Viserra did not reply, instead choosing to shred a blade of grass with her fingers. Rhaenyra sighed again.
"Mother thinks the babe will come late tonight or on the morrow," she said, prudently changing the subject. "I still say it's a girl. Another Visenya."
"You should let it live for more than a day before giving it a name," Viserra said, tearing apart another piece of grass. "Thank the gods you were too young to suggest naming me Visenya. The name is starting to feel like a curse."
Rhaenyra's face flushed. "I'm just trying to be optimistic. You know how many babes Mother has lost. Have some faith."
"Is that what that is? Faith?" Viserra gestured to the tourney grounds and its dozens of workers. "I don't recall Father ever hosting a tourney for us before we were even born. It seems more like desperation than faith."
"Must you find fault in everything?" Rhaenyra said.
Viserra's silence was answer enough. Rhaenyra rolled her eyes.
"Fine. Stay miserable if that is what pleases you. I won't bother telling you what I learned from Ser Harrold just before I left the Keep."
She got to her feet, and Viserra groaned, tossing away the rest of her grass. "You're insufferable. Tell me."
Rhaenyra walked toward Syrax. Viserra glared after her. "Tell me, Rhaenyra!"
"Uncle Daemon has returned to court," Rhaenyra finally called over her shoulder. "So unless he displeases you as well, you may want to hurry if you want to see him before Father does."
Syrax lurched into the sky, taking Rhaenyra with her. Viserra's heart had begun to pound like she'd just sprinted from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep. Daemon was back?
She scrambled to her feet, and Abraxas readied to ride, sensing her sudden urgency and need. She didn't even spare the tourney grounds another glance before she spurred Abraxas back into the sky.
"Welcome back, Princess."
After the dragontamers had ushered Abraxas back inside the Dragonpit, Viserra returned to the carriage that had taken her from the Red Keep. Ser Lorent Marbrand of her father's Kingsguard stood outside of the great grey monstrosity dressed in his silver-and-white armor and cloak. His helm rested in the crook of his elbow, leaving his sandy hair unadorned and tousled, and his good-natured face beamed out at her. He was only in his late twenties, strong and handsome, and King Viserys had chosen him to become Viserra's personal guard when the King did not require him, hoping that the knight's friendliness and upbeat attitude might have a positive effect on his youngest daughter.
So far, Ser Lorent had not fared well.
Viserra strode by him with hardly a glance. "Has my sister left already?"
"Yes, Princess. With Ser Harrold and the Lady Alicent Hightower. You just missed them."
Viserra's face twisted. "Thank the gods."
As always, Ser Lorent took her thorny mood in stride. "Back to the Keep, then?"
"Where else would I be going? The Wall?" she retorted.
"Your tongue is as sharp as ever, Princess," he said, not missing a beat, "but if the Wall is where you wished to go, then we would make haste at once."
Perhaps she'd been wrong to assume her father had assigned Ser Lorent to her in the hopes that he might be the only one she could tolerate. Perhaps Ser Lorent was the only member of the Kingsguard capable of tolerating her.
She climbed into her carriage with a hmph, not deigning the knight with a response, and moments later they were trundling away from the Dragonpit and through the streets of King's Landing.
The ride was uneventful, and her walk through the Red Keep to her chambers just as well. Ignoring Ser Lorent at her back, ignoring the nobles and servants alike who bowed and curtsied and ducked out of her way, she made for her chambers with one goal in mind: to make herself presentable.
"Call my handmaidens. I want to take a bath," she ordered Ser Lorent. "And don't disturb me unless someone important is dying."
Ser Lorent, now helmeted again, nodded as she opened the thick oak door to her chambers. "Yes, Princess."
Viserra ducked into her rooms and shut the door behind her. She went to turn only to have a large hand clamp down on her mouth, muffling her scream as her back hit a strong, solid chest.
After a brief, blinding moment of panic, she stomped her foot, aiming for her assailer's instep, but they had anticipated her move and had moved their own foot out of range. The stranger caught her elbow when she drew it forward, preparing to drive it back into their stomach, and they let out a low chuckle. She froze.
"Is that any way for my favorite niece to greet her uncle?"
She was released, and she whirled around to find Daemon standing behind her, a smug, satisfied smirk on his face. "Uncle!"
It had been at least two years since she had last seen him, but he still looked almost precisely the same. His silver hair was still long and braided back from his face, and his deep-set violet eyes still danced with mischief and mirth. His face was still strong-jawed and fair, his shoulders broad and draped in red-and-black, the Valyrian-steel sword Dark Sister still proud and deadly at his hip. A few more lines at the corners of his eyes and his forehead were the only signs that time had passed, but she thought him more handsome than she had on the day he had left King's Landing.
She suddenly became acutely aware of her tangled braid and the distinct, smoky scent of dragon that clung to her dirty riding leathers, and her annoyance grew.
"What in the seven hells possessed you to do something like that?" she hissed. "Why couldn't you greet me like a normal person?" She looked around. "And how did you even get in here without alerting someone?"
Daemon leaned back on his heels, settling a lazy hand on Dark Sister's pommel. "The Keep has all sorts of nifty little passages if you know where to look." He appraised her with a glint of pride, and her whole body flushed under his gaze. "And I wanted to see if you remembered all those lessons I'd taught you. You did well, but you hesitated when I first grabbed you. Those moments of doubt would have gotten you killed if I had been a real assailant."
Viserra sighed. "Surely, there could have been another way to get your point across. Especially when I haven't even seen you in nearly two years and that is our first greeting."
"You're right." He held out his arms. "Well met, Princess Viserra. Would you honor your uncle with a hug? The journey has been long and wearisome, and I crave the warmth of your gentle touch."
She rolled her eyes at his teasing grin, but she could not help smiling when she accepted his embrace, nearly leaping into his arms. She hugged his neck and held him close, inhaling his familiar scent of cedar and oud, underlined with his own dragon-smell.
"It's good to see you again, Uncle," she said. "I've missed you."
"And I you, Princess," he said.
She buried her face in his collar to hide her red cheeks and girlish smile. "It's been so dull without you here."
"I can only well imagine," he said, releasing her. "How is your sister?"
Viserra cocked her head. "You haven't seen her? She returned from the Dragonpit before I did."
Daemon gave her a smile so charming that her knees went momentarily weak. "I wanted to see you first."
He crossed to the small table set before her hearth, allowing her a brief moment to compose herself again. She watched, curious, as he took a small, lacquered wood box from a satchel she assumed to be his own, and returned to stand before her.
"I brought you something." He held out the box, and she took it gently, giving him a puzzled smile. "As soon as I saw it, I knew it was meant for you."
She pried off the lid, and her smile froze in shock. Nestled among red velvet sat a thick band of gleaming metal, imperious and imposing. She wiggled the ring free, the metal warm and cold to the touch all at once. She stared.
"Is this…?"
"Valyrian steel," Daemon confirmed. "Here."
He carefully took the ring from her and lifted her right hand. He slid the band onto her fourth finger, his skin ghosting over her own and causing her whole arm to tingle. He flipped her hand over, palm up, and guided her thumb to the ring.
"There's a latch here, see?" he said, using her thumbnail to flick open a well-hidden groove in the steel she hadn't noticed before. At her touch, a spike flicked out, only a couple of inches long, but curved like a dragon's claw and wickedly sharp. "Such a tiny thing, but it hides its deadliness well. Like someone else I know."
Viserra marveled at the ring. "You think I'm deadly?"
"The deadliest of us all," he said. She glanced up, expecting that teasing smirk again, but he looked back at her with cool surety. "So long as you remember what I taught you."
There was the arrogant grin she'd been searching for. She ducked her head, holding her hand close and fighting the pride and pleasure that rushed through her.
Daemon reached out and nudged her chin up, smiling faintly. "Do you like it?"
Viserra nodded. "I love it. Thank you, Un—" She swallowed, her mouth suddenly quite dry. "Daemon."
His brows lifted in surprise. "You've never called me by name before."
"Things change," she said. She settled her hand over her pounding heart. "Don't they?"
"Indeed." He gave her a long, measured look. His eyes were unreadable. "Shall I see you at the family dinner tonight, Princess?"
Viserra's heartbeat turned sluggish. "Oh. Yes. Of course."
Daemon nodded. "Good. Then you'll excuse me. I've brought a gift for Rhaenyra, as well. Good day, Princess."
He collected his satchel, barely sparing Viserra another glance before he let himself out of her chambers.
A sudden spark of pain in her hand tore her attention away from the blood roaring in her ears. Her right hand had closed into a fist above her heart, and she hadn't realized the spike in her ring was still out until it had stabbed into the meat of her palm. She opened her hand, and a few tiny blood droplets oozed out of her skin. The tip of the curved spike was painted red.
Viserra watched the blood well and pulse for a few moments before she shook her head, closed the ring, and went to fetch a cloth.
That night, she dreamt of her ninth summer.
A dragontamer had come to see King Viserys, and her father had requested her presence for once. She had listened in silence as the dirty, grizzled man spoke in High Valyrian to her father, reporting that her own dragon, Abraxas, had an infected claw in one of his back feet, and had refused to let any of the tamers near him to treat it, and rot had set in.
Viserra had already been a furious child. Rhaenyra had been riding Syrax for nearly four years, and Viserra had still been struggling to cultivate the bond between dragon and rider with Abraxas. The setback had angered her greatly. She envied Rhaenyra and Syrax, and she envied Daemon's bond with his own dragon, Caraxes. She was a Targaryen, too; she was special. Why hadn't Abraxas accepted her as his rider yet? His egg had rested beside her in her cradle; she'd been the first person he'd seen when he'd hatched. And now his own stubborn nature was thwarting Viserra's plans again.
While her father twiddled his thumbs, debating what to do about the injured dragon, Viserra had left and sent for a half-dozen rolls of bandages and a very long, extremely sharp blade.
When she'd arrived at the Dragonpit, she marched straight inside with only one wary tamer at her back, carrying a torch and cursing in Valyrian. She'd found Abraxas inside the dim pit, nursing his rear left foot as he shrank away from Viserra and the light of the torch. He'd hissed, his jeweled eyes glazed with pain and defiance, but she'd plowed ahead, heedless.
"Henujagon īlva," she commanded the dragontamer, and after securing the torch in a bracket, he departed, leaving Viserra alone with the wounded dragon.
"Ao jāhor ivestragī issa giēñagon ao," she said to Abraxas.
He snapped at her when she moved closer, and her eyes narrowed.
"Ao jāhor ivestragī issa giēñagon ao," she repeated more forcefully. "Giēñagon."
She held up the knife and bandages. He eyed them, suspicious.
Viserra took another step. "Giēñagon." She pointed to his foot. Even in the dank, sooty smell of the pit, the stench of rotting flesh overpowered her. In the torchlight, his pale claw was blackened and crooked, leaking blood and pus. "Giēñagon." She waved the knife slowly. "Kostilus."
His eyes stayed on her the whole time she shuffled forward, step by painstaking step. Finally, she reached his foot. She bent down to examine the infected claw, wiping sweat off her forehead. It smelled even more dreadful so close, but she could see the ring of rot around the claw's base, on the end of his foot. She'd seen Grand Maester Mellos drain and clean her father's wounds before. She could do the same for Abraxas.
"This will hurt," she warned. She held out the knife and allowed him to sniff it. His lips curled back from his teeth as if he were grimacing, preparing for the pain. "Ready?"
She didn't hesitate. She swung the knife down and severed the claw, pulling and sawing as Abraxas roared, but he did not move. Thank the gods he hadn't, or else she would have been crushed against the ground, her innards strewn about the sand. His wings beat against his back, buffeting her hair around her face, but she spat it out and kept working.
Excruciating minutes passed, but with a sick, wet squelch, the claw came free. Blood and pus gushed out, spattering her dress and face, but she used the tip of the knife to scrape out the rot. It oozed and dribbled out of the gaping hole in the dragon's foot, collecting in a nauseating pile and saturating the sand. Viserra scraped until there was nothing left to come out and the torch had burned half of itself away. Then she packed the wound with the bandages, all while Abraxas watched her silently.
When she had finished, she came to his front and wiped the slick knife clean on her skirts. She stared into his eyes, and he gazed back calmly. She raised an eyebrow.
"Well? You're welcome."
He huffed and rested his head on the ground. She tossed the knife away and sat down beside him. When she pressed her palm to the warm scales just below his eye, he did not shy away, as he used to. Instead, he seemed to lean into her touch.
"You owe me now," she said, stretching out in the sand. "Once you're healed, you'll let me ride you."
He blew out a noisy breath, and she hoped that meant a yes before she was fast asleep.
When she awoke, it was to cool air and the sound of crickets. A full moon and a sea of stars greeted her when she opened her eyes, and she realized that was being carried out of the Dragonpit when she felt the sturdy arms tucked beneath her knees and back. She looked up and saw that it was Daemon carrying her, his silver hair just as bright as the moon.
"Uncle?" She peered around. "What are you doing?"
"Fetching the Princess before the Kingsguard does," he replied wryly. "They would bring you before your father for punishment after you wandered off to the Dragonpit alone. I thought I would spare you all the blustering and posturing."
Viserra giggled. "Father didn't know what to do about Abraxas. But he's my dragon. I wanted to make him better so we may ride together one day."
Daemon looked down at her, his violet eyes amused. "Oh? Even if it means you'll have to wait longer now that he has to heal?"
She rested her head against his chest. His heartbeat pulsed a strong, steady rhythm. She could fall asleep again listening to it if she wanted.
"I'll wait as long as it takes to get what I want," she said quietly.
"And what do you want, Princess?"
Her eyes locked on the moon. "Everything."
Translations
Henujagon īlva - Leave us
Ao jāhor ivestragī issa giēñagon ao - You will let me heal you
Giēñagon - Heal
Kostilus - Please
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