𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐅 | Viserys Targaryen

FOURTEEN

THAT NIGHT ALIA WAS MET WITH AN UNSETTLING SERIES OF DREAMS, THE FIRST OF WHICH FEATURED HER DROWNING IN THE LAKE SHE AND VISERYS HAD BATHED IN EARLIER ON.

Except, this time, in her dream, Alia took a step back into the ditch and Viserys wasn't there to rescue her, and she kept on falling, and falling, and falling, and falling. Eels swam around her legs and tangled themselves in her hair, and Alia came to a slow stop at the bottom of the lake. She lay on her back, staring up at the surface of the water, embedded in the sediment as her lungs screamed for air. Her chest felt like it was on fire, and try as she might, Alia couldn't push herself up to breach the surface.

Just as she felt her eyes flutter shut and the breath leave her lungs, Alia found she was somewhere completely different. The first thing she felt was the sweltering heat that encased her, and the gentle birdsong and the chorus of insects. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and was met with a beautiful garden and crisp, clean air.

Alia spun around on her heels and her mouth fell open when she caught sight of the castle. King's Landing – it had to be. The walls were high and fortified and the spires stretched up into the clouds. The stone was the colour of burning sand, and the tops of the spires glistened with gold. She had only ever heard of its beauty, but she never thought she would see it with her own two eyes... Alia had to remind herself she was only dreaming, and that perhaps this wasn't what King's Landing looked like at all.

But Alia's gormless gawping was interrupted by the sound of a voice somewhere behind her, and the tinkling of a little boy's laughter like the sound of bells. Alia whipped around again, and her heart clenched at the sight of the pale-haired little boy stood next to a tall man, almost identical in feature.

The little boy's white hair was styled familiarly and cropped just above his shoulders, with the first few locks pulled back and twisted into a braid at the back of his head. A silver pin glistened on the chest of his red tunic, and he was walking on the edge of one of the ponds, arms spread out so he wouldn't fall into the water. There was a smile on his face that shone so brightly, Alia felt like she was looking at the sun. Tears erupted in the corners of her eyes. Her chest ached some more.

The man next to the little boy held himself in such an intimidating, powerful manner, Alia felt herself cringe just by being in his presence. Father and son were flanked heavily by guards, one of which was a handsome young man donned in golden armour with a white cape, clutching a sword at his waist.

But the father had a golden crown perched atop his head of silver hair, which fell limply and without volume. There was a haggard look about his eyes, and although he smiled as his son balanced on the edge of the pond, Alia found it to be less than convincing.

With bated breath, Alia realised who it was she was seeing. The Mad King and his youngest son, Prince Viserys.

But why was she seeing this? Alia wracked her brain, trying to think of any reason feasible as to why she would be seeing this particular image. She couldn't make out a word of what they were saying – even if she read their lips – and their jokes were tossed into the air like they were nothing. Their words were too trilled and too smooth for it to be a language she recognised, until Alia remembered that her native tongue was not the tongue native to the Targaryens.

High Valyrian was a beautiful language; it was the language of poetry and romance, and not one Alia had the opportunity to master herself. No one she knew of taught it during her time in Pentos, and Daenerys had to learn Dothraki from Alia and Viserys would never teach her himself. And so the opportunity to learn passed her by, and she had never felt so lost and forlorn (about learning a language, anyway) in her life.

But a young Viserys looked so happy and hopeful – he hopped off the wall of the pond and stood in front of his father, saying something Alia presumed to be funny in High Valyrian and earning a laugh from his insane, deranged father. Although, Alia considered that an unfair judgement given the circumstances. As King Aerys spoke to his son in such a gentle, loving manner, she couldn't picture him as a man who would burn people alive for sport.

Alia turned her back, and Viserys and his father melted away.

When she was met with another image, Alia hadn't realised she'd been crying until she felt the wetness on her cheeks. Quickly, she brushed away her tears and focused on what was going on in front of her, and that was that of a lively joust.

Alia was stood right in the middle of a crowd, staring ahead at the face of a handsome man sat in a plush, bright red chair. His smile was radiant, and his hair shone silver in the sunlight, glittering brightly. Another Targaryen, Alia realised – Prince Rhaegar.

Yet still, everything looked so lively and realistic. She could see the glee gleaming in strangers' eyes, their facial expressions changing. At times it felt like she could feel the beating of their hearts syncing with her own. What was this, she wondered? Her dreams had never really been so obscure before – first Viserys as a little boy and now a tourney. Maybe she was just coming down with an illness...

Alia couldn't take her eyes off Rhaegar. Something about him was so... captivating and familiar. Alia remembered he was the brother of Daenerys and Viserys – that was it. That was all. He held himself like a king should, all proud and noble. He didn't look half as mad as his father did, and instead looked every part the regal ruler. This, Alia thought, is how a king should look. Rhaegar may as well have been born with a crown nestled in his perfect platinum hair.

There was a woman stood to the side of him. Her skin was milky and glowed in the sunlight, and her cheeks were pink and should have been aching from all the smiling she was doing. The prince cracked a joke and she laughed so melodiously, Alia felt herself swaying on her feet as it swam through the air and reached out for her. She could see the haunting colour of her eyes even from where she was stood – violet, and twinkling like two large amethysts.

Violet eyes, and yet not a Targaryen. She couldn't be. She wasn't. Her hair was dark, like the colour of the sky at night. Like a beautiful, tumbling sheen of midnight, framing a doll-like face. Her lips were full and plump and the colour of soft peaches – when she smiled the crowd around her smiled back. There was no flaw to be found on this woman. She seemed to be what defined the word beautiful.

But there was something in the way her smile formed. It reached her eyes first and it spread in such a way that sent Alia's head spinning. And the woman's eyes shifted to across the crowd and landed on Alia, and her smile suddenly became less full. Instead, it shifted to a gentle, polite one. Her lips were closed now, but the corners of her mouth still curled up gently and her eyes softened. Like how a mother would smile at her child.

Alia's blood ran cold. Prince Rhaegar turned to face the dark-haired woman and said something sincere, and then her eyes left Alia and shifted to the white-haired man to her right. Her hand lingered on his upper arm once his words left his lips, and their eyes locked for a fraction of a second longer than normal. No one seemed to notice – no one was given any reason to notice. But Alia did. Her eyes were transfixed on the two, and she felt she could not look away. The dark-haired woman's pale hand slipped away from Rhaegar's arm, and in return he smiled up at her. The woman smiled back, and whispered something at him before slipping away into the crowd.

Rhaegar didn't stop smiling after that.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: just a filler about some of Alia's wacko dreams that,,,,,, May,,,,,,, be significant? oof! you decide! next chapter's a flashback and, oh boi, does it get Zany x