September-December 303 AC
Sometimes, the grey star pretended to be a prince.
Within the weirwoods, in the midnight sky among the stars, it was different. Limbs did not ache; neither belly, bladder, nor bowels distracted him with their frivolous demands. But when the joy of flight was stolen away, replaced by a cage of frail flesh and skin and bone...
The singers carried the grey star back to the sleeping chamber, so small after the vast emptiness of the cavern where the last greenseers sat upon their weirwood thrones. The brightness of the fire made his eyes water when the singers set him down beside it, on a stone bench covered with soft furs.
"Now rest," said Leaf. The flames of her torch shone in the singer's gold-green eyes, on her sharp black claws. "Rest, and eat, and be a man."
A cripple of thirteen was not a man, no more than the grey star was a prince, but he acted as though he was. The singers might carry him through the long passages of the caves, but within the chamber, he fended for himself. With the aid of his trestle he dragged himself across the chamber to the shaft that served as their privy, ignoring the soreness in his arms. Already the muscles ached, as though he had spent the day doing press ups, not flying free.
When he finished relieving himself, he dragged his body back across the chamber, to the ledge where he slept. The tunic and breeches which awaited him were a patchwork, sewn from garments too small to fit his growing frame. The once white tunic had been pulled apart at the seams, and sewn back together with awkward stitches and strips of brown wool. Down the sleeves they ran, and under his arms against his sides, and at the hem so as to cover the tops of his shrunken legs. The breeches had been treated the same, the grey striped with green. Once dressed, he felt more a jester than a prince, though the wool was soft and smelt of the soap the singers made from goat tallow and wood ashes.
Ashes were all he tasted as he ate. The dried reindeer meat was as tough as it was flavorless, and he chewed until his jaw was as sore as his arms. True, it filled up the hollow ache in his belly, but it was the poorest sort of fare, made worse by comparison to the heady bouquets within the trees. When he slipped his skin he drank in the scents of a hundred banquets, a thousand dishes, tender stews and juicy steaks, sweet fruits and fresh vegetables, hard cheeses veined with wine and soft breads flavored with spices whose names he did not know.
Once sleeping and waking had seemed as one, his dreams and his lessons blurring together. Now they did not. Vivid colors and fragrant aromas belonged only to the sky within the roots, the world beyond the world. Darkness and pale roots and a gleaming red eye belonged to the cavern of the greenseer; firelight and food and nightsoil belonged to the chamber of the prince.
So did the others, the girl and the boy and the direwolf who had brought him here. Try as he might, the prince still struggled to put them aside, to detach himself from their mundane concerns. When he thanked the girl Meera, she was my friend for her hunting and cooking, the prince wanted to feel his heart behind his hollow words. When the boy Jojen, little grandfather, he said my dreams were real bent over his needle and thread, the prince wanted to ask him why his eyes were so sad. When the direwolf Summer, his name is Summer dropped a rope at his feet, nudging it with his nose, the prince wanted to take it up, to play tug of war like they used to.
Sometimes the prince failed to pretend. On those days Bran clasped the girl by the hand, feeling Meera's warmth as she whispered her doubts, not only of his teacher's rules but of his teacher himself. On those days Bran sat beside the boy on his stone bench, sharing stories that made Jojen smile wanly as they remembered days in the sun. On those days Bran took up the rope, heedless of how it tore at his palms, the direwolf growling and yanking before he trotted away victorious, his tail held high.
On those days Bran did not stop his ears to the music of the night. Instead, he listened. Listened to the crannogmen's duets Meera sang with Jojen; listened to the wolf songs Summer howled to the moon in the cold white world beyond the cave. Listened when his mother visited his dreams, sitting in a chair beside his featherbed and singing lullabies he thought he had forgotten long ago.
And in the mornings, when he woke with tears upon his cheeks and a strange grief upon his heart, somehow, Bran felt stronger.
Was Meera right? Every teacher must make mistakes sometimes; Maester Luwin was proof of that, with his half-true tales of the singers. Could Lord Brynden have erred?
A thousand times the words almost came to Bran's lips, when he sat upon his weirwood throne, waiting for his teacher to grant him entry to the wonders within the roots. But then the red eye opened, filled with terrible wisdom and ancient sorrow. Bran quailed before its gaze, remembering how sternly the greenseer had spoken of his rules, how important it was that they set aside the bonds of ordinary men. A crow could not fly with chains dragging him back down to earth, tying him to those who could neither understand nor share his burdens.
And so in silence the grey star bowed his head, and closed his eyes, and slipped his skin.
Dark was the sky within the roots, and darker was the wound that slashed through its heart, a bottomless abyss whose edges shone with ice-blue fires. The fires of the abyss strove and strained against a palisade of blood-red fires, seeking gaps and finding none.
Guilt gnawed at the grey star. Once the red star struggled to keep the blue light and cold winds at bay, but of late he was growing larger, stronger, his fires brighter. The grey star could not say the same; if anything, he felt smaller, dull and frail, unable to help protect the rest of the stars from the abyss like the red star did.
The task seemed to wear upon the last greenseer. It often felt as if the red star was merely a hollow shell, a mighty fortress left unguarded as the greenseer wandered, seeking the glimpses of the future which eluded him. Rarely did the red star speak to the grey; their lessons were few and far between, leaving the grey star to wander alone through visions of the past, within the bounds set by his teacher.
He must do better, the grey star told himself.
The grey star must stay in the roots longer, he must travel farther. He must leave behind the prince who was so easily tempted to chain himself with the bonds of friendship. The last greenseer needed his help; it was their fate to destroy the monsters, like knights who wielded blades of magic instead of steel. It was childish of him to chafe beneath the many rules, they were for his own good, to prepare him for the battles ahead. It was not his place to question the knowledge gained from countless years within the roots; the last greenseer had delved into their secrets deeper than the grey star could ever hope to go, with so little time left before the war began.
And so the grey star put aside thoughts of home and hearth, of kith and kin, and flew.
Colors burst across his eyes as he soared, almost drunk with joy. The torchlit chamber and pitch black cavern were a distant dream; this was where he truly belonged. The grey star watched suns rise and set a thousand thousand times, painting the sky with brilliant hues beyond those any mortal man could see; he heard the groaning of mountains as they jutted up from the earth, heard the cracking of an ocean floor as it rent apart, heard the thundering of the great wave it sent racing across the sea to crash upon the rocky shore, smashing cliffs as easily as a child might knock over a tower made of toy blocks.
Then, somehow, he was back at Winterfell again, looking down upon his father. Lord Eddard sat on a stone beside the black pool, cleaning his greatsword Ice in the waters, washing away every last trace of blood. Mother was there too; his eyes followed her as she stepped up beside his father, her eyes full of sorrow.
"Ned," she called softly.
His father looked up. "Catelyn," he said. "Where are the children?"
Here, I'm here, Mother, please— the grey star choked back the words, unspoken.
"In the kitchen, arguing about names for the wolf pups." His mother spread a cloak upon the humus that lay upon the godswood floor, sitting with her back to the heart tree. Bran wanted to cry out for her, to make her turn and see him, hear him—
You must never seek out those whom you loved.
Hot shame filled him as he remembered the rule too late. With a silent wail the grey star fled south, suns rising and setting as he flew past swamps and lizard lions, past branching rivers and leaping fish. He flew past a great rock of golden stone, whose weirwood was a twisted thing, half-dead, with jealous roots that filled its cavern and choked out all other growth. He flew over mountains and hills, over rolling fields and orchards filled with winter fruit, until at last he came to a bustling city by the sea.
Never had he seen a city so vast, so beautiful. A great river ran through the city, and over its waters rose arching stone bridges, connecting dozens of square towers and round domes. Even more lovely was the city's sept, a graceful edifice of black marble set with rows of stained glass windows. Every window boasted brilliant colors that shone like jewels, even in the dim light of dusk. There were crimson swords and amber hammers, golden lamps and emerald scales, sapphire flowers and pearly white seeds, and hidden amongst the rest, little grey skulls, with white teeth and black holes in place of their missing eyes.
But even the sept could not compare to the hightower. Its white stone walls rose from an isle set amidst the river's mouth, up up up, taller than even the Wall, casting a long shadow that dwarfed the city below. A beacon fire burned atop the tower; within its tallest chamber sat an old man and his daughter, one frowning over an ancient tome, the other staring into a candle of black glass, her brow furrowed in thought, her lips moving. Suddenly the woman stiffened, turning toward the grey star.
You must never be seen.
The grey star dove, leaving the chamber and the woman behind. Before he knew it, he was at the base of the tower, looking upon a fortress of black stone. He knew those walls, he had seen them rise beneath the hands of giants, had seen them slain by Deep Ones, the waters of the bay running red with blood.
Now the waters of the bay shone purple in the dusk, dotted by ships both large and small. He saw fishermen hauling in their nets, and fishwives crying the day's catch. Some sold the fish still wriggling from the sea; others roasted them over braziers, whence they were soon snatched up by passersby in exchange for a few coins. He saw an inn where grey-robed youths sat and quaffed tankards of cider, some bare-necked, some with leather thongs strung with metal links which the bare-necked ones eyed with envy.
"Another link for the Sphinx," complained a youth as he pulled up a chair beside them. A few scant links adorned his neck, dangling over a silk tunic striped green and gold. "That makes six in two years, the Others take his eyes. I thought with the mastiff gone the menagerie would kick the mongrel out."
"Is it true, Leo?" One of the bare-necked boys asked. "Marwyn's ship sank?"
Leo gave the others a sly look. "How can I share news of autumn storms with my throat so dry?"
Bored by the argument that ensued, the grey star turned and followed after a serving wench instead. She was almost as pretty as Meera, though her eyes were hazel instead of green, her brown hair curly instead of straight, her hands carried tankards rather than with net or spear. But when she smiled there were dimples in her cheeks, and to his dismay he felt a strange warmth in his belly and a twitch in his loins.
You must always look from above, never from below.
What was he doing? Gawking at girls was for ordinary boys, boys who were blind to more important things. It was not for him, not for a star that dwelt in the heavens above, aloof to the petty hopes and fears of common folk. He was a greenseer, a dreamer, a knight sworn to save the fragile world from a winter that would never end. One girl did not matter, not when millions lay in peril of the dark.
Up the grey star soared, above the rosy clouds, higher and higher until the realm was no more than a tapestry woven of green and grey and gold. Across a narrow sea he flew, heedless of the sun rising in the west and setting in the east, over and over and over. Beneath him proud cities shrank to hamlets and then vanished; deserts grew lush, dry basins became seas, until at last he came to mountains draped in shadow, where dragons hatched from eggs cradled by streams of molten rock.
The grey star paused, overcome by wonder. Once more the sun rose in the east and set in the west as he watched the hatchlings learn how to hunt, how to breathe flame, how to stretch their wings and soar through the skies. Across the world they spread, seeking out burning mountains like those from whence they came. Most made their lairs upon a peninsula drenched by the warmth of the sun, one whose dark mountains ringed a fertile plain where pale-haired shepherds tended flocks of sheep.
Centuries passed, quick as hours. In the blink of an eye the dragons were tamed; another blink, and he watched as the dragonriders went forth beyond their mountains, searching out wild dragons and slaying them one by one—
Then suddenly he felt a sharp pain, and the cavern swallowed him up once more.
He sat among a forest of black stone daggers that grew from both floor and ceiling, their edges as sharp as valyrian steel. Beside him yawned the chasm, its depths echoing with the sound of the cold black river that coursed through the caverns like blood through a man's body.
A single torch flickered in the darkness, casting shadows that danced upon the ground. The grey star's blood thundered in his ears; his skin felt cold and clammy; his body shook from the waist up as the world spun dizzily. He liked the cavern better in the dark. In the torchlight he could see the corpse lord on his throne; his stomach roiled at the sight of tattered skin and shriveled meat overgrown with mushrooms, so thick they almost hid the yellow skull and jutting ribs.
That is Lord Brynden, the greenseer, he reminded himself. Even so, the grey star shivered and looked away, down at his own frail flesh upon its weirwood throne. Rocks the size of his fist were scattered at his feet and tossed haphazardly about the cavern; had they been there before? He could not remember, nor could he remember when he had torn his sleeves and the knees of his breeches. Nor could he recall why his palms were scraped, why his elbow bled, why his arms ached.
Not half as badly as his shoulder ached. It was seized in the tight grasp of a hand as small as it was strong. Leaf's eyes were wide and white, almost frightened. Bran blinked back tears as the singer let go, drops of blood marking the tips of her claws.
"Too far," she whispered, eyes darting to the corpse lord on his throne. "Too long."
Behind her stood Snowylocks, Ash, and Coal, each clasping something in their claws. His stomach groaned and gurgled when they set the food before him. There was blood stew, roasted mushrooms, and goat's cheese, with a skin of creamy milk to wash it all down. Once relieved of their burdens, the singers formed a ring around the last greenseer, as if to defend his throne.
All save one. Whilst Bran ate, struggling to command a body that felt strange and unfamiliar, Leaf talked.
She began with the dawn of days, when singers and giants wandered the earth. Some became nomads, who drove their herds from one pasture to another with the changing of the seasons; other settled in the places they loved best, fishing from the seas, hunting among the forests, and raising crops from the land. Some had even lived at the end of the world, beneath the veils of colored light that shone when the souls of the dead danced to mark the coming and ending of winter.
"The veils were many colors, before the Others came," Leaf said, ignoring Bran's shudder. "When their sorcery turned the veils to ice, it only hastened the dwindling that began when men first set foot upon our shores. It is easier to kill than it is to give birth, easier to destroy than to build something new atop the ashes—"
Snowylocks cried out a word in the True Tongue. Suddenly the grey star was back in the roots. For a moment he saw a vine of gold-green light wrapped about his middle, then it was gone.
If he asks, speak only of dragons, the gold-green star warned.
Before the grey star could answer, there was a flash of blinding red light that burst across the sky. The red star shone luminous with power, swollen with strength. It eclipsed all the other stars, turning white stars to pink, yellow stars to orange, and orange stars to red. The grey star felt himself turn the shade of dried blood; the gold-green star to a rotting brown.
It is time to talk of spells. The red star gleamed, ruby-bright. Just as knights cross swords, so must we strive against the enemy using his own tools against him.
Warlocks and witches, alchemists and bloodmages, all know the true heart of a spell lies in the caster's intent. First you must want a spell to work, more than you want anything else in the world. But that is not enough. Your purpose must be clear, your focus absolute. Should your resolve be weaker than that of the forces you hope to command, they will devour you.
The grey star shivered. Is that why you need me? He asked, afraid. Thrice the grey star had strayed from the rules, heedless of the heavy burdens that he bore. Was that what the rules were for, to test his resolve?
No, said the red star, to the grey star's great relief. The spell requires you for the same reason the singers required me.
Why we sought you out. The gold-green star corrected, softly. Striving against the Others saps our strength; it is all we can do to keep the earth alive beneath the onslaught of their false winters. When we realized the cause of our weakness, the curse they laid within our blood, we called to the dreamers found amongst the wildlings, begging them to aid us in our hour of need.
And the Others heard our call go out, and slaughtered every dreamer beyond the Wall.
The grey star shuddered. He remembered those jagged spires of ice, shining blue-white in the sun, just as he remembered the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points. The grey star could not remember the Wall half so well; he was not allowed to look at it, not even for a moment. If he did, he would surely enter Jon's dreams, to share his terrible knowledge and beg for help that would never come.
What about the other dreamers? The grey star asked, as he tried not to picture his brother's face. What of those south of the Wall?
The children cannot reach south of the Wall, said the red star. No more than the Others can reach across it to enthrall the dead. Only those slain north of the Wall fall subject to their will.
The grey star supposed that explained why the last greenseer was a black brother, but it did not explain how a three-eyed crow could haunt his dreams at Winterfell. When he said so, the gold-green star flickered, almost guilty.
The direwolves, she said. A mother from beyond the Wall, carrying six pups to awaken six dreamers.
And one came, said the red star, in a tone of great satisfaction. Crippled as you are, you are still young, blessed with more strength than the shriveled shadow the years have made of me. Yet with age comes wisdom, wisdom to see the path which lies ahead, treacherous though it may be.
I'm ready, the grey star said, trembling, though whether from fear or excitement he could not say. Will we forge swords of magic, to battle against the Others?
The red star gave a laugh. No, no. You are the sword, and I the knight. Did I not say we would be as one? With the power in your blood...
The red star broke off abruptly, then began again. A spell shall be their end; I have foreseen it. We have been shaped for this purpose, long before the seed from which we sprouted was sown. When the time comes, I shall be armed with your strength and with all the secrets of the ages, and with them I shall forge the spell that shall slay these Others and send them screaming down to hell.
The strongest spells are songs of power, said the gold-green star. A harmony sung not by one voice but by many.
The red star glowered. No. The risk is too great. One voice alone shall suffice, chanting in the True Tongue with strength drawn from those who dream in silence, unknowing. I will not chance them waking; I will not have them gaze into the heart of winter and turn upon us. One rabid dog is enough, let alone a pack of rabid wolves.
Fear curled icy fingers around the grey star's heart.
A rabid dog? He asked, afraid.
Every star dimmed as one.
The Wall... the red star hesitated. The Iron Isles are only weakly defended by its magic. Years ago, there was a dreamer there, a boy of ten so strong the children reached out and called to him. And the boy looked into the heart of winter, and he was not afraid, and when he flew he laughed, and when he woke he crept into his brother's sickroom and slew him without shedding a single tear.
A vision stretched across the sky. A great stepped pyramid looked down upon the city below, each level made with different colors of brick. Near the apex was a level whose bricks were a deep plum, its terraces lush with greenery and clear pools. Upon the terrace strolled a slender girl with silvery hair, a three-headed dragon roaring from the heavy golden crown atop her head.
"Gods are for lesser men," said the man who walked beside her. Thrice her age, he towered over her like a spectre of doom, his hair dark as night, his lips bruised and blue. A dark patch covered one of his eyes, the other blue as a summer day. "Why should their laws command those whose power outstrips their own? It has always been the right of the strong to demand fealty from the weak. With a dragon at your command..."
"The Harpy and her sons would rue the day they raised blades against my children," said the silver girl, her eyes hard. "I will have justice for my freedmen, captain, justice for them and their dead. With the dragonhorn—"
The silver girl upon her terrace faded away, swept beneath a stormy sea. In their place a great fleet rode upon the waves, led by a galley with a red hull and black sails. Within the captain's cabin stood the one-eyed man, surrounded by pirates who watched as he pointed at a map, giving orders. When they were gone the one-eyed man stripped bare, save for his eye patch, smiling as a beautiful woman with dusky skin bathed him with a sponge.
"Fools," the captain laughed. "Plunder they will have, those that still live when the morrow dawns. When the Red Temple is a pool of molten slag, her priests charred to a crisp. Maybe they will thank me for it; they say R'hllor prefers burnt offerings."
A dull roar echoed through the ship; the dusky woman flinched.
"He must be hungry again," the captain said idly. "Never fear, tonight he shall dine on priest, not whore. Be sure to thank me upon my return; you know how battle warms my blood. The victories shall be even sweeter when we sail west; my brothers have dwelt in peace for far too long."
When the captain left his cabin, he was garbed in scaled armor dark as smoke, the valyrian steel graven with glyphs that shone like fire. His crew cowered before him, mute, afraid to meet the gaze of that piercing blue eye. One brought him a whip of barbed steel; others ran to unchain the doors of the cargo hold, which blew open with a blast of hot air as the dragon's maw emerged from below, the jade scales shining—
The vision blurred, twisted, the light of early dusk giving way to the darkness of night. With a terrible crash the dragon landed upon the deck, almost crushing his rider against the mast. Smoking blood dripped from the arrow that pierced the dragon's eye, the pool of molten bronze already edged black with rot.
For a moment the crew faltered, keeping well away from the keening beast and the screaming rider. His patch was gone, revealing a black eye that rolled and spun in agony just like the blue. Then the rider's eyes turned white, and one of the crew fell to his knees. Unlike the rider he screamed without a sound; his mouth gaped to reveal the stump where his tongue had been cut out. As if against his will, the mute drew his dagger and slit his own throat, blood gushing hot and red as he slumped upon the deck.
That woke the others from their stupor. A few ran to the dragon; others ran to unchain the rider from his saddle, careful not to touch the angry red wound that slashed across his temple, hissing and foaming as it ate away at his flesh.
The world spun. Now the captain lay upon a sickbed, still writhing with pain, attended by priests and warlocks who glanced nervously at the mutes and their swords. Bandages covered half of the captain's head, but he did not need his own eyes to see. When a black brother staggered down the companionway, one of the mutes stood ready to greet him. His lips twisted in the captain's terrible smile as he accepted a wooden box, opening it to reveal a cracked warhorn bound in bronze.
"I did all you asked," said the black brother, falling to his knees. "Please," he begged. "Please, leave me be, just let me sleep—"
The mute's hand cupped his cheek, almost tenderly. The black brother leaned into the gentle touch, his eyes fluttering shut. A moment's peace was all he had, before a vicious backhand cracked him hard across the face. Blood and teeth went flying; the grey star cried out in horror.
And the mute turned and looked him full in the face, still smiling as he drew a finger across his throat.
Hahahaha *whispers* what the fuck. Cannot wait to hear what y'all think in the comments :D
To my baffled astonishment and delight, The Weirwood Queen is now the second-ranked fic in ASoiaF on Ao3 going by comments. Holy shit. Also, uh, this chapter puts it over 500k words. Yet again, I would like to remind everyone that this was supposed to be a small silly side project. Things... got out of hand.
Thanks so very much to everyone who has read, left kudos, or commented
NOTES
1) Bran's growing disconnect from himself was really unsettling to write. Him almost never calling people by their names is a deliberate choice, as is Brynden not saying Euron's name.
2) The section at Winterfell with Ned and Cat was March 298, at the beginning of AGOT; the Quill and Tankard with Lazy Leo the racist Tyrell was 301 AC, when it was still autumn. Bran is wandering very timey wimey.
3) Look, if Bran still has enough feeling below the belt to use the bathroom (an issue GRRM is understandably vague about; actual sensation and function varies depending upon the type of spinal cord injury) then he has enough feeling for awkward puberty side effects when he looks at pretty girls.
4) Buckle up, I have a LOT of thoughts on that tiny glimpse of dragons :D
There are as many takes on dragons as there are fantasy stories. In The Silmarillion, dragons are evil, bred by the fallen Valar (archangel) Morgoth to be used for war against the free peoples of Middle Earth. They are also sentient, although it is unclear how. A staunch Catholic, even when making up a mythos for pre-Christian England, Tolkien was pretty firm in stating that no one but Eru (the Almighty God) can create true life/souls. While Aule (Valar/archangel of the earth/smiths) made the dwarves, desiring children/students of his own, they did not possess souls until Eru blessed them for Aule's sake. The first orcs were made from corrupted/tortured elves; Balrogs were lesser angels, spirits of fire who followed Morgoth into darkness. Based on all this, I would guess that Morgoth bred dragons from natural animals, then fallen spirits took up residence in their flesh.
Meanwhile, in The Immortals quartet by Tamora Pierce, dragons are a sentient race of immortal beings, who live forever unless slain. They dwell in the Dragonlands, on another plane of existence from the Mortal Realm; they study lore and cast spells, and are powerful enough to threaten violence against the gods. That said, while dangerous, dragons are just like people; some are good and some are nasty.
Going back to ASOIAF, we get... a somewhat jumbled interpretation of dragons. GRRM has referred to Dany's dragons in interviews as being nukes. In the extended materials dragons are less malevolent than in ASOIAF proper; hatchlings cuddle with baby Targs, etc. In the main ASOIAF novels, it is difficult to tell how sentient Dany's three dragons are. AWOIAF and FB imply intelligence beyond that of a dog, but not human level.
AWOIAF includes several possible origins for dragons. The Valyrians claimed dragons came from the Fourteen Flames, and that the dragonlords were somehow descended from them. Terrifying blood magic and dragon-human experiments are implied. Qarth claims dragons came from a second moon that cracked; Asshai claims that dragons first came from the Shadow. Regardless, AWOIAF states dragons were found across the Known World:
...there were dragons in Westeros, once, long before the Targaryens came... If dragons did first spring from the Fourteen Flames, they must have been spread across much of the known world before they were tamed... dragon bones have been found as far north as Ib, and even in the jungles of Sothoryos.
I favor the idea that dragons are natural, magical beasts, who once roamed the world. After the Valyrians discovered how to tame the dragons who dwelt near them, they slowly wiped out all other dragons, to prevent anyone else taming them and becoming their rivals. Once wild dragons were gone, the dragonlords claimed them as uniquely Valyrian to legitimize their empire.
Regardless of their origin, in the ASOIAF fandom opinions on dragons are pretty divided between "dragons are awesome" and "dragons are abominations that eat children and should go extinct again."
While I can get on board with both interpretations, if written well, in this fic I've split the difference. Dragons are not uniformly evil, nor an unequivocal force for good. Rhaegal, Drogon, and Viserion are more intelligent than ordinary animals, but still very much animals, not sentient beings who would totally read books. They are also shaped by the manner of their birth, and vastly different from each other as a result of their experiences.
