Work Text:
Visenya’s corpse was still cooling in her bed when she awoke for the last time. It was because of that thrice-cursed Alyssa Velaryon, stealing Visenya’s sword just like her weakling husband had stolen Maegor’s throne. Visenya pursued the thief, but it was too late. Alyssa had already boarded a ship with her mewling children, and Visenya was unable to leave the castle, no matter how hard she tried.
She screamed in rage. Nobody heard her. At most, several guards and servants shivered as she flew past them, seething. Damn those Velaryons. Pirates and pilferers, greedy merchants leeching off of their betters. She should have commanded Vhagar to burn their wretched island until it was a smoldering ruin floating in the sea.
It was easier to blame Alyssa than the ones who were truly culpable. Even now that she was dead, Visenya couldn’t bring herself to dwell upon the betrayal committed by those who had been most dear to her. So she blamed Alyssa. She blamed that erstwhile queen for grasping for an inheritance that her children didn’t deserve.
But Visenya didn’t hate Alyssa. Not yet.
The hatred came with Maegor’s ashes, delivered to Dragonstone so they could be ignominiously interred beside Visenya’s. She wept as she strained toward the urn, feeling the cold ashes for any remnant of her son. There was nothing. He had died in King’s Landing, so if his soul remained in this realm, it would be bound to the Red Keep. Visenya would never see him, her only child, again.
Now the throne would pass to Alyssa’s line, just like that shrew always wanted. Even if Maegor had managed to sire a child after Visenya’s death, it would not have been allowed to live. Alyssa would have ordered the babe smothered in its sleep.
So Alyssa had won her throne. She and her children danced upon Maegor’s grave. Fine. Let them rejoice—for now.
Visenya would make them rue their victory. From this day forth, the Iron Throne would bring only grief to any descendant of Alyssa who sat upon it. Visenya vowed to see it done.
It took Visenya time to learn the extent of her capabilities in her new incorporeal form. She was everywhere and nowhere all at once. She was in the bailey, and the kitchen, and the barracks, and the family apartments, and the rookery. If she concentrated, she would suddenly find herself anywhere in the castle where she wished to be. But if her mind drifted, then so did she, aimlessly seeping through the cracks in the walls and floating on the winds that blew through the corridors.
No matter how hard she tried, she could not touch anything or anyone. But she eventually learned how to make herself heard.
She practiced on a scullion, whom Alyssa’s precious firstborn son had sired upon some slut in the fishing village. The scullion, a girl named Pia, looked very much like her queenly Velaryon grandmother. It gave Visenya all the more pleasure to make Pia the object of her experiments.
It was easiest at night, when Pia laid her head down on her straw mat for a few hours of rest. As the girl slept, she put up no resistance when Visenya flew down the chimney to whisper in her ear.
You do such backbreaking work from dawn until dusk, and nobody thanks you for it. They expect you to be grateful for the measly crusts of bread and gruel they give you. Don’t you deserve a kind word of acknowledgement, just once? Is that so much to ask when you have to scrub their shit out of their chamberpots?
It didn’t take long to break Pia. The girl was well aware how miserable her life was, and Visenya’s voice was the kindest she had heard during her pitiful existence. One day, a chambermaid in her nice red uniform sneered at Pia for being filthy and unkempt. When the chambermaid turned her back, Pia picked up a poker from the fireplace and swung it at her head.
The chambermaid lived. Pia did not. She made the mistake of assaulting the castellan’s favorite bedwarmer, so poor Pia was hanged in the courtyard.
Visenya lamented the loss of her experimental subject, but Pia’s death was not in vain. Now Visenya knew what she was capable of…and she was determined to put it to use on someone of far more import than a bastard servant.
Alyssa’s youngest children arrived at Dragonstone. Visenya watched them wed in the sept. Their mother wasn’t in attendance. Were they afraid that Mummy would disapprove? Even though Alyssa had supported a match between her Rhaena and Aegon?
Mayhaps Rhaena was the issue. She was the eldest daughter, so it was her prerogative to marry Jaehaerys, the new head of their house. It mattered not that Rhaena was widowed; she could still bear children. But now Jaehaerys had gone and married his younger sister, which ruined the order of things.
The eldest son was supposed to wed the eldest daughter, so the children they produced would be the indisputable main line of the family. If the family lacked other eligible men for younger daughters, then the son could take his other sisters to wife as well. But the eldest daughter was the first wife. Her children took precedence in terms of inheritance. Then the second wife’s children, then the third wife’s children, and so on.
The mother’s status determined her children’s inheritance. It was the Valyrian way, and it stabilized the line of succession.
This was what Visenya had expected when her brother expressed his desire to marry Rhaenys as well. Aegon had always preferred Rhaenys. That was alright with Visenya. Rhaenys could have Aegon’s heart, but Visenya would bear his heirs. Or so she thought until the wedding ceremony, when Aegon declared that his sisters would be equal in status as his wives.
How Visenya had raged at him afterwards. And Rhaenys had stood beside him, smiling in apology, because she had known what Aegon intended. Rhaenys had known, and she hadn’t told Visenya, because she knew Visenya would never have given her blessing.
Oh Maegor, her strong little boy. He should have been his father’s heir, by virtue of being Visenya’s son. But Aegon loved Rhaenys more, so he threw away tradition and—
Viserys surged out of the sept, screaming into the sky. Elsewhere on the island, Vhagar screamed too.
Jaehaerys and Alysanne refrained from consummating their marriage just yet. That was wise, considering how young the bride was. Visenya approached her first, slithering into her bedchambers on a moonlit night. Alysanne smiled sweetly as she dreamt of songs and knights and a dashing brother-husband who picked her over their elder sister.
But why did he pick you? Visenya whispered in the girl’s ear. Rhaena is more beautiful, more mature, with the Valyrian look. She could provide him with heirs straight away. You, though? You are a child, all scrawny limbs with no curves to speak of, with dingy hair and common eyes, and no great beauty that anyone would ever remark upon. What could you possibly offer him that he could not get from her? Or mayhaps your youth is the appeal. You will have much more time to give him many heirs. That’s all men really want, isn’t it? As many sons as they can squeeze out of their wives.
Alysanne’s smile vanished as she tossed in her bed.
Visenya went to Jaehaerys next. Even in slumber, he exuded pride. He was a bit more of a challenge than his sister-wife, but Visenya managed it ere long.
You are a usurper and you know it. Your brother Aegon was your father’s heir, and Aerea was Aegon’s heir. If you wanted the throne so badly, you should have joined your birthright with Aerea’s and married her instead. She is only eight years younger. You could have waited for her. But you can’t bear the idea of sharing the crown, can you? It must be you on the throne, not your wife. That is why you didn’t pick Aerea or Rhaena. You picked Alysanne, because nobody would ever argue that her claim precedes yours.
Jaehaerys flinched, though he did not wake. For the rest of the night, he looked very much like the little boy he truly was, trembling beneath his blankets.
When Alyssa and Rogar Baratheon came to Dragonstone, Visenya felt joy for the first time since she died. The whelps were irrelevant now that their bitch mother was within reach. Gleefully, Visenya watched Alyssa and Rogar quarrel fiercely with the newlyweds.
When Rogar ordered the children seized and separated, Jaehaerys’s Kingsguard came to their monarch’s defense. “Come no closer. Any man who lays a hand upon our king and queen shall die today.”
Visenya thrummed with excitement as the knights on both sides grew angrier and angrier, threatening to slay each other. But Alyssa ruined everything as always. “I have seen enough death,” Alyssa declared, full of self-pity. “So have we all. Put up your swords, sers. What is done is done, and now we all must needs live with it. May the gods have mercy on the realm. We shall go in peace. Let no man speak of what happened here today.”
Then she and her Baratheon lackeys made to depart.
No. No! Why was she leaving so soon? She’d only just arrived! Visenya had yet to attempt whispering to the living while they were awake, but now she surged forward in desperation.
Die, you bitch, Visenya snarled in Alyssa’s face. Jump off a tower. Drown yourself. Choke on a fishbone. Die, die, die!
But Alyssa only shivered as she continued walking out of the castle. “Dragonstone is even draftier than I remember,” she remarked to Rogar.
Then they were gone, and Visenya could only shriek in impotent anger in their wake.
Jaehaerys and Alysanne filled the castle with squires and ladies-in-waiting. It became harder for Visenya to make them hear her whispers while they were surrounded by friends. She consoled herself with the knowledge that she had already sown the seeds during their early days at Dragonstone. It would take time for the seeds to bear fruit, but Visenya had time in spades.
Eventually the young king and queen left for King’s Landing. The castle didn’t remain empty for long. The new mistress of Dragonstone was Rhaena, Visenya’s erstwhile good-daughter, whom Visenya had pitied and loathed in equal measures. Visenya knew what it was like to be an eldest daughter whose children were denied their rightful inheritance. If only Maegor had been allowed his rightful status as heir, if only Maegor had married Rhaena in the first place, Rhaena would be able to call herself the sole Queen of the Seven Kingdoms now, mother to future kings and queens.
Like her siblings, Rhaena surrounded herself with friends…and friends. She spent most nights in the arms of her “favorites,” usually Elissa Farman. Visenya struggled to find a moment when Rhaena was left alone and vulnerable.
So she found an easier target.
While alive, Visenya had never met Aerea, born a mere two years before Visenya’s death. The child had seen nine namedays, and it was obvious that she despised Dragonstone with a passion. Aerea had no friends, and almost every conversation with her mother descended into an argument. Aerea offered just as little resistance as Pia did.
You have been the heir to three kings. Your father, then Maegor, and now your uncle. You are a princess of House Targaryen, but they do not treat you with the reverence you deserve. You are ostracized, unwanted, exiled to this barren rock so they can pretend you do not exist. Not even your mother cares for you. Does she play with you, take you on her dragon, or even speak with you most days? No, she is too enamored with her “favorites.” You deserve better, sweetling.
Days, weeks, moons went by. Aerea grew more and more defiant and unmanageable. The cruel nicknames she bestowed upon her mother’s courtiers drove her even further apart from anyone who might have dared to attempt befriending her.
And there was that messy business with Androw Farman, Rhaena’s pathetic new husband. Visenya enjoyed toying with him on the nights when she tired of Aerea’s puerile tantrums. Androw was emasculated every day by his own wife. He was even easier than Aerea and Pia.
Everyone knows Rhaena would have preferred to marry your sister instead. She kept Elissa anyway, so why did she drag you into this farce of a marriage? Because she’s a cruel bitch. You have done nothing to deserve this treatment. You are a good husband. You have never been unfaithful to her, despite her encouragement. She takes pleasure in making you suffer while she frolics with her ladies. And oh, her ladies laugh at you too. Why must you be the only one to suffer in this castle? Why must you be the only one friendless and alone?
Quicker than Visenya expected, Androw got his hands on poison and slipped it into the drinks and meals of Rhaena’s ladies. Apparently there was more to the pasty-faced man than met the eye. Such a shame that he jumped out the window when his crime was uncovered.
But Androw was only a diversion for Visenya, just as he had been for Rhaena. Visenya’s true focus remained on Aerea, whose only friend was the voice who spoke so sympathetically in her ear at night.
What need do you have of their friendship, anyway? None at all. You could have been a queen. You could be a queen. The throne is yours by rights, is it not? But Jaehaerys stole it from you, and your mother let him. If you want your birthright, you are the only one who can claim it. You are a Targaryen. You must take what is yours with fire and blood. You need a dragon, sweetling. And what better dragon than the Black Dread, ridden by the Conqueror himself? Vermithor will look puny beside Balerion.
Visenya couldn’t follow Aerea out of the castle, but she knew the girl was marching toward Balerion’s lair upon the island. When she saw Balerion’s black bulk ascend to the sky, riderless no longer, Visenya laughed so loudly that the people of Dragonstone heard her, although they attributed the sound to the ominous ravens in the rookery.
But Balerion didn’t turn west toward the mainland, toward King’s Landing. He turned east.
Puzzled, Visenya watched him disappear over the horizon with Aerea in his saddle. A stubborn beast bearing another stubborn beast. It was clear that Aerea would not be challenging Jaehaerys for his crown any time soon. Disappointed, Visenya slunk back into the shadows.
Aerea was dead. Visenya was surprised to realize she felt a semblance of sorrow at the news. Mayhaps she had a soft spot for headstrong, unlikeable young girls.
Alyssa was also dead. Visenya felt no sorrow at that news, although she regretted not being able to witness the event. Died in childbirth, apparently. How poetic it was, for Alyssa to be killed by her own spawn when she had striven all her life to steal whatever she could for her children.
Visenya hoped the thieving bitch had died in agony.
There was another wedding at Dragonstone. The bride, Daella, was sweet and stupid. Absolutely no dragon in her. If it weren’t for her silver hair and purple eyes, Visenya would doubt that she was a Targaryen at all. It was Alyssa’s fault, mixing her mother’s common blood into the Valyrian lineage.
Alysanne doted on the stupid girl. Daella was the favorite of both her parents, and Visenya hated her for it. Daella had done nothing to deserve being the favorite. She was utterly helpless, unable to step out of her bedchamber in the morning before someone checked for spiders in the corridors. Daella was a shame upon the Targaryen name, but everyone insisted on coddling her. Only Visenya could see the truth.
And what was Jaehaerys thinking, marrying Daella outside of the family when he still had an unmarried son? So what if Vaegon didn’t like her? Vaegon should do his duty, just like his forefathers and foremothers had done. He was far from the only Targaryen who was forced to wed a sister he would rather not wed at all.
But it was unreasonable of Visenya to expect logic in Jaehaerys’s actions. He had fucked up his other children’s marriages, after all. His eldest son should have wed his eldest living daughter, but instead he gave Aemon to Alyssa’s spawn, and his own Alyssa to his second son. At least Jaehaerys hadn’t been so foolish as to give dragons to every lickspittle who kissed his arse.
What to do about Daella, though?
On the one hand, Visenya didn’t think the idiot deserved to procreate and bring even more shame upon House Targaryen. On the other hand, it would be Alyssa and Aenys’s line that Daella would be shaming. Visenya’s line had ended with her son.
As Visenya pondered the matter, she overheard a conversation between Alysanne and Daella’s Arryn husband. “You must take special care with my little flower,” Alysanne was telling her good-son. “You see how delicate she is. Flowers thrive when they are not plucked too soon.”
Arryn fervently swore to heed Alysanne’s discreet request: he would not bed Daella before she was ready, if ever.
Visenya flitted to Daella’s bedroom, where the stupid girl slept alone despite being newly married. Soon Daella would go with Arryn to the Eyrie, where Daella would be useless in her husband’s house instead of useless in her father’s house. Daella was incapable of keeping accounts or running a household, and evidently she was incapable of warming her husband’s bed too.
Visenya understood why Alysanne was concerned. Daella was a tiny, frail thing. If she bore a child, it might kill her.
And just like that, Visenya knew what she must do.
Daella’s hair fluttered in an invisible breeze, exposing her ear to ghostly lips.
Your husband is kind and wise. He deserves a good wife, and you want to be a good wife. You deserve to know the secrets of the marital bed that every other wife knows. Why does your mother insist on hiding those secrets from you? She thinks you are stupid. Everyone thinks you are stupid. You are stupid. Too stupid to read, too stupid to add sums, too stupid to ride a dragon. But you can still be a proper wife. It doesn’t require any brains to perform a wife’s most important duty. You just have to look pretty and do what your husband says. Even you can manage that. So be a good wife and tell him that you would like to consummate the marriage. He will show you what to do. And mayhaps he will not regret marrying a simpleton.
Daella began to cry in her sleep. If Visenya still had eyes, she would be rolling them as she flew away.
At most, Daella would bear one child for her Arryn husband. In all likelihood, the act would kill her, like it killed her grandmother Alyssa.
Alysanne would weep over the bloody corpse of her favorite child, and Visenya would gloat to Alyssa, wherever she was in the afterlife. See how your bloodline suffers, bitch. Was the throne worth it?
Visenya was delighted by Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s great Quarrels, when Alysanne was so irate with her husband that she flew to Dragonstone so she could be rid of his presence. Alysanne brought some companions to the island, although she preferred solitude more than she did the last time she was in residence.
Visenya found less resistance in the grieving mother and aggrieved wife than she had in the young, optimistic bride. The seeds that Visenya had once sown had flourished in the years since. Alysanne was no longer awestruck by her brother-husband, gazing at him as if he had hung the stars in the sky. She still loved him, but she resented him too. His proclamations of holding her in the highest esteem were empty words. He bred her endlessly for male heirs, and he threw away their daughters if he found them of no use.
There was a granddaughter called Rhaenys. A good name. A terrible name. A painful name. Ironically, this Rhaenys had been robbed of her birthright, and the one to do the thieving was her cousin Viserys.
There was justice in this world, after all.
After Alysanne died, there was seldom a Targaryen in residence at Dragonstone. Visenya faded into a stupor, only rousing on the occasion that someone noteworthy visited. When a prince named Daemon came to stay, wielding Visenya’s Dark Sister, she became more alert than she had in decades.
But Daemon’s ears were even more impenetrable than a steel vault. He reeked of pride and confidence, even when he slept. He didn’t believe in ghosts or any higher power than dragons. Visenya grudgingly admired him for it, but it was damnably inconvenient for her.
When Daemon left, Visenya fell into her stupor again…until one day, a horde of girl-children breezed into her castle, squealing and mewling and whining about the draftiness. Daemon came with them, as did his wife Rhaenyra (Daella’s granddaughter—Visenya pitied Rhaenyra for that).
But Visenya was no longer concerned with Daemon. She had discovered a much more compelling object of interest.
The youngest of the girl-children settled into the Sea Dragon Tower, in Visenya’s own room. She chose to be far away from her sisters, who dwelled in the warmer parts of the castle. She gazed admiringly at a tapestry in the tower, which depicted Visenya and Vhagar burning Dorne.
Visenya swirled around the girl, inspecting her. This child was different. There was so much fire in her, she practically burned in the darkness. And there was plenty of darkness in her too.
Her name was Joff.
Joff.
How banal. How un-Targaryen, which was a shame, considering Joff might be the most Targaryen of Targaryens whom Visenya had seen in a century.
Or at least, Joff was the most Visenya of Targaryens whom she had seen in a century. And that was even better than merely being a Targaryen. It made Visenya wonder whether Maegor might have sired a child after all, and whether Joff might be their descendant. Visenya dearly hoped that was the case.
For a while, Visenya merely watched and waited as Joff moved about in her day-to-day. She was young, six namedays at most, so sometimes she acted childish. She quarreled with her sisters over inconsequential things, but she loved her sisters too. Oh, how she adored her sisters, even though she rarely spoke her affection aloud.
But Visenya knew. She and Joff were cut from the same cloth. Words meant nothing without action, and every action of Joff’s exuded her willingness to give up everything for her sisters.
It worried Visenya. Joff’s sisters were good and sweet and kind, just like Visenya’s sister had been—which made Rhaenys’s betrayal all the worse.
Joff was too young to know to guard her heart. She often received letters. Visenya read them over Joff’s shoulder. The letters were written in a neat but childish hand, signed Daeron. It was evident in his letters that Daeron was also good and sweet and kind, which meant Joff was destined for heartbreak one day.
Visenya sighed sadly into Joff’s ear as she slept. Oh, sweetling. Boys like Daeron don’t want girls like us. He wants a girl like your sisters, good and sweet and kind. You are none of those things.
Joff’s brow furrowed. Her eyes didn’t open.
Visenya wished she had hands, so she could stroke Joff’s hair. But don’t worry, sweetling. I will always be here for you. You just have to trust me…and only me. Nobody else will ever understand you like I do.
Headstrong, unlikable young girls. Visenya really did have a soft spot for them.