CHAPTER EIGHT
[ dragonstone ]
"DRAGONSTONE IS TOO CLOSE TO KING'S LANDING," Howland Reed argued during their poor excuse for a small counsel meeting. He began his argument the moment the doors shut behind the last man— Quentyn— and had not ceased in the minutes since. "We could never hope to hold it."
"We will hold it," Visenya told him. "We are twenty-thousand strong. What have the Lannisters after the Blackwater?"
"Aye, Your Grace, but with the swords the Tyrells have supplied, they are stronger. They will not allow you to remain on Dragonstone for more than a moon before they begin a siege."
"We can withstand a siege."
"Her Grace is right," Oberyn said, interrupting. "We have enough food and weapons to break a siege."
"Even so, Prince," Howland continued, "we could be tied up in a siege for a year or more. If Her Grace wishes to expand her lands it will take much longer than it otherwise would."
"But I would have Dragonstone," Visenya said, "and Dragonstone is mine by rights. More than King's Landing or all seven bleeding kingdoms, it is mine."
"If it is your wish, Your Grace, I will obey. I only offer my counsel—"
"And I appreciate it, my lord," she interrupted. "I hear your counsel and am grateful for it. But you must know how important this is."
"I do, Your Grace." Howland nodded, conceding his argument.
"Dragonstone, then?" Arianne said.
"Dragonstone," Visenya confirmed.
"And from there?" Doran asked.
"My home. The North." She had found she missed the cold dearly, almost as much as she missed the people. "I know that the Boltons hold the North now, but northerners are loyal, and when a Stark calls, they will answer."
"But, Your Grace," Doran said, "you are not a Stark."
She glanced down at her feet, where Grey Wind laid, asleep. "Aren't I?"
THE SIEGE BEGAN IN TWO MOON'S TURNS. Though it was not so much a siege as a sack. The castle fell before the day was done. Stannis' men came to meet them on both sea and sand, and Dornishmen fearlessly greeted them. In the end, with ships burning and bodies littering the sand and water, it was Visenya standing amongst her men in front of the gate.
Her face was splattered with blood, and wet sand was caked onto every inch of her skin. She wore mail forged by the finest smith in Dorne, and her hair was pulled up and away from her face, braided at the top and falling loose down her back. It too was covered in blood and sand. Her hand gripped her sword as they approached the castle gate, trying desperately to stop it shaking.
When they opened the gates to reveal the castle, her ancestral home was finally revealed to her. And it was beautiful. Each tower's top was a carved dragon or has dragon's wings, and on either side of the steps leading up to the castle were two carved dragons, mouths open to reveal sharp teeth. When they went inside, they went through a stone dragon's open mouth. She took her time going up the steps, taking in every part, listening to her boots clicking on the stone.
She entered the castle and began to explore the place she knew so well, even now. Grey Wind padded in alongside her with curious eyes. The first room that she found is not the throne room, but the room with a large table in the middle. It was long and carved into the shape of Westeros, painted to show all of the cities and rivers and roads and castles and keeps. The table made by Aegon the Conqueror. Visenya ran her fingertips over the table, over the cities and towns and castles, and picked up an overturned piece with a wolf's head on it. She kept that piece with her, slipping it into her pocket for comfort.
She left the room when she reached the end of the table. Soon after, she found the throne room and her throne. As she approached the throne she reached out and touched it, gently, as if afraid that it would bite or reject her. Carefully, she sat down and settled in. The doors at the end of the hall swung open then, and all that entered saw their queen finally sitting on a real throne.
"Your Grace," Howland greeted with a slight smile. "We captured the men that surrendered. They wish to bend the knee."
"Bring them in." One by one, the lords of the Stormlands and surrounding areas entered the throne room and bent the knee to her, swearing their swords and their loyalty. Bar Emmon, Follard, Massey, Caron, Fell, Horpe, Morrigen, Peasebury, Wensington, Wylde, Grandison, all knelt before her.
"One more, Your Grace," Howland said, and in came a man of rather stunning features. "Aurane Waters, the Bastard of Driftmark. He fights in place of Lord Velaryon, who is very young."
Yes, she knew of the young Lord Velaryon, of the boy who shared her blood, and of the Bastard of Driftmark.
Aurane Waters was handsome, tall and thin with a cleft chin and silver hair. He was younger than she was, by about a year or two, but carried himself with confidence. Her breath hitched in her throat as he approached, for the man looked astonishingly like Rhaegar. Only this man's eyes were a blue mixed with green, rather than Rhaegar's vibrant indigo, and his face was a bit narrower. "Do I displease you, Your Grace?" He asked upon seeing the wide-eyed look on her face.
"Other than fighting for Stannis Baratheon? Not at all," she assured him. "It is only that," she paused, "you share a remarkable likeness with my brother, Rhaegar."
"You flatter me, Your Grace."
"It is no flattery, my lord. Only simple fact. You do look a great deal like him." And she was not sure if she could bear it. It was like he was standing there, only a few feet away from her, and yet it was not him at all. "Now, if you will proceed."
"At once, Your Grace." He bent down onto one knee, and bowed his head. "I, Aurane Waters of Driftmark, solemnly pledge my life, my men, and my ships to Queen Visenya of House Targaryen, from this day until the end of my days. I swear it by the old gods and the new."
"Rise, my lord," she told him, satisfied with his pledge of loyalty. He stood, and again that face struck her. "You will return to Driftmark and inform your lord of your new allegiance. You may remain there, but you will come when I call."
"Of course, Your Grace. I thank you for your mercy." Not so much mercy as needing more men, she thought. "I hope that we can begin to rebuild the once great alliance between houses Targaryen and Velaryon together."
"As do I." Those of the blood of Valyria must stick together. And Aurane Waters, bastard or no, had the blood of Old Valyria running through his veins, just as she did.
SHE GATHERED A PROPER SMALL COUNCIL MEETING THE NEXT DAY. She called everyone to the Chamber of the Painted Table and seated them around the table as Howland rearranged the wooden pieces on it. No Stark wolves to be seen, all of the flaming hearts gone off to Braavos, flayed men infesting the North, lions and flowers all over the south, and newly-carved dragons and suns in Dorne and on Dragonstone.
Her small council, consisting of the same group as before, but for Doran, who had remained in Dorne, having no wish to be stuck in the middle of a battle. Her banner, the three-headed blood red dragon on a black field, hung on posts on either side of the room, as it hung over the walls of the castle.
"Ravens from the North, Your Grace," Quentyn began, handing two pieces of paper over to her before sitting back down in his seat.
The first had the fist of House Glover on the seal. Upon opening it, she read: Your Grace, House Glover stands with the dragon who used to be a wolf. The North Remembers. It was signed Galbart Glover, who she thought had died at the Red Wedding. The second letter has the bear of House Mormont, who wrote: Bear Island stands with the dragon queen with the heart of a wolf. The North Remembers. This one was signed with the names of both Maege Mormont and Dacey Mormont, and her heart stilled for a moment.
"Dacey Mormont lives?" She asked, looking up from the letter to her small council members. But they, all Dornish or Howland Reed, whose home cannot be reached by ravens, did not know. "Dacey lives," she repeated, quieter to herself, in amazement.
"Who is she, Your Grace?" Arianne asked, and not because she does not know House Mormont.
"She's my friend. Galbart too, I cannot believe they are alive."
"Are they our allies?"
"They are." Her face lit up in a bright smile. "They say the North remembers. They will stand with us."
"Your Grace," another voice called, walking briskly into the room. Aurane Waters, handsome as ever, bowed his head in respect as he approached her and handed her a letter. "A raven from Last Hearth."
Not Smalljon, it can't be. He had to have been slain. But it was from the Smalljon, and he too joined their cause. "The North remembers indeed," she said as she looked up from the letter. "Three northern houses rally to our cause. But I should like one more."
"Your Grace?" Howland said.
"We are going to White Harbor. We shall see if Wyman Manderly remembers as well as the rest of the North."