CHAPTER FIFTEEN
[ the dream ]
THE DREAM WAS NOT UNLIKE THOSE SHE HAS HAD BEFORE. A dream that felt so true, so vivid, that she could not help but feel it was real. She has had these kinds of dreams a few times before, though not for many moons. Always distorted, never entirely clear, but always true. Her dreams always come true.
The dream began with a biting cold. It was brought in by a bitter wind, the kind that even the North in the winter of her childhood had not seen. It was the kind of wind, the kind of heart-rending cold, that seemed like it may never end. On that wind, bringing in this ruinous forever winter, rode something wicked and terrible, come to Westeros to destroy not only all human life, but all life as they knew it.
When she woke, it was with a quickened heartbeat and a sheen of sweat across her brow. She trembled in utter terror as she remembered, then, something that her brother had told her when she was young. A memory long stored away in the recesses of her mind.
"Visenya," he'd begun, sitting her down on his bed and kneeling down on the floor in front of her, "Little Dragon, there is something I must tell you. It is not fair to you, no child of five should have to bear such a burden, but if I do not return, you must know."
"If you do not return?" She'd questioned, a young girl so unlearned in the ways of the world and the war, that she did not understand why her beloved brother might not return. "Why would you not return?"
He did not respond. Could not. Instead, he told her, "you know of Aegon the Conqueror, our ancestor, I know you do. But you do not know why he conquered Westeros. It was not for power or fame or glory. It was because he had a dream. A dream, Visenya, of a long winter. The longest, coldest winter, with a bitter wind gusting in from the north. On that wind rode a great evil, come to destroy the world of the living. Aegon called this dream 'The Song of Ice and Fire.'
"Since Aegon, every Targaryen king has told his heir of Aegon's dream. Our father told me when I came of age, and had I more time, I would tell Aegon. But he is only a babe. You, Visenya, are our family's only hope to carry on this warning. You are my heir, and I am telling you. If I do not return, you must know."
She, a child, had not known then her brother's plans. She knew not his scheme to take the throne from their father, who had become increasingly unhinged, if he managed to quash the rebellion and live to see the end. She knew nothing of the weight on Rhaegar's shoulders, nor that he himself had dreamt Aegon's dream.
Back then, she did not stop to wonder why Rhaegar might name her his heir until Aegon came of age, rather than her older brother Viserys, who though only a child, had begun exhibiting rather worrying fits of rage and bouts of pure cruelty.
"When this winter comes, a Targaryen must sit the Iron Throne. A king," he'd paused then, considering it, before giving her a small smile and amending, "or a queen, strong enough to unite the realm against the cold and dark."
"I don't understand," she'd said, brows furrowed as her child's mind tried to comprehend what her brother was telling her. She had no idea what he was really telling her: that if he did not return from the Trident, it would be her shoulders that both their house and the lives of all in Westeros would rest on. That it would be her duty to unite the realm against the cold, to become their queen and lead them in their fight against the dark, should the dream come true.
"I know," he said as he rose to his feet and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "But one day, you will. I must go now, Little Dragon. I love you."
He'd gone, then, to fight Robert Baratheon on the Trident. It was the last time she'd ever seen him.
Her dream had been nearly identical to Aegon's, exactly how Rhaegar had described it. Identical to Aegon's, and, as she thought of it, to the dream her brother must have had, all of those years ago. It struck fear like she had never felt it into her heart.
She has had this sort of dream many times before. Over her life, she has dreamed untold dreams that in time came true. She has dreamed of dying wolves, crowned stags, and prowling lions. She has dreamed of fire, and blood, and dragons waking from stone.
Never once had she ever given any credence to these dreams, always dismissing them as dreams and nothing more, though she has suspected there might be some truth to them. She could deny this dream. It was true, she knew it. In her heart, she knew it.
I understand now, Rhaegar. I understand.
BY THE WEEK'S END, THEIR SHIPS WERE READY. They would sail from Dragonstone to Wyl by way of the Sea of Dorne, where they would land and continue on horseback to Riverrun. Only Howland and Aurane Waters would accompany her, for Dacey had sailed already for White Harbour to organize the Northern forces, and Oberyn was to remain on Dragonstone with the rest of her council, to hold the castle and rule with them in her stead.
The morning they were to leave, she headed for the dock to where her ship would be waiting for her, sail donning her sigil in bright colours for all to see. As if to say, the dragons are here. You won't be rid of us so easily. And now I am coming for you.
Before she reached the dock, though, before she even passed through the Great Hall, she was stopped by the Baratheon boy, Gendry. "Your Grace, if I might have a word." He held something in his hands, though she could not tell what. "I know you are on your way. I won't keep you long."
"Of course. What is it?"
"Prince Oberyn told me that you haven't got any armour, only mail. And while a shirt of mail is effective, a good suit of armour is far better." He held up what he had in his hands, and showed it to her. It was a breastplate, smooth and well forged, with her three-headed dragon sigil covering it. The detail in the work took her breath away. "There is more, of course. A full suit. And, I made sure to make you a much better sword."
"It is beautiful, Gendry," she said, a bit breathless, "thank you."
"I just wanted to repay you for letting me stay, even though I have the blood of your enemies." He had such honest eyes, this boy, and a kind face. He was both nothing and everything like his father, the enemy of her house. This boy was both a Baratheon and not. The blood but not the name, nor the allegiance.
"There is no need. A friend of my sister is a friend of mine, no matter their parentage." Her hand came up to rest on his shoulder. "You may have the look of him, but you are not the man that slew my brother. You are not the man who stole my family's throne. You are my smith, and, should you want it, when I sit the throne, you shall be Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End."
His eyes grew wide with the promise of everything he had never known. "I don't know what to say." Neither would anyone else who had been raised in the gutters of Flea Bottom, only to be offered a lordship and one of the greatest keeps in Westeros.
"An oath of loyalty to your queen will suffice as a thank you," she told him, a small smile on her lips.
"Of course, Your Grace."
Her smile widened, just a little. "House Targaryen and House Baratheon have been friends since the time of Aegon the Conqueror and his closest companion, Orys Baratheon. It is only sensible that this friendship be restored." And, an ally in Storm's End is invaluable.
"I. . . thank you, Your Grace."
She only nodded in response, and offered her hand for him to shake. He did, and with that they parted, him leaving her with the promise of delivering her full suit of armour to her ship so she could take it with her.
On the dock she was greeted by Oberyn, waiting by her ship to bid her farewell. He was, as always, clad in a golden tunic and pants, though with the cold of Dragonstone and the coming winter he had tied the laces to his collarbone, hiding his ever-distracting chest. Thank the gods.
"My Queen," he greeted, inclining his head, playing the part of the respectful prince.
"Prince Oberyn," she replied, hands clasped behind her back as she slowed to a halt before him. "Come to see us off?"
A charming smile pulled his lips upward as he shook his head. "I have come to see you off, My Queen."
"Oberyn," she said, a warning.
"As a friend and member of your council, of course." His smile only widened, forming itself into a smirk.
"Of course," she echoed, her expression still skeptical.
They stared at each other like that for a while, until finally it got to be too much, and both cracked a smile and shared a quiet laugh. Visenya, still chuckling, stepped forward and opened her arms to him. He stepped into her embrace and returned it easily. In his ear, she muttered, "Jon is alive."
A breath left him in sudden realization. "Ah. Then I wish both of you the best, Visenya."
"Thank you," she whispered in return. "You have been a better friend than I could ever hope for. If there is ever anything I can do to increase your happiness, do not hesitate to ask. It will be yours."
"Thank you. But now, I have something for you." With a quick peck on the cheek, Oberyn slipped away from her and gestured to a servant that had been waiting patiently for the prince to call him over. The young boy stepped forward, a small wooden box in hand, and presented it to Oberyn, who opened the lid and retrieved the contents from inside. What he showed to her took her breath away.
In his hands he held Aegon the Conqueror's crown. A simple circlet of Valyrian steel, set with large, square-cut rubies all the way around. "It arrived this morning from my brother in Dorne, where it was lost to King Daeron years ago. It was found by a Dornishman and kept in Sunspear all these years. Doran said that he wished to be certain of what kind of queen you would be before he gave it to you. Now, it is yours."
Oberyn raised the crown over her head and brought it to rest over her brow. It settled there, heavy, but. . . right. It felt as if it belonged there, as if it were always meant to rest on her head.
Oberyn bowed his head, and muttered, "My Queen."
"Thank you, Oberyn," she said, her family's history resting on her brow.
IT WAS A LONG SAIL TO WYL, AND SHE SAVOURED EVERY MOMENT. Though she wished Oberyn were with her, or Dacey, or Arianne, she still enjoyed each minute she spent on the Narrow Sea. The wind whipping through her hair, the taste of salt in the air, and the waves rocking the ship only added to her enjoyment, though some of the others who had joined her did not quite agree, spending a good portion of the journey hunched over the edge, hurling their dinner into the water.
"You might've done well to be born a Velaryon," Aurane Waters commented, upon seeing her broad smile, "you would be able to spend all of your days at sea."
"I do have Velaryon blood," she reminded him, "though it is rather distant now."
Not since Lady Alyssa Velaryon wed Aenys Targaryen had there been a Velaryon in her direct bloodline. Yet still, the seafaring desire of House Velaryon lived on inside of her. Or, perhaps, it was the blood of the dragonriders, longing to take to the skies and finding only the sea instead.
"Lady Alyssa," Aurane said, to which she nodded. "A formidable woman, or so the histories say."
"The women in both of our families have all been quite formidable," she reminded him, "Aegon's sisters, Alysanne, Rhaenyra, Laena, the list goes on."
Visenya and Rhaenys, who had an equal hand in the Conquest of Westeros, conquerors in their own right. The Good Queen Alysanne, the last queen to have nearly equal power to the king. Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, one of many women to be robbed of their birthrights, but who stayed fearsome as ever, riding the Red Queen Meleys. Rhaenyra, the named heir usurped by her brother, who fought tooth and nail to take what was rightfully hers atop the golden Syrax.
Rhaena Targaryen, daughter of Alyssa and Aenys, the Queen in the West, then the Queen in the East. Aerea Targaryen, who stole Balerion the Black Dread and disappeared on his back. Laena Velaryon, who claimed Vhagar, and her daughters, Baela and Rhaena. Daena the Defiant, who had refused to allow her brother Baelor to control her. Her own mother, Rhaella, the strongest soul she had ever known, for braving her father and managing to always have a smile to spare for her children.
"And when they write the histories of these years, your name will be added to the list."
Her name, written at the end of a long list of formidable, resolute, resilient Valyrian women that she would be sure a maester chronicles once she was queen. Her name, written in the histories for coming generations to read. It was a burden that few have had to bear, and one that Visenya did not take lightly.
"They will not write that I failed." She would not be another Queen Who Never Was or Half Year Queen. Another Targaryen woman would not be denied what was rightfully hers again. She would build on her family's legacy and honour the other queens who should have been, the queens who were robbed of their birthright and ridiculed, tormented, tortured, murdered. She would win this war as much for the dead as for the living. She would win this war to rid the realm of injustice, and to rebuild House Targaryen to its former glory.
The dragons would not fall again.
"No," Aurane agreed, "I do not think they will."