Chapter 3
Visenya’s breath is a cloud before her. She can see it now that she has stepped away from Ghost, and their breaths no longer mingle. Ghost is too large to follow her here, cannot fit between the trees, and so she leaves him outside the grove, waiting with Drogon.
“I’ve never seen so many,” she says, wonder clear in her voice. Behind her, Robb is silent.
“It’s a day for firsts,” he says at last. “We are the first beyond the wall in two moons, since Lord Commander Mormont locked the gate.”
“We didn’t go through the gate, though,” Daenerys tells him. Robb looks green for a moment, but Visenya hardly notices. He’d ridden behind Daenerys, since Drogon was large enough to carry two. The height had nauseated him, and Visenya could see his efforts to not be sick on the ground.
Breathing in the cold air, Visenya surveyed the grove. The weirwood faces oozed red, the only color against the white snow and frost lingering in the air. “Nine,” she says, wonder in her voice. “There are nine of them.”
“We have to be quick,” Robb tells her. “Princess Daenerys, you insisted on coming here, but the Others may not be far behind.”
“They don’t come out in the day,” Daenerys says, almost absently. “It’s here. I know it is.”
“It’s nearly dark,” Visenya touches the face of the largest tree. It weeps, and the red sticks on her glove. “And we followed you here because of a dream, Dany. We cannot stay if you cannot prove what you dreamed is real.”
Daenerys lifts her head to regard the sun, “It sets quickly here in the North,” she mutters. “It was high noon when we left.”
“The sun sets quickly in Winter,” Robb corrects. “And we spent too much time flying around, checking the ground for danger. We have a half hour, if anything, before dark.”
“Dany,” Visenya warns. “Stop dreaming and help me search. Are you sure it’s here?”
Her aunt visibly collects herself. “Yes,” she says. “In my dream, he showed me here. He was ranging beyond the wall, and left Dark Sister here for safekeeping.”
“Bloodraven,” Robb says flatly, skeptical. “Brynden Rivers.”
“Yes,” Daenerys says, and squats in the snow. “He didn’t tell me where he hid it, though.”
Robb sidles over to Visenya, “Do we believe this?” He asks, his voice low. “That she can see a man dead in her dreams?”
Visenya keeps her eyes on the tree line, half expecting a corpse to shamble from the woods. She shrugs. “Dany has a feeling for prophecy,” she tells him. “Like my father does. We won’t be here long, Robb. And if there’s a Valyrian steel sword lying about, we have to have it.”
She glances up. Ghost circles above, and Visenya can feel his displeasure, see his tension in every line of his body. Neither of their dragons had wanted to cross the wall’s boundary, but Daenerys had been insistent on doing so before Rhaegar arrived to forbid them.
“Help me look,” Daenerys calls, and Visenya drops to her knees as well, pushing aside snow to search the roots below.
It has been nearly two hours since noon, and Visenya already thinks they should have started off in the morning. It had been long work, though, convincing her uncle and the Lord Commander that they should be able to fly over the wall, and they’d only conceded with the insistence on having Robb join them, and take the Stark’s valyrian sword with him.
Robb holds Ice in both hands, and keeps guard while Visenya sifts through the snow.
“The dream didn’t come from me,” Dany says, while they search. “I felt like he was reaching for me, trying to tell me that he’d left it for us, for this moment.”
“He’s been lost beyond the wall for decades,” Visenya huffs, moving aside dead leaves. “And he’d be, what, nearly two hundred now?”
“Not nearly that old,” Daenerys answers. “I’m sure Uncle Aemon would be able to tell us.”
Many things happen at once, then. From her spot on the ground, Visenya sees a glimmer above her in the maw of the face upon the largest weirwood. Drogon screeches above, sending out a jet of flames, and Robb says, voice hard, “Visenya, stand up.”
There is something moving on the edge of Visenya’s vision, and she can hear Daenerys scrambling behind her. She stands slowly, knees creaking, and moves towards the tree.
“Please tell me that’s not a White Walker,” she whispers.
“A wight,” Robb tells her. “And not alone. Princess,” he calls to Daenerys, “behind me, if you would.”
Visenya keeps her eye on the wight, and pulls her crude obsidian dagger from her belt. Samwell Tarly, Uncle Aemon’s steward, had given it to her this morning, and Visenya prayed to the Gods that stood around her that it would do the job.
“I think I see the blade,” she says. “I’m going to run to it. Once I’m clear, Robb, make for the clearing. Drogon will pick the two of you up.”
“We’re not leaving without you,” Daenerys hisses, and Visenya can see her moving, pulling her dagger out as well. “Get it, and we run together.”
Visenya studies the trees. Ghost could land here, probably, but Drogon is too big.
“You do what I say,” she commands stiffly. And then she breaks into a sprint.
The snow crunches underfoot, slowing her. It is nearly seven paces to the tree, and the wight is upon her in five.
With a yell, Visenya slashes at its face. The wight staggers back and then forward again. Dimly, she heard Robb’s sword hit something, and a shattering noise.
She stabs upwards, through the wight’s ribs, and kicks it away, ignoring how her thick furs made the movement clumsy. Turning, Visenya could see two more running towards her.
The sap is sticky against her glove, but Visenya presses through it.
Her hands close around a hilt.
She pulls, and the sword emerges, red from the tree, as though it has been dipped in blood. “Go!” She yells, and swings to meet her attackers.
The blade, sticky as it is, hums in her hands, lighter than any she’s handled before. She nearly staggers forward with her first swing, too off balance by its weight. The two wights before her are just out of reach, but Visenya charges at one, slicing.
The blade nearly carves it in half.
It’s sharp, she realizes. She’d known Valyrian steel would be, but she’d underestimated its power. She lightens her grip, loosening her shoulders so as not to be off-balance again.
The wight to her left cocks its head. It looks to have been a woman, but all Visenya can see now is bones and ice over her face. In the dim light, Visenya can see Dany and Robb making for the edge of the trees, following her orders. She feels relief, that at least they will make it out of this.
“Ghost,” she calls, and slashes forward. The wight falls. “To me!”
Visenya has to flatten herself against one of the weirwoods when he descends, spitting fire at the creatures surrounding her. The ice melts under his feet when he lands, and Visenya scrambles to get on his back. He takes off before she has belted herself into the harness, and she is left clutching at it and the sword, praying that she won’t fall from his back.
When they fly back to the wall, the King’s Army has arrived. Visenya had seen them that morning, from Ghost’s back. Daenerys had insisted on leaving before her brother could stop them, and even with Dark Sister hard in Visenya’s grip, she is not sure it was the best course of action. Rhaegar, in this case, would have been a voice of reason, the only man who could control Daenerys, even to a limited degree.
Without her harness on, Visenya nearly slides off Ghost when they land. The ride had been only minutes, but there’s a cut on her face that has iced over, and she feels lightheaded from the cold air.
“Visenya!” Robb cries, and catches her before she hits the ground. She feels his arms around her, and angles Dark Sister away from his body. “Are you alright? You’re bleeding!”
“The bleeding’s stopped,” Visenya tells him. “It’s a scratch.” She straightens on her wobbly legs, and looks around. Her father’s banners are everywhere, and she when she looks up, Viserion and Thorn fill her vision.
“She needs to eat,” Daenerys’s voice comes out of Visenya’s field of vision. “Let’s get to Castle Black’s courtyard, and get some soup in her.”
Leaning heavily on Robb, Visenya shakes her head. “Is Ser Jaime here?” she asks. “And the men from the Eyrie? I need to see Father before I eat, Robb. Take me to him, please.”
“Visenya,” Robb says, and his voice is full of concern. “You look like you’re about to fall down.”
“It’s the air,” Dany supplies, moving them forward. “Ghost was scared, and he flew too high. The air was too thin for her. She has to rest.”
She won’t be able to, Visenya knows. Especially when she hears Aegon’s voice cry out her name.
Not thinking, Visenya drops Dark Sister and staggers towards her brother, dragging Robb along with her. The embrace is awkward, with her cousin still holding her up, but Visenya finds she doesn’t care, not when she can feel Aegon against her again, not when she can inhale and smell home.
“Is Rhaenys here?” She asks, her voice breaking.
“Yes,” Aegon whispers against her hair. He pulls away. “Visenya, what in seven hells happened? We got here hours ago and heard that you went beyond the wall?” She can hear the anger in his voice, as well as the fear. Absurdly, a laugh bubbles in her throat.
“We found Dark Sister,” Visenya tells him, giddy. Besides her, Robb looks even more concerned at her reactions.
“Dark…Sister?” Aegon repeats, uncomprehending. Visenya breaks away from Robb, and scoops up the sword.
She’ll have to wash it. The sap looks terrifying on the blade, as though it’s bathed in blood.
In the torchlight, the metal ripples, as though it is aflame.
Ser Jaime presses the cloth to Visenya’s face gently. It is warm, and the powder Maester Aemon had stirred in the water smells like lavender.
“You should have waited for me,” he says, voice low. They are off to the corner, away from the war council consisting of King Rhaegar, Lord Stark, and the Lord Commander. The loud voices of the lesser lords ring through the hall, but Visenya strains to hear only Ser Jaime.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes. “I wanted to wait. But Daenerys would have left without me, and I could not let her go alone.”
He pulls the cloth away, and it is red with blood. “Stand still,” he tells her, and dips it in the bowl. “It was truly a fright,” he continues, meeting her eyes, “to watch you stagger into the courtyard, being held up by your husband and cousin. You looked like death walking, Princess.”
Visenya touches Dark Sister, which lays in a scabbard across her lap. “I apologize if I frightened you, ser,” she tells him. “I assure you, I did not mean to do so.”
“You did,” Ser Jaime says, with a small smile meant only for her. “Don’t do so again, Princess.”
Visenya laughs, unexpectedly. The laughter drains from her as fast as it’s come. Her next words are a whisper. “I saw them,” she says. “Not the White Walkers. The wights. They were fast, and they were worse than I’ve ever imagined.”
She hadn’t allowed herself, when she fought, to be scared. Now, it’s all she can feel.
She is shaking, a small tremor that exists only here, only between her and her knight. Ser Jaime catches her hand in his own, under the table, and makes her meet his eye.
“We will beat them,” he says. His fingers squeeze hers, and Visenya feels the tremor cease.
“We will,” she whispers. “We must.”
When they are alone, Rhaenys kisses Visenya insistently, as if she will disappear from before her eyes. Visenya meets her sister’s intensity bite for bite, kiss for kiss.
She hears Aegon barring the door.
“We have to go down for supper soon,” she gasps between kisses. Rhaenys pays her no mind, and fumbles with the cords of Visenya’s trousers.
“We’ll be there,” Rhaenys pants, and pushes them down Visenya’s hips. “Lie down.”
Visenya falls against the furs, and pulls at the tie of her cloak. She sees Aegon sit heavily in the armchair by the bed, and beckons for him. He shakes his head, eyes far away. He looks to be deep in thought, barely noticing what is happening before him.
When Rhaenys licks into Visenya, it is so startling that her back arches off the bed. She’d not expected the heat of her tongue in the cold of the chambers, and it sets her blood alight. The times her sister has done this have been too few.
Blindly, Visenya grips the furs. The air around her is cold, but she doesn’t feel it, not any more. All she can feel is Rhaenys.
“You will never scare me like that again,” Rhaenys says against Visenya’s thigh, does not move until Visenya looks at her. “Swear it, Visenya. If you do something so stupid, at least wait for the two of us next time.”
“I swear,” Visenya croaks, mouth dry. “Rhaenys, please—”
Rhaenys lets her beg before lowering her head again.
When Visenya comes, it is with a cry muffled against her wrist. Her body tingles and she feels as if she has floated away from herself.
When she regains her senses, she notices that Aegon is staring into the fire. He looks barely affected, as though he too, is far away.
“Aegon?” Visenya asks, voice soft. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re real,” he says, mouth set in a line. “Even as we rode here, I didn’t think they really were. What if it’s true, then? All of it. The Prince that was Promised…” he trails off. “What if this is all real?”
Visenya rolls to the edge of the bed and takes his hand in her own, pulling him down for a kiss. He kisses her like a man condemned, like a man who is going off to war. “It’s real,” she tells him. “This all is. But we have each other, Aegon. And I believe we will make it through.”
Aegon rests his forehead against Visenya’s, and she can hear his breathing; rough and uneven against her skin.