Chapter 4
On Dragonstone, Visenya had never really minded the cold.
She minds now. Visenya has never known a cold such as this; it has never seeped into her bones this way, never gnawed at her fingertips this way. It is as if there is a war being fought in her body between the Targaryen and Stark parts of her—she yearns for the heat of the South, but the cold clears her mind like nothing else. When Visenya wakes that morning, wakes to a cold room and a dead fire, she knows what she has to do.
She finds her father in the training yard.
The Southron knights have been struggling with the cold as well, but unlike Visenya, who has learned to grit her teeth and bear it, their complaints have filled the castle. They cannot fight in this cold, she has heard many a knight say. They are too slow up here, and with Winter fast approaching, Rhaegar had made his decision. The knights would adapt, he told them. They would fight until they were no longer slow in this cold.
Visenya almost admired her father for his resolve. With a goal in front of him, her father could become quite single-minded. She’s seen it before, and she sees it now. He is ready for his precious prophecy, no matter what it brings.
He is sparring with Aegon when Visenya approaches. They are both bundled in furs and boiled leather, both of them moving quick as lightning. Visenya watches a moment. Her husband is not nearly as tall as their father, and his reach is shorter. They may be matched in skill—Aegon is, after all, young and fast where Rhaegar is experienced and decisive in his strikes—but her father’s height and reach usually tilt the fights in his favor.
Not this time. Aegon sees a small opening in Rhaegar’s right side when he stumbles over a patch of snow and presses forward. He does not quite disarm their father, but instead strikes the blunt steel to their father’s side, then again at his left gauntlet. Panting, Rhaegar lowers his sword.
“Very good,” Visenya hears. Aegon smiles grimly.
“Father,” she interrupts, making her way across the yard. Ser Jaime turns at her voice, turns away from his spar with Ser Arthur. The yard rings with steel, but Visenya pays it no mind.
“Visenya,” Aegon greets, dropping his sword to his side. “Come to spar?”
“Not quite. Father, if you’d please, call the council. I’ve a proposal.”
Rhaegar studies Visenya, his dark purple eyes wary. It is not often she approaches him, and when she does it is usually to pick a fight. “What proposal?”
Visenya does not answer, but looks pointedly about the yard. Several knights have stopped to watch them. This is too public. Her father catches her meaning, and sheathes his sword.
“Ser Loras,” he calls, and the knight materializes at his elbow, as if waiting for his name to be called. “Gather Lord Stark and the Lord Commander. Visenya has a thing or two to say.”
Visenya can feel her face burning. Her father had probably not meant to sound so dismissive, but she feels the sting of his words. Aegon catches her eye over his shoulder and shakes his head.
“Maester Aemon, Lord Connington and Lord Stannis as well,” Visenya says, surprising herself with the chill in her tone.
Her father stares into Visenya’s eyes unflinchingly, despite the daggers she glares at him. He inclines his head.
“Them as well,” he concedes.
“Wildlings?” Lord Connington repeats, aghast. “You would have us let the wildlings past the Wall?”
Visenya opens her mouth to argue, but is swiftly backed by, of all people, Stannis Baratheon.
“It makes sense,” he says, clenching his fists on the table. “They have been climbing up the wall in patches. Since Mance Rayder’s army has been disbanded, the wildlings have become increasingly desperate. Some have even offered to bend the knee to my men when they are caught. From what I’ve heard of wildlings, that is rare to hear.”
“Aye,” Maester Aemon agrees. “I’ve received letters from Eastwatch talking about frozen wildlings washing up ashore. Without time to build boats, many of them have tried, in their desperation, to swim South. And died for their trouble, mind you. Our black brothers at Eastwatch have become nervous. They have to wait for the bodies to thaw and dry before they can burn them.”
Visenya’s father’s eyes are troubled. “The wildlings are no friends to the Seven Kingdoms,” he says at last. “They have stolen our women and killed our men for centuries.”
“Northerners,” Visenya’s uncle cuts in. Over the table, Lord Eddard’s eyes meet the king’s. “They have killed and stolen from Northerners. We have done much the same to them.”
For a moment, there is a still, tense silence. If she tried, Visenya could cut into it with a knife.
Her uncle has—dangerously—implied that the Northmen are not King Rhaegar’s men. Visenya’s face has drained of every drop of blood, it feels like. She is, all at once, surrounded by the knowledge of these men in this room. Lords Eddard and Stannis had fought against the crown all those years ago. Even the Lord Commander, once a Northern bannerman. And Jon Connington and Ser Jaime and her father had won, through death and pain, through fire and blood. Only kept the North, Visenya knows, because of her.
Under the table, Aegon’s hand flexes on Visenya’s knee, a warning to reign this in before it gets worse.
“What my father means,” Robb explains, and Visenya could kiss him for his efforts to diffuse the tension, “is that the North has been dealing with the wildlings for centuries, to no real avail. It is perhaps a good sign that we are all talking together about the issue. Perhaps with the South’s help we can come to a favorable decision regarding them at last.”
“Exactly!” Visenya agrees, grabbing on to Robb’s words too quickly. “Father, Robb and Daenerys and I have seen the wights with our own eyes. If the wildlings are left beyond the wall without our aid, they will soon join the army of the dead. With winter approaching, we cannot allow that.”
King Rhaegar is still as stone. He looks otherworldly, kingly—regal—when he stops moving, looks as though he is carved from marble.
“Lord Commander,” he says at last, turning his face from Eddard Stark. Visenya breathes a sigh of relief. “You’ve dealt with the wildlings during your duration at the wall. What are your thoughts?”
Jeor Mormont is a shrewd man, a smart one. Visenya should have argued her points to him before, privately. She should have warned Lord Eddard, should have placated her father. But it is too late now to do anything but watch and listen.
“There has been a schism among the wildlings following their defeat,” Lord Commander Mormont allows, glancing at Visenya. “The biggest party of them is now led by Tormund Giantsbane. The Thenns have been harrassing the garrison at the Nightfort. The smaller groups have converged at Hardhome, but nothing has been heard from them in weeks.”
“Is this Giantsbane a man who would be willing to talk, to bend the knee?” Lord Connington asks.
“I have not met the man, my Lord. But if he’s anything like Mance, he’ll do anything to get his people south of the Wall before winter comes.”
Visenya’s father looks to her. She wonders if he appreciates her suggestion. She wonders if he will even listen to her. They have not really spoken since Riverrun, relying on Aegon and Rhaenys to pass information along, or ignoring one another during council meetings.
“We will send out a rider to the wildling encampment,” her father says at last.
“Send me,” Visenya says. It comes out as a plea. “I will treat with them. Let them see my dragon, see the strength we offer. We need to bring them South. They cannot join the Night King’s army.”
“They cannot,” her father agrees. He rubs his eyes, and suddenly, Visenya can see the man behind the king, the man who has been her idol and her jailer, the man who she’d worshipped as a girl and ruined her dreams. For a moment, she softens. But then he looks up, and the moment is shattered.
“You will go with Aegon,” her father says. “There and back in a day. The dragons will make this fast. In the meantime, we will send Daenerys and Rhaenys flying beyond the wall to see what they can, see where the army of the dead has conquered.” He stands. Visenya watches Ser Barristan step besides him. “Lord Tywin’s force should be here soon,” her father says. “When he is here, and when the Dornish arrive, we will start this war.”
“Is that wise, Your Grace?” Ser Jaime asks, and Visenya turns to him in surprise. He has never said much at these meetings. “Sending all four of the throne’s heirs beyond the wall at once? Perhaps we should move more slowly, be more cautious with the Prince and Princesses.”
“We may not have the time to waste to be cautious,” Lord Eddard says. He stands as well. His eyes are cold as flint, but Visenya sees the worry beyond his face.
Aegon’s hand in hers squeezes.
The wildling encampment is small, from the air. Not for lack of numbers, Visenya sees. Their cookfires are numerous, as are their makeshift shelters. No, it is small because they have squeezed into the smallest possible space—as if proximity and a smaller target would be enough to keep the White Walkers away. There is not enough space for Visenya to steer Ghost into the middle of the camp, like she’d wanted to—an entrance, that first impression, could be critical amongst these people—so she lets him land on the edge of the camp. Shivering, she waits for Aegon and Thorn to land as well.
Their entrance does not go unnoticed. The wildlings seem to be torn between running towards her with their spears in hand or cowering.
Visenya pulls her scarf down and shakes the hood from her face. The bite of the cold Northern air nips at her lips. “We are here for Tormund Giantsbane,” she calls, raising her voice against the clamor. “We have come to treat with him.”
By the gods, there seems to be a giant with them, and a mammoth so big it looks as though it could squash Ghost under it. Visenya fights to keep the wonder from her face.
She hears the crunch of snow before Aegon comes up at her side. “Enjoying yourself?” He asks, his voice low. Visenya knows what he’s referring to immediately.
“The reactions are usually entertaining,” she allows, “but tiresome, once it’s happened this many times.”
The wave of wildlings part, and a big man comes to the front. His hair is fiery and his beard is wild, but he is clearly the one in charge, if their deference to him is an indication. “I am Tormund,” he declares, his voice ringing out against the snow. Behind him, a young woman has shouldered her way past the crowd, her hair whipping in the wind. She holds a spear, and Visenya takes a moment to appreciate that the women up here—spearwives, she’s been told—fight just as the men do.
Aegon, taking the initiative, strides forward. The wildlings shift in apprehension as he approaches, some grasping at their weapons, even more eyeing the dragons with a mixture of amazement and fear. “I am Prince Aegon,” her husband says, holding an arm out to Tormund. “We have come to treat with you, Tormund Giantsbane.”
Out of the corner of Visenya’s eye, she can see Viserion and Drogon heading North. She forces herself not to turn, but keeps a hand on Dark Sister. She must keep Aegon from being butchered up here, after all.
The big man eyes Aegon’s arm. His eyes flicker to Visenya, to their dragons, then back to Aegon.
Slowly, he places his arm along Aegon’s, grasping his forearm.
“Let’s talk, then,” he says, loudly. He turns to the gaping men and women behind him. “Oi, you lot!” He roars, his voice ringing through the camp. “Get back to your work. You want the Others to kill us all just ‘cause you decided to gawk at flying lizards? Get back to yer jobs!”
Visenya can’t see Aegon’s face, but his shoulders tense in a way that suggests he’s holding back a laugh. Making a decision, she walks forward as well, dropping her hand off Dark Sister’s hilt.
Tormund looks her over as well—not leering, but certainly taking her measure. “You’ve got the Stark look,” is all he says.
“I’m Princess Visenya Targaryen, of the Iron Throne,” she informs him. “But my mother was a Stark.”
“Part Northern, then,” the man says appreciatively. “Part First Men. Val, do we still have bread and salt?”
The wildling woman at his side makes a noise of affirmation.
“Join me,” he says. “We’ll have bread and mead. Leave your pets behind, though. Don’t need ‘em scarin’ the children.”
Visenya nods. Tormund Giantsbane seems relieved, almost, to see them here. She has an inkling that he knows what they’re coming to offer. And she knows that his offer invokes Guest Right. They’re safe, for now.
“Let us talk, then,” Aegon says. His hand grazes Visenya’s and she meets his eye.
They follow Tormund into the camp.