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Chapter Text

Maegor stared down at his daughter—and a distant and small part of him noticed how much she had grown since he knew her last—with cold fury.

“You will accompany me, you will make war alongside me. Mistake this not for a request, Valaena,” he rumbled.

Valaena’s chin jutted out ever so slightly, and that alone told him he was due to receive another refusal.

“I will not. Aegon is my kin, and he is my friend, and I will not help you kill him. Besides, of what use shall I be? I have no dragon to ride, nor sword to swing,” Valaena said.

“I have neither the time nor the patience for your insolent stupidity. You can work enchantments, engage in sorcery, all the magics my mother has taught you,” Maegor said.

Valaena scoffed.

“Right, well father, you’re the fool if you think she would ever teach me anything usef-“

Maegor had not allowed her the chance to finish her statement. Rage rose up in him like a tide of acid and he lashed out with one gauntleted hand. A small kernel of regret harried him when Valaena dropped to the ground, bleeding from a gash on her nose. He crushed that feeling—regret, he had long known, was a pointless emotion. Maegor glanced around the richly decorated hall and stilled as his eyes fell upon a guardsman.

“You, there—deliver her to her chambers, and summon the Grand Maester.”

With that, Maegor turned on his heel and strode off to war, leaving behind his shame.

——————

The princess lay still as stone on her bed. Beneath her lids, her eyes moved frantically, bearing witness to happenings miles and miles away, and world away, and nowhere at all. Of course, Grand Maester Desmond had no way of discerning this. All he knew was that Valaena dreamt, even as her face dripped ruby red while he worked to sew her cut cleanly. Desmond felt a good measure of pity for the princess—even could he suture the wound with perfect precision, the bone of her nose was broken, and for truth, he thought her face would heal with an ugly scar. A pity, as the princess was by no means beautiful in the way of her Valyrian brethren. Mistake him not, a plain faced Valyrian was still pretty as any First Man or Andal…but with the scars… It did not bear to think on. No, Desmond decided to focus his efforts on repairing all the damage he could. Faint jingling of armor and shuffling of feet heralded the guards as they escorted someone into the room.

“How does she f—oh, Seven preserve…”

“Your Grace, please, gaze not upon my work, it is neither pleasant nor clean and I have no wish to distress you,” Grand Maester Desmond pled upon hearing the queen (the first queen, the only rightful, queen, but seeing as how Desmond enjoyed the use of his head he would not be proclaiming such).

Desmond heard Queen Ceryse walk closer, and out of the corner of his eye (for so focused was he on his work that his gaze remained fixed on the center of the princess’ face at all times), he saw her lightly stroke her daughter’s cheek. Her pale fingers came away wet with blood. It was not the first time Desmond had seen the queen bloodstained. It would not be the last—though at least this time, the blood was not hers. Would that it was not the princess’s either.

“How long has she slumbered? Is it due to milk of the poppy, or her wound? Has she caught fever, a chill?”

The queen’s words came faster and faster still. Desmond’s heart ached for her.

“The princess fainted upon being struck some two hours past. I administered milk of the poppy as soon as she stirred, so that I might begin suturing. She is neither fevered nor chilled.”

Desmond paused, and with a bitterness he could not entirely restrain, he added:

“His Grace will be pleased to know that the princess neither wept nor cried out, upon waking after he struck her.”

The queen scoffed.

“Yes. My husband will be so proud that she has built up a tolerance to the suffering brought on by his violence,” she murmured hatefully.

Desmond sighed softly, and continued his work.

——————

The Dowager Queen strode through the halls of her son’s keep. None dared to stand in her way, and all watched her with trepidation. Her bad humor was etched plainly on her face, in the set of her shoulders, in her stride. And as she reached her granddaughter’s chambers, a mere look had the guards there standing aside. Visenya blew through the door like a hurricane. She found herself incredibly amused by the utter (impotent) fury etched on Ceryse Hightower’s face.

“Gooddaughter, how fairs your half breed?,” Visenya drawled.

Ceryse’s hands shook for just a moment. Queen Visenya smirked.

“Cat got your tongue? Speak up, girl, I haven’t got all day,” she said.

“Get out,” Ceryse replied, eyes dark and burning.

“Oh, so you have grown a spine. It matters little and less. What you want matters little and less. I will see my granddaughter now,” she announced, and with that she made her way to Valaena’s bed. 

The entire top half of the girl’s face was covered in bandages. She lay still and silent, and her chest hardly seemed to rise and fall at all.

“Have you fallen deaf? Leave. I do not want you here. I’ll have the guards escort you—,” Ceryse said, before Visenya cut her off.

“You’ll do nothing, and if you do order the guards, they will not heed you. If you would shut up for just a moment, you would know I have come to heal Valaena.,” the Dowager Queen said. 

Ceryse stared at her warily, and Visenya smiled.

“Good,” Visenya said.

Then Visenya began murmuring things that Ceryse could not understand, low and alien, things that caused gooseflesh to rise on Ceryse’s arms. She unwrapped Valaena’s face with care. Visenya unclasped her own gauntlet, tugged it off, and used a small and ornate dragon glass dagger to slice her hand. She then allowed her blood to drip onto Valaena’s face. As soon as the first drop made contact, a crack sounded. And then Valaena began screaming.

“What have you done?!” Ceryse yelled, lunging towards Visenya.

“You fool, sētenon requires sacrifice. The easiest sacrifice to make is the girl’s own comfort.”

Visenya caught Ceryse by the wrists and squeezed harshly.

“Don’t fret; ‘tis only temporary,” Visenya said with a smile.

Below them, Valaena continued to sob and shriek, even as the bones and flesh of her face shifted. Tears welled up in Ceryse’s eyes, and the Dowager Queen wondered with a detached curiosity if it was from pain of the flesh or the heart. Either was satisfying to Visenya.

Chapter Text

My mother had learned much to survive her uncle, and then, her husband. These teachings had served her well, she told me--they would serve me also. One: You need to cry when the time is right, not before and not after. Too soon, and you will annoy Kepa, aggravate him, you are only crying for attention. Too late, and you are looking for pity after the fact. Kepa will never pity you. Two: Kepa is a Great Man, and Great Men are proud. Their pride should be catered to. They should be admired, but not excessively, lest they know your admiration for empty fawning. Three: Only Kepa (and, by extension, Muñazma), are allowed to be angry. At least, visibly so. And certainly you cannot express your anger. That leads only to suffering. Four: Shift the blame where possible. In other words, lie lie lie. But lie well, or else, you may well have guessed, Kepa will be furious. Muñazma even more so. Finally, and perhaps most necessarily, never let Kepa know what is truly important to you--he will use it against you, and then take it away. I had learned these lessons well, from my mothers words and deeds and wounds. 

Growing up, my cousins did not understand. My father could be perfectly charming, if a little gruff, when speaking to those outside of our immediate family. And Kepa Aenys was so different, how could they possibly understand? Had any of my cousins ever even been struck in their lives? And it isn't that I wanted them to be, I never wanted any of my cousins to be harmed, but if they could simply understand that our lives were different then things would have been much easier between us. Especially if their mother had understood...Queen Alyssa had always disapproved of my mother and I. I sound so bitter, saying such, but it is the truth. We were women of Westeros, one would think that would be enough to unite us in some sort of solidarity, nevermind bonds of blood and marriage. Yet always there was disdain in her gaze and in her voice when she spoke to us. Subtle, quiet, but present. Kepa Aenys was, I think, willfully oblivious, in much the same manner as Kekepa. If he did not see it, it did not happen. Would that I could live the same. But in Westeros, kings are more than men, and men and more than women, and women are more than children, and at that time, I was but a child.

———

All of that is well and good, you may be saying, but who in the Hell are you? Good question. My name is Valaena Targaryen, daughter of Ceryse Hightower and self-proclaimed king Maegor Targaryen. As for how I came to be Valaena Targaryen—I have not got the faintest clue. I remember bits and pieces of my last life, and I have ever since I was struck in the face by my father shortly before the Battle Under the God’s Eye. Which, somehow, I saw as I lay sleeping. For I slept uninterrupted for nearly three weeks after that blow to the head, and dreamt of many things in that time. Primarily of my past life, with the exception of my dream of the Battle. And I wish I had not dreamt of it at all. What good did it do me, to see my dear cousin die when Kepa would come to gloat about it soon enough? 

As it turned out, I was not entirely correct—Kepa did not inform me of Aegon’s death.

Muñazma did.

“Trētala, we have received wonderful news. Your kepa has fought valiantly and emerged victorious; the traitorous pretender is dead,” my grandmother said.

The pleasant cheer in her voice belied the vindictive glee in her eyes, but I knew her well enough to see it plainly. She wanted me to react in a manner befitting punishment. I would not give her the satisfaction.

“Glorious tidings indeed, Muñazma. I wish for his safe return, and for his triumphant welcome into the capitol,” I replied, my tone as serene as I could manage.

I felt sick to know my dream was, at least in part, true. Muñazma looked annoyed for a moment. And if the broad streaks were true…

“Glorious, yes, a good word…for your father’s conduct in the duel at least. Your dear debys, on the other hand…”

And here she laughed.

“Have you ever seen a man fallen from a great height? Why, he scarcely looks a man at all, more some black and blue and pink and red sea creature washed to shore, misshapen and vulgar.”

My grandmother stepped closer to where I sat on my bed. My fists rested clenched in my lap, and I struggled to steady my face, my jaw. I was an angry crier.

Muñazma hated it when I cried.

“The smell is, of course, revolting. Blood and offal. Shit. And the brains, they smell almost sweet.”
 
My eyes squeezed shut and against my will I pictured again what I had dreamt…and vomited onto my grandmother's boots. Well, she wanted something to punish me for. That would do.

——————

I had been made to clean both the floor and her boots, no matter how bending down made my head ache fiercely. I knew a punishment was coming and I was not to be disappointed; as soon as I finished scrubbing, Muñazma took me by the collar and began dragging me through the keep. To my growing trepidation, we began climbing flights of stairs. As it happened, I had been taken to Dragonstone upon awakening, to be fostered with my grandmother. Since she had taught me nothing useful, as I had foolishly proclaimed.

“Muñazma, please, it was an accident, I only became sick because—”

She came to such an abrupt halt that I stumbled, held up only by my gown. She glared at me viciously.

“Do you mean to say the fault is mine?”

“No! No, the fault is mine, of course it is,” I hurried to say.

Muñazma scoffed, and continued our journey. Onward and upward. Every time I started to drag my feet, my grandmother would deliver a sharp tug to the back of my dress that had me staggering forwards once more. Up to The Cell.

The Cell was once a guard tower. Once whole and purposeful, it has mouldered away; the roof and most of the walls have collapsed, except a section of wall about three feet high at its apex, and seven feet long. When it had crumbled beyond usefulness, the Targaryens of old had abandoned it. Muñazma found a new use for the tower when I was very young; she cleared all the excess stone,and installed a lock on the trapdoor leading up to the tower platform. On the bottom of the trapdoor. Why would she go to this trouble? Because I am petrified by heights, and there was once a time that my father did not want to see me harmed. This was my grandmother’s solution for a punishment.

Obviously, she was inspired by the Arryn’s Sky Cells.

We had reached the room with the ladder. My breaths came quicker. The platform had always been small, what with the crumbling stone; what if I fell? Fell, like Aegon, bled, like Aegon, pulped like Aegon on the stones below—pain exploded across my face. My grandmother had thrown me against the ladder.

“Up you get,” she said, and the glee was more apparent than ever before.

So, up I got, shaking all the way.

She climbed after me, and I could hear her clasp the latch. Then I was alone with the howling wind and my racing thoughts. I sat with my knees to my chest, back against the cold wall. The gales around me quickly chilled me to the bone, seeing as how I had worn only a bliaut, thin linen unsuited to the biting winds. I played idly with the embroidered dragons dancing their way about my sleeves and throat, I hummed songs and tapped my numb fingers on the flagstones and focused on the ache in my face--anything to ignore where I was. It was no use. My heartbeat rose, and the tempo of my breath rose with it. I shut my eyes as tightly as I could. But I could hear the wind and the waves. I could feel the swaying stones beneath me. And I knew that, no matter what I might pretend, I was over a hundred feet in the air, on a desolate little platform with no safeguard. 

At that point, the tears I cried were not born of anger. 
——————

Such was my time on Dragonstone, for on Dragonstone I remained for that year. A punishment by Kepa. I was not alone, although I am unsure of how much of a blessing that turned out to be, since my company included both Dowager Queens. At least my younger two cousins were present—sweet and clever Alysanne and quiet, solemn Jaehaerys. They were good company, despite being much younger than I. I had always loved children, and entertaining my young cousins had never been an imposition. Still, I was restless on the island, and I dreamt of terrible things…

I remember wishing that my new memories told me anything about this time, these people, and what would become of us all. What they did tell me was that my family was whittled down to two people, and then one killed the other (to the disdain of many following what they by then decried as a mummer’s farce) and went to live in the Far North. I did not want that to happen. I also knew of the White Walkers, who could be killed with dragon glass (questionable, if they are made of ice as the pictures would have you believe, should the dragon glass not shatter?) and Valyrian steel. And I knew they would return some few hundred years from now. That would be something to prepare for at some point…after escaping my father. Speaking of escaping my father, I needed to find some way or excuse to remove Viserys from his court. The dreams I had been having were even more horrifying than the one I had of Aegon a year prior. The things my father was willing to do were sickening.

“Debys, come down to the sea with us, we shall explore the tide pools by the Little Mont,” Alysanne called to me, sensing that I was, as she deemed it, brooding.

“Aly, the very place your mother has forbidden you to tread, and that is where your plan to journey?" I sighed.

Her answering grin promised great mischief--typical for my youngest cousin.

"And who will tell her?" Alysanne said.

I sighed once more. Certainly, I would not be telling her, however more displeased Queen Alyssa would be with me. Just then, I heard footsteps in the doorway. 

As it happened, it was Jaehaerys.

"Perhaps I will tell her," Jaehaerys said, voice and face as stone.

"Betrayal most foul," I declared.

"Ao gaomagon daor jorrāelagon issa dombo?"

Jaehaerys and I shared a look of amusement at Alysannes dramatic cry, which bordered on a sob.

"I do still love you, Aly. And so I will stay here, and cover for you and our cousin so that our mother does not grow too suspicious," Jaeahaerys said serenely, patting Alysanne's shoulder.

Aly beamed.

We made our way out of the castle in little fanfare, this time clad in long tunics, suitable for rough activity. One guard, Alysanne's favorite guard, was charmed into escorting us. It took us the bettwer part of an hour to make our way to the Little Mont. Ishould explain--the Little Mont was Alysanne's pet name for a large outcropping that juts off of the volcano, down near the water. Think of Pride Rock, except attached to a volcano. It is far enough from the keep and from the view of the watch towers that Queen Alyssa forbid the children from travelling there. Clearly, Alyssanne decided that such a ruling did not apply to her. 

Who am I kidding, I am no better for enabling her.

When we reached the pools, Aly immediately shucked her shoes and waded in. I made myself comfortable on one of the odd black stones. Now and again she would lift up different creatures and shells to show me.

"Look, Laena! I found a Maiden's Star! And a Crone's Eye!"

I smiled and cheered her on, buoyed up by her enthusiasm. She placed a few Crone's Eyes and mermaids purses in her kirtle.

"Aly, those will smell, and your mother will know for cert what we've done here today," I laughed.

Aly pouted and emptied her kirtle. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, enjoying the sun on my face. Suddenly the warmth vanished, replaced by cold shadow, and I heard something that chilled me to my bones.

An earth-shaking roar.