Godswood, Winterfell - The North - 1 Day before the Battle
The big battle was almost there, the days had passed and the army of the undead was almost outside the gates of Winterfell. Everyone was ready, many were nervous but very few truly showed it.
Visenya was one of those who continued normally, just double-checking that everything would go according to plan. She spent her time with her loved ones and at night, she was plagued by the same dream; the dream of her death.
She hid any thoughts behind a small smile and used all of her training across the years to keep her mind focused on the present tasks and not what was meant to happen later on.
That particular evening, Visenya was informed that Bran wished to see her at the Godswood; the rather sacred place of the Northerners and the Starks, a sacred place she never expected to visit.
A real weirwood tree was right in the middle of it, the old carved faces staring back at her as she approached. She had never seen a weirwood tree before and she found herself slowing down, having this odd feeling that they were truly watching her; judging her for her actions.
Her Lannister guard had remained outside, for she did not wish to come with any hostilities into such sacred ground. Visenya had learnt about all kinds of religions when she travelled to Essos, specifically Braavos, and she respected them all; as long as they did not force themselves on others.
Perhaps that was the main reason she never liked the Faith of the Seven.
For it had come with the Andals and was forced upon the Kings of each Westerosi Realm, eventually leading to the massacre of hundreds of innocent Children of the Forest.
Speaking of them, they had made their home around the ancient tree but her approach had drawn them out. They stared at her as she approached, some checking from a distance but a few were brave enough to take a few steps closer.
Bran was sitting by his wheelchair close to the base of the tree, watching her with the same distant and emotionless look he seemed to have.
"Lady Visenya," he greeted, his voice not always matching his face.
"Lord Bran," she greeted back as she came to a halt a respectful distance from him but took notice of the clothed item lying on his lap.
"I am no Lord. I cannot take such titles as the Three-Eyed Raven," he informed her, not once offended that she had gone with the safest and most common option in addressing him.
Something about his 'title' made her want to scoff but she did not let it happen. It was this whole idea that simply complicated her life, by bringing her gifts to the surface and forcing her to expose them to everyone around her.
She was a believer, having seen a lot of things over the years but she still did not like how Bran carried himself; or the little care he seemed to have for family or certain issues. Sure, he was supposed to be this solitary man meant to re-watch the past but Visenya believed he could be more.
Sensing movement around her, her eyes scanned the space by her left and by her right; only to see a few Children of the Forest having approached her. They were the size of a human child but fully into adulthood for their species.
Their skin was in the shade of nut-brown and it was dappled like a deer's with paler spots. Their hands, Visenya had noticed, only possessed three fingers and a thumb, with sharp black claws instead of nails.
Their ears were unusually large and she remembered tales about them, about their hearing being so sensitive that they could pick up sounds no human ever could. Their eyes had this mixture of green and gold but their pupils were slit like a cat's.
The Dragoness remembered reading about them as a child, always unhappy with how they were almost wiped out for good by the Andals.
She had taken inspiration from them when she had her bow made and she had spent some of her more childish younger years wishing to meet them.
Now that she did, she could still feel this childish excitement within her but it was weaker than the flame on a dying candle. It was there but it could never resurface, never become what it used to be.
She had long learnt to suppress that childhood, to lock away those thoughts and dreams she used to have as a child; letting them slowly wither away until they were barely there. That was the only choice she had, to face the world for what it truly was.
That was the only way she could handle the burdens she chose to carry for the sake of her family and the realm. Sometimes, she did miss those good times but she had long learnt to accept the situation that the years had passed and time did not turn back.
She arched an eyebrow when one of the Children sniffed her and then pulled a face while taking a few steps back. The Child said something in their language, its companions nodding and only increasing Visenya's curiosity.
"They say you stink of Dragon," Leaf said, being the only Child that could speak the common tongue of men.
The comment made her look at the other Children of the Forest, trying hard not to get offended.
"I see," was her reaction, unsure whether they truly meant it or if it was not a very accurate translation.
"They do not mean it literally," Leaf informed her, amused by her reaction. "Your blood smells of Dragon. Your niece smells the same but you smell way more."
Blood of the Dragon isn't what our family used to say? she mentally asked herself, somehow finding the connection rather unexpected and even odd.
Visenya chose not to continue with this... discussion if one could call it that. Instead, her unique eyes moved to lock with Bran's brown ones.
"I was surprised that you requested my presence, here of all places," she said, speaking the truth.
"It was long due we properly met for this. I needed a quiet place, away from prying eyes."
Do you mean Tywin? Or someone else who has been keeping tabs on me? she wondered but did not ask anything out loud, for she suspected he was not going to answer her.
He gave the impression that he did not care enough to participate or involve himself, speak of others or expose any of their secrets. That was simultaneously both a bad but also a good thing.
"Mayhap it was time," she commented, for she honestly did not know what Bran was or could do, let alone ever thought she would have to meet him. "I believe it has to do with the item on your lap?"
"Yes," he answered her as he slowly lifted the elongated item, which was wrapped in an old white cloth.
Based on the size of it, Visenya suspected it to be some kind of weapon; most likely a sword, although it was rather short compared to common swords.
She did not say something, instead waited for Bran to continue for he had proven to be someone, who was not in a hurry to get to the chase or speak long sentences. Of course, Visenya was not the biggest fan of it but she had taught herself to be patient.
"This belonged to the previous Three-Eyed Raven before me, who was my teacher before he passed me the mantle," he explained. "He made me promise to hand it to his rightful heir, so it can go back to its family."
The Dragoness took a few steps towards the crippled boy and then gently took the weapon he held in his extended arms. She took two steps back and balanced the item in one hand as she slowly removed the white cloth.
As she had speculated, it was a sword but not any kind of sword.
The pommel was bright orange, designed to look like burning flames while a red bright jewel was in the middle of the cross-guard. The blade itself was thin and narrow, the design of it had a unique pattern that only one type of metal possessed; Valyrian Steel.
Visenya gently passed her three primary fingers above the sword, recognising it even though she had never seen it in person until now.
"Dark Sister," she mumbled, her face not hiding her surprise and shock at holding the sword of her family that had long been considered lost.
She could not help but smile faintly at holding it, knowing that it had finally returned to where it belonged. Her family had long lost things, their dragons to begin with, then their power, titles, and lands.
Their swords even were lost and Dragon Heart was the only one that had survived because it had stayed with Visenya and she never let anyone near it; other than Tywin and the Lion cubs.
This sword was originally held by her namesake Visenya I, sister of Aegon. Maegor the Cruel took it next, followed by Jaehaerys I and Baelor.
The husband of her predecessor, Daemon Targaryen, also carried that blade while his brother; Viserys I carried Blackfyre.
Even the famous Dragonknight once held that sword and the last person to have it, before it disappeared...
"Brynden Rivers," she added after a prolonged silence. Her eyes opened wider and she looked at Bran, as pieces in her mind finally started to fall into place. "The Three-Eyed Raven before you... it was Brynden Rivers, wasn't it?"
Bran nodded his head.
"He was." A small pause, taking his time to continue. "He spoke often of you while I was training... he kept an eye on you all those years. Said you were chosen to carry the Dreamer's gift like he was chosen to become the Three-Eyed Raven."
Fitting, she thought since Brynden was often gossiped about, people saying that he worked with sorcery and the dark arts; some going as far as saying he could transform into mist or animals and spy on people through ravens.
Visenya thought back to that vision she had, of seeing Brynden trapped in huge roots; weak and pale. His words echoed loudly in her mind, as if not more than a year had passed ever since she saw that vision.
"Well, that is comforting," she said with mild sarcasm.
Truthfully, she was quite tired of gifts, chosen ones, family drama, and endless death. In the past, she had managed to have at least some kind of normal life but ever since she stepped into Winterfell; she felt she would never be able to achieve that again.
Yet, the Dragoness kept thinking about those words; specifically, a part of them that she had yet to fully understand.
...you must awaken it...
The question though was one. Awaken what?
She had yet to find an answer to it, although after riding Rhaegal; she suspected it had something to do with the dragons. She was not 100% sure, though, for she felt there was more behind it or at least something grander should have taken place.
"Such gifts are not given to anyone and those that are chosen to carry it, must first pay the price to truly understand its purpose," Bran said and glanced at his legs for a moment. "I had to lose my ability to walk, to learn how to fly through the eyes of ravens. You had to survive through tragedies, to learn how your dreams work," he continued and she parted her lips to argue, but he did not let her. "Hadn't you dreamt of the Long Night all those times, you would not have believed your niece's letter nor had persuaded your Lord Husband to agree to the meeting."
This made her close her mouth and press her lips into a thin line, as she thought about it. Truth be told, the dreams she had did play a big role in certain things. Specifically, dreams about the Long Night and the Undead Army.
Of course, they still sucked for one to have them and they were more torture than a blessing; although they did help, to a certain extent.
In the end, she could not help but scoff faintly.
"Mayhap," she agreed and tried not to let that sad smile appear on her lips as she remembered something.
"Your dreams are a gift, Visenya but I believe only paired with that sharp mind of yours do they truly work," Rhaella had told her as she hugged her younger sister from behind, the day she had saved Rhaegar during that tourney by taking his place.
Rhaella always considered them a gift and for a time in her life, Visenya did think of them as such. However, after dreaming of Rhaella's death and after her passing; the Dragoness stopped seeing them as anything more than a curse.
She felt a sharp pain coming from her chest and she recognised it, unfortunately. It was that sharp panging feeling that came when she thought of someone she held dear but was no longer alive.
It was that small part of grief that would never heal, never go away and would always be there; to torture her slowly and faintly at random times when it would be triggered by something.
She took a deep breath and exhaled, doing her best to stay focused as Bran and the Children of the Forest were watching her.
"I should thank you then. For returning my family's sword to me," Visenya said after she had let them all remain in silence, waiting for her to say something more.
Bran nodded his head.
"You should go and prepare. Tomorrow is a big day, for all of us."
This made her frown, wondering if Bran somehow knew about her dream but he did not seem willing to say anything else. She did not chase it either and merely nodded her head before leaving.
She already had a Valyrian sword but she knew another Dragon, who did not and was the next one worthy to carry it... Trystan.
Winterfell, The North — 1 Day before the Big Battle - Night
The last night before the fight for humanity's future was very different from the previous ones. Since no one truly knew the outcome or who would survive the upcoming battle, many had chosen to celebrate it properly.
Inside Winterfell, the Northern Lords and the Free Folk were drinking while music was playing. They made sure to enjoy their last night together for by the crack of dawn the day after the battle, many might not be able to share a drink with the person by their right.
However, they were not the only ones for almost all the soldiers that had gathered; had chosen to celebrate. It was, after all, a sort of custom for men when they were at war.
Surprising many Lords, the soldiers chose to mingle for that single night. Despite their camps being at different parts of the old castle, the men had moved between camps and joined around the burning campfires.
Wine and ale were passed around nonstop and many sat side by side, like two old friends. Some that had a little bit of rivalry kept a safe distance but did exchange words, often making the other promise not to perish in battle so they could meet properly on the battlefield again.
Jokes were thrown all around, but as the time was slowly passing and the sky was becoming darker; it was becoming more evident that in this battle it was them against the undead. Slowly, on that night, which house sigil you carried on your armour and shield seemed insignificant.
Eventually, the tradition continued and many started to sing. Some songs like The Bear and the Maiden were not that popular but even those that did not know it; either tried to join or simply enjoyed listening to their fellow companions singing off-tune.
Even Lord Renly's Ride came up eventually, displeasing some Stormlands' soldiers but their minds were too focused on alcohol and the feeling of impending doom; to truly react to it.
It was not long before The Rains of Castamere started to play as well. It was a song that every single soldier knew and almost every single soldier joined to sing, with the exceptions being the Dornish; although some did not hide the fact that they enjoyed the haunting but catchy beat.
Meanwhile...
Daenerys stepped outside in the night cold, her white furred clothes keeping her protected against the low temperatures and chilly winds.
Inside, people were still celebrating but she did not feel like joining.
She did attempt it at first but it was becoming evident that she was not welcomed there. She tried but the looks she was given passed the message clearer than words ever could. It was not the best feeling, getting rather tired of being treated like an outsider.
She was like them, born in Westeros but was forced to flee. She had Targaryen blood in her veins, the same blood their kings and Queens had. Yet, in their eyes, she was anything but Westerosi.
A heavy sigh left her lips as she looked to the night sky, seeing the white snowflakes gently falling while riding the wind currents.
Sometimes, she did miss Essos.
Sure, she had her troubles there with the slave masters and the Sons of the Harpy but at least the people there wanted her, they respected her and were happy to serve her. A part of her started to wonder if all this, the conquest and the throne were truly worth it.
"Not a big fan of celebrations?" a familiar male voice was heard as Tyrion moved to stand by her side.
In his hand, he held a rather big wooden mug filled with wine. It was unknown how many of those he had already emptied or was willing to empty before he would go to sleep.
"Hard to be when no one wants you present," she confessed, doing her best to hide her emotions and not truly show how she felt on the subject. She took notice of the wooden mug. "I see you are back to drinking."
"Only for tonight. They kept me away from the wine for weeks now, I believe I deserve it for my self-control," he said, an attempt to joke that was so like him. He lifted the mug towards her. "Perhaps you would like some. It does help, you know."
Yet, Daenerys shook her head in denial.
"No, I am fine without it," she said and looked forward again. "I just wish for this battle to be over and then I can gather my forces and head for King's Landing. It is about time I take what is rightfully mine."
Tyrion bit his lips to hold back any comments that were not rightfully thought. He understood her need to claim the Iron Throne and in a way, he did support her. However, he was not 100% by her side for a few reasons.
One, he had seen how cruel she could be and how easily she used her dragons to establish her power and force her will upon those who argued with her. Second, he knew that his family would pay the ultimate price if they were to go into open war against her.
It was one more reason why Tyrion accepted being Daenerys' Hand, in hopes that he would persuade her and somehow save the lives of his family. At least, find a way to send them into exile rather than having them killed and by family; he meant his brothers.
He did not care that much about what would happen to their Father but he truly did not wish Jaime, Trystan or even Visenya to perish under dragonfire.
The sound of the singing soldiers was rather loud but it seemed to grow even more as a familiar song reached them. It was so known and the men so drunk, that they did not bother to lower their voices.
Hearing the familiar lyrics, Tyrion could not help but scoff as he swirled the red liquid in his mug.
"I see the tradition remains," he commented, making his Queen look at him with an arched eyebrow.
"What tradition?"
"Lannister soldiers always sing The Rains of Castamere at least once, the night before a big battle. They say it is to frighten their enemies and remind them of the fury of their Lord Liege."
Daenerys remained quiet for a moment, listening better to the rather haunting lyrics of the song. She frowned, for it was the first time hearing about it and yet the soldiers sang it as if it was a very common nursery rhyme.
"The Rains of Castamere?" she questioned.
"My father's first and perhaps cruellest of plans. To summarize it, Your Grace. When my Father was young, our House was mocked due to the weakness of my Grandfather. But after my Father came of age, he took it upon himself to restore the Lannister pride and he started by taking back the money minor houses of ours owed us," he started to explain.
He drank some of the wine in between phrases, thinking about the familiar piece of history that honestly he had long learnt and even grew bored of being reminded of. The soldiers continued with the second verse of the song.
"A specific Lord, though, of House Reyne, refused to pay back. After he failed to defeat them in combat, he gathered his men, his family and his allies in the mines beneath Castamere; thinking he would be safe. My Father, on the other hand, had other plans in mind. He sealed the entrances of the mines except for one and then ordered his men to redirect the flow of the nearby river," he continued, seeing how Daenerys' expressions changed as she realized the outcome. "Everyone perished in those watery graves and a song was created in memory of such ruthlessness. A song that is rather famous amongst everyone in Westeros, even more so in our family."
"That is terrible. Why make a song out of such tragedy?" she asked, not believing what she was hearing.
A part of her understood the cruelty of those actions but only against those who deserved it. If it was only the cocky Lord and his men, perhaps it would be better but according to Tyrion; innocent women and children perished as well in those mines.
Worse was the fact that a song was made about it, one that men seemed willing and happy to sing; taking pride in it even. She knew Westerosi men were different but sometimes she was truly surprised by their customs and preferences, a reminder of how many things she would have to change when she would take back the Iron Throne.
Tyrion shrugged his shoulders.
"It is how things are in Westeros. We make songs out of everything. Sometimes the soldiers enjoy singing them. Sometimes, Lords like my Father use it as a reminder to those who think of going against them."
He drank some more wine.
The soldiers repeated the verse for the third and final time, giving it their all as one would say. The music played by some rather skilled men among them was faint and easily covered by the loud singing of men.
Daenerys glanced at the wall where the song was coming from; for it was clear the Lannister soldiers were the ones singing it with the most passion. Her eyes then went to Tywin, who was busy walking on a wooden bridge at the wall across from them.
He had a red velvet cape, with the huge Golden Lion on it, around his shoulders. The edges possessed animal fur to keep him warm and he made his way towards some wooden steps. Not once did he seem to be interested in the song or show any reaction to it, although it was a song about his accomplishments.
He remained passive, making it impossible for one to see through his mind and hear or even read his thoughts. His steps were powerful and confident as if he was the King ruling them all.
As the Mother of Dragons followed him with her violet eyes, she picked up Tyrion faintly mumbling the words of the song; mostly subconsciously after all those years of hearing it non-stop.
"...and so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere..."
She did not turn to acknowledge him but instead kept watching as the Old Lion walked to the top bridge, only to make his way towards Visenya. She was busy observing from on top of the wall, her body bare of anything but the basic clothes she always wore.
It did not remain that way for long for Tywin eventually wrapped his warm cape around her shoulders, in a move that seemed too gentle for the ruthless man who according to the song; drowned innocents just like that.