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Seven Thoughts, Seven Tears

Rhaenys has never gotten along with her sister – Visenya is too stern, a strict disciplinarian. She has acted like a mother to Rhaenys and Aegon since their own mother's untimely death and that drives Rhaenys mad – Visenya isn't that much older, yet she acted so supreme, always ready to tell them off for not being serious enough. Maybe they would be considered serious enough if they spent their entire time practicing their weapons, training their dragons for battle, or burying their noses in books of sorcery, like old maesters! Visenya is unable to draw any joy of life. She must have been born scowling, Rhaenys often thinks. Besides, for a wife Aegon never wished to marry, she has too much say with him. Rhaenys might draw the admiration of comely young men, poets and bards but whenever matters of state are regarded, Visenya's name always comes up first, immediately after Aegon's. The Dragon Queen! The one who brought the Vale to their knees without even bothering to show up with an army while Rhaenys got defeated by the Yellow Toad of Dorne! It is amazing that such a fierce woman like Visenya can be such an able negotiator. Rhaenys cannot help but envy her a little. She takes more than a little joy at keeping Aegon at her side, showing her sister who the most important woman in his life is.

And still… When little, Rhaenys has been afraid of darkness. Visenya has teased her for it but she has never left her alone, not until the fear passed. As harsh and unpleasant as she has been, she has also been the one Aegon and Rhaenys had always relied on, looked up to, felt sure that she'd fight for them as fiercely as she has fought in the War of Conquest.

Aegon stirs in bed. "Are you crying?" he murmurs sleepily.

"Something got into my eye," Rhaenys says and he falls back asleep.

It is silly of her, really. The War of Conquest was more than twenty years ago. Visenya has been dead for ten. But still, sometimes Rhaenys wonders who will keep them safe from darkness now.

Aegon has always been attached to Visenya – fond of her, willing to give her joy, to do things to make her happy. But he's never been attracted to her, not the way he's still attracted to Rhaenys. In fact, he regards her more as warrior than a woman – she dislikes silk, she prefers talking of battle tactics and politics than children and fabrics. She is one of the pillars of his rule and he would never deny her that. She is also his wife, so he would never stop his marital visits, not entirely. But even if he did, he doesn't think it would break her heart. Her pride, most likely, would take a blow and she might heal it with taking other men to her bed. But apart from her small fits of jealousy and her undeniable sensuality, she seems a stranger to most of the female ways and emotions.

Now, she lies in a bed of blood, her face waxy, her lips bitten and bloody all over – both from biting them and for the bloody cough that nothing has cured. Aegon sits next to her, holding her hand, and feels the life leaving her body. It doesn't seem right. If she isn't to survive him, she should have fallen like a warrior, on the battlefield. Maybe for women, this is the real battle, he thinks but it doesn't make sense. Visenya is not like any other woman.

"I'll die," she breathes. She doesn't seem afraid, just… reconciled.

"I don't want to hear you speaking like this," Rhaenys says and comes near the bed. "You won't die."

Visenya tries to smile, doesn't have the strength, closes her eyes. In the corner of the room, maesters and maids whisper, horrified and excited at the same time. Rhaenys turns around and waves them off. "Out, out!" she orders. "We'll tend to her ourselves."

When the three of them are alone, Aegon lifts Visenya's limp body while Rhaenys changes the sheets. Now he sees that the blood is more than he had thought. They change her nightgown and sit next to the bed, patiently waiting for her to wake up.

When she does, she scowls. "I am so dirty," she murmurs, barely audibly and Aegon almost smiles. Always a perfectionist, this sister of his.

"If you promise to rest, tomorrow I'll let Rhaenys wash your hair," he says.

"And the rest?" she asks and he makes an effort at smiling suggestively.

"I'll wash the rest."

She is about to answer but then closes her eyes again. Her skin is a shade paler, a shade cooler. Aegon looks at Rhaenys. "Leave us alone," he says.

She looks as if she wants to protest but something in his eyes tells her otherwise. She kisses Visenya's cold cheek and leaves, her soft slippers making no noise against the fluffy carpets.

Aegon climbs in bed and takes Visenya in his arms. She feels so frail against him. He reaches for a piece of cloth to dry the sweat off her face but it is already wet, so he reaches into her bedside table. His hand finds something unexpected. Some grass. He takes it out.

Visenya is now awake, looking at him, and he suddenly realizes what it is that he's holding. "Visenya, these are… these are the herbs for the potions maesters prescribed to you for keeping the bloody cough under control."

"Yes," she whispers.

"You haven't taken them? Why?" he cries, desperate and angry at the same time. "They said it was vital for you to take them!"

"They also said… the potions will do harm to my babe," she answers feebly and he stares. He would have expected such a thing, such a female weakness out of Rhaenys, never Visenya.

"I am freezing over," she whispers. She's shivering now. Her eyes are huge, dark with pain and longing, and he holds her closer.

"I am warm," he says. "Hold onto me. I won't let you freeze."

But even the heat of a dragon cannot fend cold off forever.

Outside, Vhagar gives a roar that echoes all over King's Landing.

In the antechamber, Rhaenys sits with Orys but they don't seem to be holding a conversation. When Aegon shows up, they both stand up. "Is she...?" Rhaenys asks and he nods.

A wail fights its way through her lips, causing the small bundle she's holding to stir. "Oh!" she cries. "I startled the child! I am sorry, little one, I am sorry…"

"The child?" Aegon asks. "What child?" And then he realizes. With everyone fretting about Visenya, he has forgotten that there is a child.

Rhaenys make a step forward. He makes one back. "This is your daughter, Aegon," she murmurs, tears pouring down her face. "Don't you want to see her?"

"No," he spats. "I don't want to see her, ever. She did it. She killed her."

Rhaenys and Orys share a look. He seems too shaken to speak, so it falls to her to bring Aegon back to his senses. "We all mourn her but Aegon, you cannot seriously think that…"

"I can," he says bitterly. "I do."

Then, he turns back and heads straight for the door. "You killed her," Orys calls behind his retreating back. "This is your child."

We were both wrong. It was not Alaena and it was not me either. It was the fact that at the end, Visenya turned out to be a woman just like the any other. I just didn't know her, he thinks and a tear of regret makes his way out of his purple eye.

Most people fear dragons. Oh they admire them but they admire them from afar. They would decline a suggestion to take a ride. Ronnel Arryn, though, never refuses. He still remembers the feeling of the wind in his hair and the Vale at his feet. Throught his seven-year-old eyes, it is the first time he truly realizes what a great realm he is a ruler of. Be it a king or a lord, does it matter? There is no shame in bending the knee to the dragon might. Before the dragon, before Queen Visenya, a King of the Vale and Sky had been only a pretty word and people bowing to him and talking respectfully… and the limited view from the castle. Some of the other kings might consider themselves offended and humiliated by the dragon king and his queens but to Ronnel Arryn, Visenya and Vhagar have brought freedom and realization of the enormous power he has, power over all those mountains sprawled at his feet and the small ants that the Queen has insisted were people, just seen from a great height. Truly, he doubts any other of the former kings has been this fortunate. So no, he doesn't mourn his sad fate, for he is not sad. And he is never happier than when he is with his dragon princess atop her Goldentail, roaming over his vast estate of land and people that have been spared from a long and deadly – and no doubt doomed – war.

Sometimes he dreams of her still – the harsh and beautiful warrior queen atop her magnificent dragon – and a tear of sentiment falls down, completely uninvited.

Argella Baratheon still hates the Dragon Queen, always has. At first, she hates her for being so bloody effective, for practically ruling the kingdom with her sister while Aegon basks in his glory and sits doing nothing. Without those two, the so called Targaryen kingdom would have lasted a year, at most! But the three of them had come and ruined six kingdoms without even giving it a second thought. And Visenya Targaryen has been essential in this. She and her brother – and Orys! – are as guilty as Rhaenys for Argella's father's death. In the beginning, Argella's hatred is spilt liberally between the four of them.

With time, things start to change. Orys treats her kindly and is a good ruler to Storm's End. The Targaryens turn out to be surprisingly good rulers. Maybe Argella could leave the past behind. She wants to. She wants to live with her husband with love, not hatred.

Her hatred is reserved for Visenya.

They could have been happy if not for her – this abomination born out of incest, this ridiculous woman dressing up like a man that even her brother-husband does not desire. But Argella's husband does. If they just lived at Storm's End, it would be easier. But Orys is the Hand of the King. He is constantly engaged in running the kingdom. And he is always close to Visenya because of it. She constantly sends ravens that she needed to talk to him, see him. And he always leaves immediately, like a well-trained dog. Argella never misses the looks he gives the Queen when he thinks no one is watching – and she burns in bitter, helpless hatred.

Still, Visenya is dead and Argella is alive. She is happy now – she's a content wife and mother, a lady of a prospering House, the dark shades of her past disappeared. Take that, bitch queen, she thinks and a tear of satisfaction falls down on her embroidery.

He is an old man now. He's outlived them all – Aegon, Visenya, Rhaenys. He has outlived his Argella who has given him much joy. Now he can only watch and pray that Aegon's sons would be strong enough to keep what they have devoted their life to.

He doesn't think of her often but when he does, he usually sees her as she is when they last see each other – heavy with child and obviously unwell, her face covered in spots, her lovely silvery-gold hair limp, her belly protruding in front of a body that seems too weak to support it. But even so, she is beautiful, in her harsh, warrior-like way. Her demeanor is stern as always. "So, you agree that we can leave Dorne be? Do you think we need to send a new raven to Torrhen Stark? The first one might have got lost… No, I don't think the Free Cities are a priority now…"

When he turns to leave, he sees how she slumps in her chair. Something makes him turn back and ask, "My queen, are you well?"

"Yes," she says. "Never been better. Why?"

He hesitates again, turns again to leave, once again turns back to her. "Your Grace, I wanted to tell you… No, it's nothing."

"I am listening," she says and there is a sudden, rare smile on her face. Now she looks almost as gentle as Rhaenys. "Come on, dear friend. You can tell me anything."

"No, really, it's nothing."

Can he really tell the Queen of Westeros that out of all women he has met in his life, she is the only one he'd readily take to wife if he was free to choose? It would be inexcusable acting in poor taste.

He looks at Visenya as if he wants to keep forever the memory of a face that is out of his reach. Then he bows and leaves.

A small tear rolls down his cheek, out of regret for what isn't, hasn't, couldn't have ever been.

Visenya has never been a doting mother. She follows her children's progress, is genuinely interested in them but she is always a queen raising royal children to develop the best of their abilities, not a mother who could be thrilled by the fact that they has just learn how to topple a goblet over. She doesn't care whether they can say Mama or Papa, she'd rather have them know the words King and Queen. She has brought them on a dragon's back since before they could walk but she is always clear that a dragon is not for playing with, much to their dismay. She is never too involved in their daily activities and small troubles – they have the best nursemaids for that.

And still, Maegor remembers a day when he is small and so, so ill – they all thought he'd die. Visenya takes care of him herself, not flinching even at the most unpleasant aspects of said care. When maesters say he needs to walk around the room, she keeps him upright; when he's burning up, in too much pain to speak or cry even if he wanted to, she places a wet towel on his forehead. "Don't be afraid," she says softly. "Don't be afraid, Mama is here."

Even then, he knows it is a secret. His mother has an image to uphold. He draws a hand across his eyes and is surprised to see that it comes down wet. How silly of him – it isn't the time to delve in old memories. He has to deal with this new uprising. These septons should be taught their place…

Elaena barely remembers her mother - she was only five when Visenya died. Her father and her Aunt Rhaenys sometimes talk about her. Aenys does also. He does it because he thinks she'd like to know; they do it because they want her to keep the memory of her mother alive and she doesn't understand how she can keep in her memory someone she has never known.

But out of all stories, she likes Ronnel's best. She never tires of hearing how her mother flew in the castle of the Arryn Kings and how cleverly she achieved the surrender. Besides, Visenya did honour her promise: she took Ronnel for a ride. Two, even. Elaena likes having a husband who shares her enthusiasm about dragons. She likes being a great lady and beloved mistress of a land that suffers no wars.

When she thinks of her mother, she does it with pride. And she doesn't shed a tear. Not a single one.