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Closing her eyes, Visenya Targaryen shut out the pale face of her sister. Daenerys was terrified; she could taste her fear in the very air they breathed.
In her heart, Visenya knew the wrenching truth: she was about to leave what she came to consider home and embark on a new journey. Impulsiveness and recklessness, her two greatest faults, had brought her to this end—the same two character flaws that had led her to commit all of her most disastrous follies. Those two flaws, combined with a desperate yearning to make her friends, her mentor, everyone love her were responsible for the debacle she’d made of her previous life. Either way, she wasn’t complaining. Gone was Violet Potter, the Woman who Won, the Child of the Prophecy, Dumbledore’s Puppet. Instead of returning to the world that had shown her nothing but betrayal and pain, she chose to be reborn in Westeros. As Visenya Targaryen, the youngest child of King Aerys Targaryen.
“Here they are here,” Viserys smirked.
Her eyes narrowed on Daenerys’ trembling hands as she smoothed her dress. Visenya glared at her sly, spiteful brother. He thought he could trade their sister with men so he could regain control of the Iron Throne. Well, a desperate man could always dream. If he thought he could be Rhaegar’s successor, he was delusional. He was vain, greedy and abusive. The years they’d spent in exile had driven him mad. Visenya had seen signs of that madness daily.
She knew that this day was coming. She felt a bit of satisfaction when she remembered how she had played him over the years. Her magic was a well-kept secret she used repeatedly to torture him. Just that morn, she had knocked him clean off his horse.
She couldn’t care less about his well-being; either way, Death would claim his rotten soul soon. Her fate had been sealed as well.
Whether she wanted it or not, Death’s word was absolute. She might be his cherished Mistress, but he was her benefactor. To some extent, she understood the need for her to step in and save this world. She was no longer the teenager with low self-esteem and trust problems. She trusted in herself. Believed that she was worthy enough to claim yet another title. The Promised Princess.
She closed her eyes, and at once, she found herself in a halcyon setting of laughter and peace with three Dragons perched over her shoulders and a tall, bulky man with eyes as dark as the abyss protecting her back.
Her head completely covered with the snowy hood, she linked arms with Daenerys and urged her to follow after their brother. “I will protect you,” she vowed. “Trust me.”
Daenerys’ purple eyes were wide and apprehensive, her body shivering with fear as she looked up at her. “But you heard the tales about the Dothraki. They’re beasts.”
“And so we are.” Smiling reassuringly, she tenderly smoothed her sister's silver hair. “We are the Blood of the Dragon.”
Daenerys nodded and held her hand firmly. “I’m your older sister, I should protect you.”
“Not this time.” Visenya’s gaze searched her sister’s face. “Don’t think I don’t know about the abuse. You’ve protected me for years, took several thrashings for me.”
Hatred and revulsion contorted Daenerys’ face before she hid them. “Viserys is mad. I hope he gets his comeuppance one day.’’
Visenya lifted her face; she knew that her eyes were glowing when Daenerys gasped. “He will.”
“You’ve dallied enough,” Viserys spat. “Move.”
Suddenly, the air became filled with gruesome predictions of thunderstorms and death. “Or what?” Visenya said coldly. Her words and her tone of pure disdain brought a startled gaze flying to her face, but it wasn’t merely false bravado that had made her speak so. She was done humouring Viserys.
Daenerys—the only person privy to her secret—clutched her arm. “Please, don’t.”
The three of them stilled when they heard a great commotion, and her eyes collided with two piercing orbs. Khal Drogo’s eyes were the most remarkable colour, a glimmering shade of brown that appeared black in the light. She was quite sure she’d never met eyes like his. They were sharp and assessing—she’d gathered that much—staring through and into her as much as he stared at her.
He lifted his arm, ordering his man to slow down. His jaw was set grimly, which was the only noticeable hint of displeasure about his proud visage. Otherwise, he appeared to ride leisurely on the back of a huge, black steed. His large hands were loose upon the reins, which spoke volumes of the control he had over the beast he rode. He did not turn his head as Viserys greeted him, but his eyes took in everything as he and his retinue walked their steeds down the gate.
“This is my sister, the bride I've promised you,” Viserys grabbed Daenerys’ arm. She refused to let go.
He levelled her with a speaking glance; however, Visenya had never feared him. She had been merely biding her time. “Daenerys will not marry the Khal.’’ Viserys’ eyes shot daggers at her. Folding her hands together serenely in front of her, she waited.
Khal Drogo seized her up. His eyes were filled with an intensity she had never seen before. “Tell her to drop the hood,” he ordered in Dothraki.
Viserys shot her a perplexed look and exclaimed unsteadily. “S-she is not your bride. That’s Visenya, you don’t want to—“
He gasped when the tip of Khal Drago’s Arakh grazed his cheek.
“No need to sully your weapon,” Visenya said in perfect Dothraki. “You can have a look, but can you pay the price?”
The woman clad in white’s assertive tone silenced her sister’s pleading looks. He had yet to have a look at her face, but he had seen enough.
One of his men spurred his horse forward and one look from him was enough to halt his advance.
Dothraki were fearsome by nature, and valued courage above all else and the slip of a woman had a backbone of steel.
She was like a puzzle whose pieces he had to wait to see one at a time, and each piece was more surprising than the last. She’d obviously heard the usual stories about his people’s alleged brutality, however, she was not half so afraid of him as most men were. That was the first and most intriguing piece of the puzzle—the entire girl. Her courage and lack of fear.
He could tell by the way Viserys was treating his sisters that he had an evil spirit. He took pleasure in terrifying the shorter one into behaving. Every look was a veiled warning she took to heart.
Drogo shook his head. That was not what he wanted; what his people needed. He had agreed to all Viserys’ ridiculous conditions to fulfil the prophecy. He believed in the Dothraki prophecy of "the stallion who mounts the world". The Targaryen blood, which was of Old Valyria, was the key to fulfilling it. However, as he looked at his bride, he felt nothing but pity. His eyes flickered over the youngest of the three. She was yet to do as asked.
Viserys turned around and looked beseechingly at her, but she shrugged without concern and refused to yield.
“What do you want?’’ he demanded.
“My sister’s freedom.” Her strong voice gave no hint of fear. “I can kill Viserys and take her away, but we have a prophecy to fulfil, Khal Drogo.”
Her words hit the desired target. He swung around, looking startled and pleased and excited at once. “You know about the Prophecy?”
“I know many things,” she answered in a carefully modulated voice.
His brain stalled, and a shiver ran down his back. His honed instincts had never failed him. The Great Stallion had led his people for ages. Drogo knew that the woman in white was special; she was his destined Khaleesi: His people's hope.
“You have my word,” he said decisively.
As if she understood what they were talking about, Daenerys’ eyes widened with comprehension, and she enfolded her sister into a tight hug. “Visenya…”
“Very well.” Her delicate hands moved to let the hood down. A shock of white hair streaked with black strands tumbled down her shoulders. She looked like the moon in a starry night. Drogo could hardly resist the urge to move away the mantle of wild hair to have a look at her eyes. She lifted her head and, there were her eyes—enormous, captivating eyes of a deep, rich green that made him think of the Dothraki Sea.
“I want her,” he said finally in a low voice.
“No,” Viserys burst out. “She cannot please you.”
Visenya cast a stern glance at him. “Only if you allow my sister to come and do as she pleases.”
“Khal….” Qotho glared down at her. “That ought to mislead the girl and make her believe she has a say.”
Visenya smirked, reached up and patted Qotho’s horse. It reared back, making his right-hand man fall. She could scarcely suppress her smile of jubilation as he roared and jumped to his feet, his hand going instinctively to his Arakh.
“Qotho.” Drogo gave him a sideways look. "Take the shorter one on your horse’s back. We leave now.”
“But…” Viserys spluttered, his purple eyes huge with panic as they found his. “That was not our arrangement.”
“I do not care,” Drogo clipped, sparing him a warning glance.
He offered Visenya his hand and wasn’t disappointed when she climbed upon the huge steed’s back. She was an expert horsewoman.
Her thin arms went around his waist and she propped her chin on his shoulder. The contact was unexpected but very welcome.
Drogo dug his heels into the steed’s flanks and sent it bounding forward, flying through the woods. For the first time in a while, a sense of peace filled him. The future was uncertain, but he trusted in his instincts. Now that he had the moon in his arms, he no longer feared the endless night.