Chapter Text
'PREFACE'
'VISENYA'
The day was hot. The sun felt sizzled over her skin like wildfire and the oceans breeze was not much help to soothe it. Though a fire cannot kill a dragon, Visenya Targaryen was almost sure that the sun could. She hated Pentos and its heat. She hated the coarseness of its dry sand, and she despised the constant smells of overwhelming spices that wafted through her chambers from the marketplace. The rancid stinging in her nose from strong wine gave her headaches, and the constant shouting from merchants trying to sell their goods in the streets irritated her ears. Don’t even get her started about the flies!
Visenya stood at the window, glaring at it all until the call of her name lured her inside.
Visenya’s older brother – the same whom she shared a womb with – held up a gown for she and their little sister to inspect in the bath chamber a moment later. He was a gaunt young man with nervous hands and a feverish look in his pale purple eyes. Though he had a handsome face, Viserys had a thinness to him that reminded Visenya of a serpent.
“This,” he began, gesturing to the dress in his arms. “Is beauty, sisters. Go on, both of you. Caress the fabric.” Viserys edged closer to them so that they could both reach out to touch it.
Daenerys tested a finger through it first. Her small, soft hand almost trembling; hesitance in every move she made. Visenya understood her sister’s anxiousness well, like prey understanding the consequences of a predator’s successful hunt. Around Viserys, it had always felt like their lives were at stake. One wrong turn, one misstep, and he could become as ravenous and hungry as any ferocious beast. ‘Awakening the dragon’ he liked to call it.
When Visenya trailed her hand along the silvery material next, it was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember wearing anything so soft. It almost frightened her. Visenya pulled away from it whilst Daenerys’ hand lingered.
“A gift from the Magister Illyrio,” Viserys confirmed, smiling like someone who had won a huge prize.
Visenya frowned. Her brother was in a high mood tonight.
“The colour will bring out the violet in your eyes, Daenerys,” he continued. “You shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised us this. Tonight, you especially must look like a princess.”
Daenerys looked up at her brother meekly. “Is it really mine?”
Viserys’ lips twitched in strange amusement. “Of course. You must look your best for him.” He turned to set his purple gaze on Visenya. She prevented herself from cringing in that moment. She felt like she was about to be ravaged by some spindly monster. A creature of sick depredation. “Your dress is currently being prepared, dearest sister. Once you are done with your bath, I shall see it be sent to you.”
“What does he want from us?” Visenya asked him, finally. “Why does the Magister host us so graciously and give us so much?”
For half a year, the last of the Targaryen family had lived in the Magister’s own home. They ate his food and were pampered by his servants. Daenerys was only a girl of thirteen, and both Visenya and her twin brother shared the same age of sixteen. But both sisters were mature enough to understand that such gifts seldom come without their price, here in the free city of Pentos. Viserys, however… neither Visenya nor Daenerys could speak for him.
“Illyrio is no fool,” Viserys said, like it was obvious. He had always treated both of his sisters as if they were mindless. “The Magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I descend upon my throne.” Visenya said nothing and neither did her little sister.
Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragon bone, and other, less savoury things. He had friends in all the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. It was also said that he had never had a friend he would not cheerfully sell for the right price. Visenya often listened to the talk in any of the Magister’s parties whenever her brother become too overbearing, and she heard many distasteful things, but even Visenya knew better than to question her brother’s judgement when he wove his web of dreams.
Visenya warily eyed the two servant girls when they brought huge jugs of hot water to the large built-in, stone baths behind her. She was right to be cautious. All of this was too much of a luxury to come without a price. But Visenya did not want to anger her brother, so she kept her mouth shut. The last time she had “awoken the dragon”, Viserys held her head under water until she had almost passed out from lack of air. Her lungs had ached for hours after that.
Her brother moved to hang Daenerys’ gown beside the entryway. “Illyrio will send more slaves to help you bathe. Be sure to wash the stink of the stables from you, Daenerys. Khal Drogo has a thousand horses, but tonight he looks for a different sort to mount.” He studied their little sister critically. “You still slouch. Straighten yourself.”
Visenya tensed when Viserys inched closer and brushed his fingers lightly over their little sister’s budding breasts. Visenya clenched her jaw when her sisters posture became rigid.
“You will not fail me tonight,” Viserys warned the youngest. “You do not want to wake the dragon, do you?” His fingers twisted her nipple, the pinch cruelly hard through the rough fabric of her thin dress. “Do you?” he repeated, more harshly.
“No,” Daenerys whispered, wincing.
Visenya decided to cut in then, stepping forward swiftly and grabbing their sister by her shoulders and gently tugging her away from her twin. “We must prepare ourselves, brother,” she coaxed gently, a practiced skill that she had to adapt to over the years. “We do not wish to be late for the Khal, do we?”
He eyed them both for a moment before shaking his head. “Of course,” he said and reached forward to touch Visenya’s silver hair in feign affection. She forced herself not to shiver in revulsion. “When they write the history of my reign, sweet sisters, they will say it began tonight.” Then he was gone.
With a shaky breath, Daenerys spun around and wrapped her arms around Visenya and let out some hushed cries. This was not the first time their brother had done something like this. Visenya worried that one day he would take an even darker turn and force himself upon one of them. Or even both.
Leaning closer, Visenya whispered sweet words of comfort into her little sister’s ear, encouraging her to come with her to the same hot window that she stood at before, the same balcony that looked wistfully out on the waters of the Narrow Sea.
Somewhere, beyond this sea, was a lush, green land, and great rushing rivers. Towers of stone rose from magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armoured knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords. In the Free Cities, they spoke of Westeros and the Sunset Kingdoms. But Visenya had a simpler name. “Home” she called it. Viserys said these words often like it was a prayer. That if he said them enough, the gods were sure to hear him. Viserys had often repeated to Visenya and Daenerys that the land beyond the Narrow Sea was theirs by blood rights, taken from them by treachery, but it was theirs still, theirs forever. No one stole from dragons. For dragons never forget. But Visenya remembered little, and Daenerys nothing at all. Her little sister had never set foot on that land. She had been born on Dragonstone, a small stronghold between Westeros and Essos, just after the war had broken out.
Sometimes, Visenya could picture her, her mother and Viserys’ escape from the Red Keep in Kings Landing. The midnight flight to Dragonstone. Moonlight shimmering on the ships black-and-crimson sails. Visenya recalled thinking about her older brother, Rhaegar, who had been, in that moment, battling the Usurper in the bloody waters of the Trident before dying for the woman he had kidnapped. The sack of Kings Landing by the Usurper’s treacherous dogs, Lords Lannister and Stark. She imagined Rhaegar’s poor wife, the Princess Elia of Dorne, pleading for mercy as Rhaegar’s heir, Aegon, was ripped from her breast and had his head caved in before her eyes. Visenya imagined the polished skulls of the last dragons staring lifelessly from the walls of the throne room whilst the Kingslayer cut open her father’s back with his untarnished, golden blade.
Daenerys had been born nine moons after their flight, during a raging summer storm that threatened to rip the island fastness apart. Stories of such a storm were still told to this day. The entire Targaryen fleet was destroyed while it lay at anchor, and huge stone blocks were ripped from the parapets of Dragonstone’s fortress and sent hurtling into the wild waters of the Narrow Sea.
Visenya swallowed and closed her eyes tightly when she recalled the smell of her dying mother’s blood and the sound of her screams amongst the storms rolling thunder. Visenya could never forget the night her little sister was born. She knew Viserys never did. It had remained in his mind and festered. That is why he treated Daenerys so cruelly. He could never forgive their sister for killing his only happiness.
Daenerys did not remember Dragonstone either. The last of the Targaryens were forced to flee before the Usurper’s brother set sail. What had been Dragonstone, the remains of the lands that their great house still had, was theirs no longer once Stannis Baratheon set foot upon its ashy shores. The garrison had planned to sell them to the Usurper, but a loyal knight, Ser Willem Darry, and four other men, had broken into the nursery and had stolen all three of the Targaryen children (including the wet nurse) and had set sail under the cover of darkness to Essos.
Visenya remembered how the knights had died. A fever had struck them years later, leaving the pale-haired siblings alone and helpless on the streets. She was convinced that Viserys had truly lost his mind when he was forced to sell their mother’s crown to put a roof over their heads. They barely survived on scraps until the Magister Illyrio of Pentos had taken them in.
Drawn out of her memories by an old servant, she and Daenerys were guided to the bath and began to strip themselves naked. The servants washed their silver hair and scrubbed their backs and feet and murmured to them repeatedly on how lucky they were to be housed by such a generous host. They complimented Daenerys even more than usual today, claiming that the Khal she was betrothed to was a handsome and rich warrior, and the best rider to ever live – a demon archer.
Daenerys said nothing, and Visenya deeply felt pity for her little sister. Daenerys did not deserve to be treated as a common mare sold to the highest bidder. But Visenya supposed there were worse men to be made to marry. At least the Dothraki are known to respect their wives. However, for Daenerys, she’ll be the first Targaryen in centuries to marry a foreign savage. For centuries, the Targaryens had married brother to sister, sometimes uncles and aunts to their nieces and nephews. Aegon the Conqueror had taken his two sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure. Viserys had said this a-thousand times; their blood was kingsblood, the golden blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragons. Dragons did not mate with beasts of the fields, and the Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell their little sister off to a stranger. A barbarian of the same filthy blood that he cursed. A horse lord.
Though there was beauty to such an ancient tradition, Visenya loathed the idea of ever becoming Viserys’ queen. A feat that he had promised her many times. Marrying him would be the worst thing that could happen to her. The children they would conceive would know nothing but the deep, clawing fear from their father and the misery of their mother. A cold and callous upbringing and a dark and dreary future. If they even lived to have one.
Once the two sisters were clean, the servants helped them out of the water and towelled them dry. They then brushed the princesses’ hair until it shone like molten platinum, while an old woman anointed only Daenerys with the spice flower of the Dothraki plains, a dab on each wrist, behind their ears, on the tips of their breasts, and one last one, cool on her lips, down there between her legs. It was supposed to allure the Khal to her even more.
When the old woman came over with the oils of figs and melons, Visenya let her dab it on her wrists and ears. It was her favourite scent that she took quickly to when she had found a discarded bottle of it once in the streets. Viserys made her sell it though so they could eat, and it was only now she lived under the Magister’s generosity that Visenya was blessed to smell it once again.
Visenya watched silently, nervously fiddling with the hem of her silk dress that had been finally brought over. It was similar to Daenerys’ but less eye-catching. Both girls were dressed in the wisps that Magister Illyrio had prepared for them, and then the gown, a deep silver silk to bring out the violet in their eyes. However, Visenya’s dress had less lustre to it, and it felt awkward on her person.
After Visenya had slid on her sandals, she peered over at her little sister. She was wearing her own tiara. Silver with violet gemstones that highlighted her lilac gaze. Daenerys was gazing into a mirror, as if she were seeing a beautiful stranger for the first time.
“You truly look like a princess now, sister,” Visenya said, smiling, grateful to the Valyrian gods that her little sister had finally recognized her own beauty.
Daenerys looked away from the mirror and to her sister. “You do, also,” she replied quietly, reaching forward to grasp Visenya’s hands in her own. “Do you think Viserys will approve?”
Visenya paused for a moment. “I’m sure he will be pleased that we are properly dressed,” she said carefully, clenching Daenerys’ hands reassuringly, even though she was herself. Viserys was unpredictable in nature. “This is what we were given, after all.”
When Viserys saw them both half-an-hour later in the coolness of the entry hall, he asked both his sisters to spin around to show him. He expressed his approval with vast compliments, never taking his eyes away for even a moment. This was relieving, but the clear hunger in Viserys’ eyes made Visenya uneasy.
Beside him, the old Magister spoke. “You have vision, Your Grace. Khal Drogo will be enraptured by Daenerys."
"She’s rather skinny…” Viserys trailed off and then set his gaze hard on Visenya. “Are you sure that the Khal will prefer Daenerys?”
Visenya shuddered under his wildish eyes.
“She has had her blood, and at a ripe age for the Khal,” the Magister told him, and not for the first time. “Look at her. Those beautiful wavy silver-gold locks compared to the lovely Visenya’s straight and silvery-white tresses. Her mysterious purple eyes to her sister’s bright lilacs. Too bright for a warlord of the Dothraki.”
Visenya clenched her jaw tightly at the Magister’s backhanded compliments, avoiding eye contact. “They are both the blood of Old Valyria, no doubt,” the Magister continued. “Highborn. Daughters of the old king, sisters to the new. But Daenerys holds an innocence that cannot fail to enchant even our Drogo.”
Viserys pursed his lips at Daenerys, who trembled in her place. Visenya placed an arm on her sister’s lower back to soothe her.
Looking towards the ground, Visenya worried of what could happen. If worse came to worse and the Khal demanded for her to be his bride instead. Then Daenerys would be stuck, destined to marry their brother in her place, to have heirs who’ll know nothing of fear and misery. That Visenya would forever be among the desiccating sun and dry sand and the flies that hovered around her face.
For both their sakes, Visenya only hoped that she was as less beautiful than her sister as the Magister had implied. Perhaps then, they’d both be strong enough to survive their marriages.