Chapter Text
At first, she saw nothing but light.
A terrible, almost terrifying brightness that blurred ever more beneath her barely parted eyelids. The wider she tried to open her eyes, the more the vague shapes bleeding through the glare began to tremble, harder and harder, until the pounding in her temples grew unbearable.
“May the Seven be blessed!” came the muffled, nearly distorted voice of an older woman.
“I think she’s waking…” another voice followed, low and hushed.
“Run, as fast as you can, fetch the Grand Maester!”
The outlines of figures swimming in the light danced painfully beneath her eyelids.
She had to close her eyes.
When she opened them again, the pain was unbearable. It felt as though her skull were being crushed from within. The world spun. A wave of nausea rose in her stomach, and her body began to shake. Stronger. Stronger still. Until retching seized her chest and hot tears flooded her eyes.
She could no longer draw breath when someone seized her shoulders and turned her onto her side, pressing a cold iron vessel beneath her face. Long, bony fingers dug into her skin and did not relent until, in convulsions, she emptied the contents of her stomach.
“Is this normal?” someone sobbed openly. She had the strange sense that she knew the woman’s voice, yet the pain made everything feel foreign. Distant.
“She has suffered a severe blow to the head, Your Grace,” replied a grave male voice. “We should thank the Mother she survived at all."
“My poor child…”
A soft, gentle hand clasped her own. She lost consciousness to the sound of quiet weeping.
When she woke again, the bright fog receded and the outlines of her chamber emerged. She recognized the oak wardrobes with golden ornaments, the enormous vanity with its multitude of small drawers that had been brought specially for her from Myr. Rays of sunlight danced from the surface of the tall, golden mirror.
At the center of the room stood a narrow table that had not been there before, and just beyond it Grand Maester Elysar. Bent over dozens of small vials, he slowly ground something in a mortar, adding, drop by careful drop, the pale contents of a glass bottle.
She tried to speak, to tell him she was awake, but instead of words only a weak, humiliating croak escaped her throat. It was enough. Elysar’s grey eyes lifted at once.
“Princess.” The lines on his weathered face softened with clear relief. “Seven bless us. You have woken at last.”
He poured water into a cup and came to her bedside. She had no strength to lift her hand, so he held it gently to her lips. She drank greedily, unconcerned with how unseemly it must look. Never in her life had she been so thirsty. The cool liquid soothed her throat like the chill of morning air spilling into a stifling room.
“We were greatly worried for you, Princess,” Elysar continued, his voice calm though joy rang beneath it. “The Queen was beside herself. She neither slept nor ate until your condition stabilized. Princess Gael–”
Viserra no longer listened.
She blinked several times, straining to summon her most recent memories. She recalled nothing save the last feast. A farewell, before she was to be sent north against her will, to warm the bed of some repulsive man older than her own father. In her darker humor, she had called it her funeral feast.
Terror twisted together with nausea. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to steady her breathing.
“What happened?” she asked at last. She scarcely recognized her own voice.
She remembered nothing. Why could she remember nothing?
“You fell from your horse and split your head,” he answered evenly.
Viserra instinctively tried to lift her hand to her face. Despite the effort, she managed only to brush her chin.
“The back of your head. Your face suffered no harm,” Elysar explained, sounding almost amused now. “We feared you might have injured your spine. You responded to the tests earlier, but I shall ask anyway. Can you move your legs? All your toes?”
Beneath the covers she moved one leg, then the other, clenching her toes tightly. Had she been a devout woman, she would have wept in thanks to the Mother for her mercy.
“Good.” Elysar smiled and returned to the table, swiftly pouring the contents of the mortar into an empty vial. “You should rest, Princess.”
“How long was I unconscious?” she asked when he came back, this time pressing the vial to her lips.
She grimaced. A sharp, herbal scent struck her nose.
“A few days,” he replied, watching closely to ensure she drank it all. “The first night was the worst. I did not think you would remain with us.”
First, she tasted sweetness. Honey, like the kind she loved to pour over yeast cakes at breakfast. A heartbeat later the sweetness gave way to bitterness, and the sticky draught caught in her throat. This time she managed to lift her hand and cover her mouth.
“What was that?” she murmured, breathing slowly through her nose.
“Milk of the poppy,” he said shortly. “It should take effect at once.”
“Why?” she asked quietly.
Milk of the poppy was given to the gravely ill, or the dying, to ease their final hours. Cold sweat broke over her skin. She tried to rise, but her arms suddenly weakened, though moments before she could have sworn strength was returning to them.
“You must not overtax yourself, Princess. Sleep will serve you better than any remedy.”
As if at the very sound of his words, her eyelids grew heavy, her thoughts slipping behind a thickening fog.
“I feel so strange…”
She heard only his voice receding as darkness claimed her once more.
“I will go and tell your parents that you have woken. The Queen will be mad with joy.”
When she woke again, everything in her chamber looked unchanged. The same wardrobe, the same vanity, the same mirror. Even the same sunlight, as though scarcely an hour had passed since she last closed her eyes. Grand Maester Elysar was gone, however. In his place, seated in the great chair upholstered in gold-and-purple velvet, sat her mother.
Viserra had never thought her beautiful. She lacked their rare Valyrian features. Her hair was the color of honey, her eyes as blue as a cloudless sky. Yet Viserra could not deny that others still found her striking. Her skin remained smooth despite her fifty-one years, pale and almost luminous when she smiled. She was always clad in splendid, richly embroidered gowns, her curls arranged to perfection beneath a golden crown.
Now she was scarcely recognizable. Dark circles bruised her eyes, as if she had not slept for days, and her complexion had gone so ashen it seemed made of paper. Her honey-colored curls were carelessly pinned up, and her gown was white and so plain that, for a moment, Viserra wondered if it was merely a nightshirt.
In her hands she held an embroidery hoop. Pale pink thread traced a delicate floral pattern across the fabric, slowly coming to life beneath her fingers.
“Mother,” Viserra croaked.
The sound of her voice made the Queen drop her work at once.
“My little one!”
She was at Viserra’s side in an instant, stroking her cheek with a cool hand. Viserra could have sworn she felt a single tear fall upon her face.
“How do you feel, my love?”
Viserra opened her mouth with a grimace, but no sound came. Her throat was so dry and cracked that even breathing felt painful, as though she had swallowed shards of glass.
“Water…”
Before she could even turn her head, a servant hurried in with a pitcher. Her mother poured generously into an earthen cup and carefully held it to her lips. Viserra drank greedily, water spilling down her chin. She did not care how it looked. All that mattered was quenching the fire in her throat.
“Do you need anything else? Perhaps some food?” the Queen asked when the cup was set aside. “You’ve grown terribly thin.”
Viserra grimaced. How could she not, after lying here like a decaying corpse, endlessly dosed with milk of the poppy? Who knew what else the Grand Maester had poured down her throat while she lay unconscious. Nothing hurt, though it should have. Not her head, nor her spine, nothing at all. What she felt most keenly was the heavy veil smothering her thoughts, leaving her unable to gather them properly.
“Jeyne, fetch something for her to eat,” her mother said to the servant bustling about the chamber. “Something light for the stomach. Some broth, perhaps.”
Jeyne was her mother’s favored maid. Where was her own?
“Where is Alys?” Viserra asked, though in her heart she already knew the answer.
“You mean that foolish girl who nearly cost you your life?” her mother snapped, anger flaring. “She was dismissed. She should count herself fortunate she did not pay with her life.”
“It was not her fault…”
Each word came with effort, but Viserra refused to show more weakness. She liked Alys. She could braid hair into anything Viserra imagined.
“I asked her to trade clothes with me. I wanted to–”
“What did you want?” The Queen looked down at her. Her eyes shone with tears, yet her face hardened all at once. “What did you want, child? Tell me why you were beyond the gates, dressed as a servant.”
Viserra turned her gaze away. Something in her mother’s voice told her she already knew.
She could not remember what had happened. What had gone so terribly wrong that she now lay here, scarcely alive. Fragments of that evening spun through her mind, blurred images she could not yet fit together.
She remembered only the feast the day before. Held in her honor. For the future Lady of White Harbor. She winced at the thought. Had it truly been the day before? She could not be sure. She recalled the wounded look on Beatrice Butterwell's face when she informed her, she would no longer require her service as lady-in-waiting. That stupid cow had dared gift her an embroidered handkerchief bearing the Manderly merman, though she knew well how fiercely Viserra opposed the betrothal. And she saw, as clearly as if it were now, her father’s furious glare when she rose from the high table before him and announced she was returning to her chambers.
Viserra closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her brow. The longer she dwelled on it, the more fiercely her temples throbbed.
When she looked at her mother again, softness and worry had returned to the Queen’s gaze.
“We shall return to this conversation when you feel better,” the Queen said, stroking her hair, a little more firmly than Viserra would have liked.
She nodded faintly, glad to let the matter rest. Everything seemed to worsen the pounding in her head, yet one question circled her thoughts without cease, fear digging its claws deep into her chest.
“What day is it?”
“The twentieth day of this moon,” her mother replied, smiling warmly. “You have been unconscious nearly a week, my love. We were all so afraid.”
Six days. She was meant to board a ship bound for White Harbor six days ago. She nearly laughed. How cruelly ironic that the only thing that could save her from a living death in the North was death itself. She wanted to ask when, but lacked the courage. For the first time in so long, she could allow herself to hope that her fate might yet turn. She did not wish to strangle that fragile hope too quickly, false though it might be.
The days that followed blurred together in a haze of milk of the poppy.
Time slipped through her fingers like sand. She was certain at least three days had passed, though it felt as though only hours had gone by. She drifted endlessly in a grey void between sleep and waking, never quite sure what was real and what was born of her own mind.
Faces passed through her thoughts like shadows. Aemon standing by her bed with Jocelyn and Rhaenys. Was that yesterday? This morning? Gael bursting into the chamber with Daemon and Viserys, her laughter sounding like an echo from another world.
And Baelon. Standing by the door, arms crossed, watching her in silence as she spoke with the children. His presence troubled her most. He had no reason to come to her. Not after what had passed between them.
So, when on the fourth afternoon, Grand Maester Elysar arrived with her daily dose of torment, she refused it.
“I feel well, Grand Maester,” she said firmly, meeting his doubtful gaze. “I do not wish to sleep all the time. I will send for you if the pain becomes unbearable.”
“As you wish, Princess.”
The moment he left, she felt she could breathe again. She did not fear the pain. She almost longed for it. At least then she would know she was truly alive, that her world was not some strange limbo on the road to one of the Seven Hells.
With effort, on still-weak arms, she tried to pull herself higher. At once every breath reminded her of the Grand Maester’s words about bruised ribs. With a groan, she sank back into the silk pillows. She felt wretched. Her skin clung to the silk nightshirt, and the loose strands falling over her chest were dull and tangled. A quiet curse slipped from her lips. She must stink. The whole chamber must stink.
“Princess?”
The door to her solar creaked open, revealing a young woman in a simple gown and white apron. Worry lined her face. She bowed deeply and approached the bed. Viserra did not recognize her. No doubt this was her new maid, come to replace poor Alys.
“Is everything well? Shall I fetch the Grand Maester?”
“No, there is no need,” Viserra replied at once. Her voice came out sharper than she intended.
Her gaze drifted toward the great golden mirror on the far side of the room. It might as well have stood at the end of the world.
“Bring me a looking glass,” she said. “A small one. It should be in the top drawer of the vanity.”
The maid hesitated for a moment. Long enough for a surge of irritation to rise in Viserra’s chest.
“Now.”
When at last she held the mirror in her trembling hand, she could not bring herself to look at it right away. Grand Maester Elysar had said her face was unharmed, yet she trusted the old man not at all. He would have had no trouble feeding her a sweet lie, if only to keep her docile.
At last, she drew a deep breath and raised the mirror to her face.
Oh, gods. She looked dreadful. Worse than dreadful. Ghastly. Her face was pale, the skin stretched thin as cheap parchment. Dark shadows bruised her eyes, as though she had gone weeks without sleep, and her cheek…
Viserra frowned and brushed her fingertips lightly over it. A vast yellow bruise spread across nearly the whole cheekbone. That lying old man.
She turned her head to one side, then the other. Her nose was straight. There were no cuts. Her lips were chapped and cracked, but that was nothing honey and time would not mend.
She let out a quiet breath of relief. There was no further damage. In two weeks, she would look almost like herself again.
“I’ve had enough of lying abed. I want you to prepare a bath for me.”
“But, Princess… is that wise? Perhaps I should call for the Grand Maester–”
“Do you have trouble understanding the Common Tongue?” Viserra snapped, irritation seeping into her voice despite her weakness. “I said I wish to bathe. Preferably with lavender oil. I feel like a rotting corpse.”
“Yes, Princess,” the maid said quickly, lowering her head. “Perhaps… something to eat before the bath? It would restore your strength.”
Viserra studied her for a long moment. The girl looked ready to flee. She sighed. Part of her wished to refuse out of sheer spite, but the more sensible part knew food was not the worst idea. She had eaten almost nothing for more than a week.
“If I must,” she said at last, reluctantly.
The bath proved to be as much a mercy from the heavens as a living nightmare. Viserra had expected weakness, yet the truth surpassed even her worst imaginings. She needed help to rise from the bed. Help to reach the tub. And when at last she stood beside it, the simple act of lifting one leg sent such a sharp pain through her ribs that the room spun. In the end, they practically had to carry her into the water.
It was more than humiliating. As though she were some feeble crone.
“What is your name?” Viserra asked when the maid began gently combing through her tangled, wet hair. She had the unsettling sense the water had turned pink from the dried blood caught in it.
“Bela, my princess,” the girl replied.
“Tell me, Bela, have you perchance heard when my journey to that frozen hell has been planned?”
“I… I’m not sure I understand, my princess…”
Viserra was certain she understood perfectly. Her mother would have had to dig her out from beneath a rock beyond the walls of King’s Landing not to hear the whispers surely racing through the castle, perhaps even through Flea Bottom itself.
Rumor spread through the Red Keep like a plague. She still remembered the looks on the servants’ faces when she had shouted at her mother in the corridor that she would sooner die than willingly agree to that cursed match.
Seventeen-year-old Princess Viserra, betrothed to Theomore Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, a man four times her age. Old, disgustingly fat, four times widowed.
What a cruel jest.
“You understand well enough,” Viserra said. “When has my departure for White Harbor been rescheduled?”
Through the fog of her memory she recalled asking her mother the same question, only to be met with evasion. There would be time for that, she had said, again and again.
Viserra thought she had even asked Aemon, and he had only smiled at her faintly, telling her not to trouble herself, to rest instead. That all would be settled. Though she might have dreamt that last part. Aemon did not care for her enough to defy their parents on her behalf. He had refused already, cloaking himself in those pitiful words her mother loved to repeat: a princess’s duty is to marry well, to forge alliances.
When he said it, Viserra had hoped her beloved mother would one day find so fine a match for Rhaenys as well. She regretted those thoughts later. She liked her niece. She deserved not such a fate, but neither did Viserra, though it was exactly the fate her mother meant for her.
So, she had to know. She had to steel herself for that nightmare. To plan something. Anything. She needed a date.
“I do not know, Princess.”
So, you are useless, then. The words hovered on her tongue when the maid spoke again.
“But I heard a rumor, however, that the King commanded all your things that had been prepared for the journey be unpacked. Your gowns, furs, and all that had been ordered.”
Viserra turned so sharply that the brush nearly slipped from Bela’s hand.
“When did this happen?”
“This morning.”
“Did you hear anything else?” Viserra asked, her voice trembling now. She could scarcely breathe. Hope was beginning to choke her. “Anything at all?”
“No, my princess.”
Viserra turned back slowly, resting once more against the wooden wall of the tub.
“Gods, let it be true,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her heart. “And I shall convert to that foolish faith of my mother's.”
Hope was the mother of fools. She knew that well enough. She had lived on it for far too long, before learning, painfully, that nothing would save her. Not tears, not pleading with her father, not–
The humiliation still burned fiercely in her chest when she thought of that dreadful night. She had been so certain it would succeed. She could not imagine any other outcome. There was no man at court who could resist her charms. One smile was enough to send young lords and knights alike falling at her feet.
Why did Baelon have to be different?
Why was it that, when he saw her naked upon his bed, the only things in his eyes were anger and disappointment?
The more she turned it over in her mind, the less she understood. He had always been kind to her. He smiled at her. Danced with her at every feast. Had it all been in her head? Had she woven too much meaning into every glance, every gentle word?
Or perhaps he had merely been grateful for her comfort after Alyssa’s death. At first, she had pitied him. Her dear brother, once so full of laughter, suddenly a broken man. Only later, after she had turned fifteen, had her heart begun to quicken when she looked at him.
He was handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long silver-gold hair usually bound in a careless braid that somehow lent him a boyish charm.
And he was a prince. There was no better match for her on the continent. She had no desire to wed some common lord from some common house.
She had even convinced herself that perhaps she loved him. The thought made her want to laugh now. It had not been love. She had felt nothing when he refused her in his chambers. Nothing but searing humiliation and the terror that there was nothing left to save her from that cursed marriage.
But now something had changed.
If her belongings were truly being unpacked, despite her waking and steady recovery, then her betrothal must have been broken, or at least the wedding postponed far into the future. And that meant something must have swayed her parents’ decision. She did not believe her brush with death alone would have been enough. So perhaps–
Perhaps Baelon had changed his mind. Perhaps her fall had opened his eyes. Perhaps–
“Princess.”
A woman’s voice tore her from her thoughts. Another maid stood in the doorway of the bedchamber; Viserra had not even noticed her arrival.
“I bear a message from the King. He wishes to know when you will be ready to receive him. He assumes the Princess is feeling well enough.”
Of course. Grand Maester Elysar must have gone straight to her father the moment she refused anything that dulled her mind.
She could not recall her august father visiting her even once in these past days. He had not been among the faces drifting through her waking hours or the narcotic fog of milk of the poppy.
So, a decision must have been made. There was no other explanation.
“As soon as I am bathed and dressed,” Viserra replied coolly, though her heart thundered painfully in her chest.
She closed her eyes, clasping her hands over her breast. Gods, thank you, she thought. As soon as I am able, I will go to the sept and light those seven damned candles.
Right after I burn every one of those cursed furs.