136This will probably be the last Syrah entry until the next book. But I finally got all the plot points I had been holding onto for like 8 years off my chest.
(Dragonstone: 10/18/289 AC) Syrah V
"It seems the House of Black and White has become less diligent in its duties over a mere three hundred years. Quite disheartening for an order as ancient as Valyria, don't you think, Maegor?" Visenya cast a look towards her son's obsidian altar, expecting a response that would never arrive. Her reflection was the only thing that met her gaze, a stranger staring back at her, flickering across the dark glass, as she walked quietly on the freshly cleaned stone floor. Her right arm was tucked under her chest, and her left hand was perched on top, fingers resting thoughtfully against her lips.
"The death of the Firebitch would have been interesting," she mused, her voice carrying a note of wistfulness. "Alas, it seems it was not to be…" She sighed disappointedly, the sound echoing softly in the cold, silent catacombs.
The flickering flames cast eerie shadows on the walls, lending a ghostly ambiance to her thoughts. "But at least the annoying one is dead," she mused with a subtle smirk. "Her cheerfulness was too much for my taste." Visenya recalled the woman's habit of giving unsolicited hugs whenever she claimed to sense 'bad auras,' an action that always unsettled her. These 'bad auras' seemed to draw many such unwelcome embraces. Thankfully, any supposed insights or premonitions the woman possessed perished with her, as even her Tyrell apprentice appeared incapable of interpreting her nonsensical words.
"Regrettably, I could never tolerate the foolish pink mummer long enough to master her distinctive fighting method. Chi-blocking would have been beneficial to me. Now, to acquire even a hint of that skill, I must befriend the Tyrell girl." These thoughts brewed in her mind as she moved to settled on the small cushion taken from a guardsman's quarters. His identity or whether he returned from the Iron Islands mattered little to her.
Syrah's golden eyes shimmered in the firelight as she pondered the consequences of an alliance with the Tyrell girl. Forming bonds was not her usual inclination, particularly not with those she considered inferior. Only Maegor and Vhagar had ever been deemed worthy of her attention. Aegon and Rhaenys were barely acceptable. The others? Trivial. Not worth her notice. However, necessity required her to be flexible. If gaining the Tyrell girl's friendship was essential to mastering chi-blocking, then she would proceed. The girl's innocence might be her downfall, a vulnerability Visenya could manipulate.
Settling onto the cushion, she granted herself a brief respite, her fingers hovering perilously close to the fire where the three rats she had ensnared earlier were stewing in their own fat. The stone floor of the catacombs had grown colder as night fell, but the small blaze provided some measure of warmth within as well as out. She had much to do— secure her refuge, procuring additional provisions, and strategizing her forthcoming steps. However, in that moment, she embraced the catacombs' stillness, a soothing veil reflecting the darkness within her.
She was aware that her absence at home would go unquestioned as long as she maintained her attendance at the Academy, and thus she needn't worry in that regard. Syrah's parents had shown little concern for her, as she did for them. Their bond had deteriorated following the demise of her two younger 'siblings.' One had naively fancied himself a dragon after seeing her manipulate flames with her feet. He had jumped from the cliffside path above the island's western shore, spurred by her feats, and had fatally fractured his neck upon impact. She was taken aback that he hadn't been more grotesquely mangled by the fall, but felt no profound sorrow or remorse. The other had suffocated in her crib while her parents were away, leaving her behind to complete her studies and, upon their arrival, take the blame.
Their passings were deemed accidents, yet the true calamity was the briefest instance of increased scrutiny from the Fire Lord that followed. For the Lady of Dragonstone had not seemed distraught over these incidents, merely intrigued. Visenya had seen it reflected in her golden eyes. It was then, that she saw, how much her 'parents' feared her. Feared them both. Fortunately, her competent performance at the Academy, showcasing her as a promising bender, met the Fire Lord's expectations for her 'father,' preventing any further probing into her interests.
However, the words that the Red Priest, Thoros, had shared with the Fire Lord upon her birth had remained with her, echoing endlessly at the back of her mind. "The fiery beauty that would see the Fire Lord sit the Iron Throne," she repeated in her mind, the stench of wine tracing the words as if the priest had just uttered them.
"You shall claim the Iron Throne only in death, usurper," she hissed, her fists clenching as the modest cooking flame surged to a bright yellow. "Your foreign presence shall not be aided by me to claim my throne! He was wrong! He must have been!" Her whisper was fierce, charged with unyielding venom and defiance. The force of her vow seemed to electrify the surrounding air, crackling with her outrage. Each syllable was a pledge, a refusal to bow to a destiny she rejected. The words echoed through the cold, cavernous spaces of the catacombs, bouncing off the ancient stone walls and mingling with the small snapping fire.
Visenya's gaze was steadfast on the modest blaze, its erratic movements mirroring the turmoil inside her. The fire's warmth sharply contrasted with the frosty determination solidifying in her heart. The weight of her resolve seemed almost palpable, pressing against her chest, propelling her onward.
The firelight illuminated the grim resolve in her features, casting a harsh glow that seemed to highlight the depth of her hatred. The prospect of aiding the Fire Lord, an outsider she loathed, was repugnant to her very being. The thought of relinquishing her rightful claim to the throne, or worse, aiding in another's rise, was intolerable.
Seated before the fire, with shadows dancing on the walls, Visenya's mind settled, her thoughts sharpening into a clear plan.
Raising the tiny spear fashioned from her improvised dagger, she prodded the modest flame, observing the three rats as they sizzled enticingly. A stark contrast to the lavish feasts she once knew as Visenya Targaryen, the vermin were a humble meal, yet she took pleasure in their hunt and preparation. The subtle scent of peppers, pilfered from the kitchens, wafted gently around her. She dared not create a more pungent aroma for fear of being found.
Her thoughts wandered back to the Tyrell girl. What was her name? Margy? Morgana? Maege? It mattered little at the moment; she was certain to hear it said again before she considered moving forward. The girl was young and impressionable, easily swayed by a confident hand and a few well-placed words. Visenya would approach her cautiously, feigning interest in her well-being while subtly manipulating her to gain the knowledge she sought.
She visualized the scenarios of their meeting, practicing her lines and refining the tone of sincere concern she would display. "Patience is key," she reminded herself, aware that any hasty action could jeopardize her plans. Despite her apparent vulnerabilities, the Tyrell girl possessed a skill Visenya urgently required to defeat the Fire Lord. Chi-blocking, an art that could neutralize the advantages of stronger benders and formidable enemies, such as the Baratheon cow, was within her grasp. Visenya could nearly picture the girl's wide, trusting brown eyes as she offered guidance and protection in return for lessons. It was a fine balance, yet one she felt sure of mastering.
Contemplations on the Fire Lord and the consequences of her resurgence quickly clouded her thoughts about the Tyrell youth. "The Firebitch's return complicates things, my son," she mused, absentmindedly stirring the fire and watching golden shapes flicker within. "Her arrival will surely tighten security and heighten vigilance at Dragonstone. Staying here for long may become perilous." Visenya was aware that caution was paramount; any error could expose her and lead to her downfall. The Fire Lord was not one to show mercy, even before her brush with the Stranger, and Visenya's actions had placed her directly in the line of fire. She coughed at the pun, her mind momentarily lightened by the dark humor.
Visenya Targaryen was no stranger to risk, but even the former Dragon Queen found herself contemplating the extent of the Red Priests' influence and their actual bond with the Fire Lord. She wondered if their visions would stay her hand if she were to fall into their grasp. "The Firebitch certainly has a penchant for theatrics," she reflected, a sardonic smile playing on her lips. "She's likely to draw out my suffering using methods worthy of praise." Although her smile lacked full sincerity, it conveyed a trace of morbid delight. "Setting torture aside, I'm curious about the authenticity of those fanciful visions and how much is simply mummery." The notion of divine meddling disconcerted her, yet she recognized that power, whether authentic or assumed, had the potential to manipulate people alarmingly.
Her thoughts waged a relentless war, bringing forth a bitterness that had long lain dormant. This bitterness, a festering wound from her past, was directed at her brother. "Aegon, you fool," she growled, her vexation feeding the wavering flames. "Why cloak your desire for power in the pretense of a noble quest? What secrets did Father share with you that he withheld from me, his eldest? Why not confess your thirst for dominion? 'Fire and Blood' are the words of our house, not 'Hopes and Dreams!'" Her fury threatened to overflow as she dwelt on his deeds and myopia. "The Conqueror," she scoffed, her tone laced with scorn and contempt.
Her anger roared within her like a blazing furnace as she stared into the flames, her thoughts meandering through its golden haze. Was it an attribute of her newfound youth, this relentless cycle of brooding? She mused over her constantly fluttering thoughts as the fire danced before her. Aiming to banish the shadows of her brother from her mind, she redirected her focus to the Fire Lord and those who moved within her circle of interest. Most intriguing to her was the figure whose crimson eyes she could not forget.
"Could that old man be Azula's shadow, her unseen enforcer?" she pondered, the unsettling image of his eyes flashing in her memory. "Or perhaps he is her puppeteer? Lover?" The latter thought disgusted her, but the questions gnawed at her, driving her to the brink of obsession. "I must uncover his secrets," she resolved, her determination hardening her features. "He may be the key to understanding the full extent of the Fire Lord's power."
Her mind churned with plans and contingencies. She had always been good at that—thinking several steps ahead, anticipating obstacles and countering them before they could arise. It was a skill that had served her well in the treacherous courts of Westeros and would serve her well here, in the depths of Dragonstone. Until they did not.
"Quite the humble little haven you have made for yourself here, Targaryen," a familiar voice echoed in the darkness, startling her out of her ruminations. The voice was instantly recognizable, spoken by twin crimson stars.
Visenya's breath caught in her throat as the voice pierced the silence. She turned sharply, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto the source of the sound.
"Chang," she hissed, her voice barely more than a whisper, filled with a mix of surprise and fury. The small cooking fire flared brightly yellow, reflecting the spark of anger that ignited within her, as a wisp of flame ignited in her hand. At the back of her mind, the word 'Targaryen' had not gone unnoticed, though a part of her had believed she had misheard. How could he know? The question lingered on her tongue like offal.
Chang's smile was cold and calculating, his crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "I am not here to battle you, little dragon," he taunted, stepping into the flickering light, his movements fluid and almost serpentine, a predatory grace that sent a shiver down her spine. "You may stifle your flame." The shadows seemed to coalesce around his tall, lean figure, as his eyes glowed with an eerie, otherworldly light.
Her mind raced, piecing together fragments of her earlier thoughts and the reality standing before her. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, her voice steadier now, though still laced with venom. Her hand still holding its golden flame.
He chuckled, the sound dry and disconcerting. "Observing, your grace. Did you think you could hide from me?" he asked, his voice silky and mocking. "Your little sanctuary is not as hidden as you believe, Visenya. And you're a fool to believe the Fire Lord ignorant of your squatting here. Though whether she knows of your true nature, who can say?"
She glared at him, the spark in her hand flickering dangerously hotter. "That is not my name," she warned, the fire flaring hotter than usual at her outrage.
Chang scoffed, the sound devoid of warmth. "Do not insult my intelligence, Targaryen. You awoke in the body of a child because I put you there."
"What?!" she exclaimed, her fire lessening in intensity at the sudden revelation.
"Judging by your expression, I trust we needn't play these games of identity anymore, yes?"
Visenya grumbled, her hate filling her veins to near bursting. "How did you accomplish this feat, old man?"
A dry chuckle escaped his old leathery lips before he spoke. "This world teems with wandering spirits, your grace. I was very nearly overwhelmed by the sheer multitude of them when we arrived, but I adjusted. And only I can see them. Some burn brighter than the sun, while others linger as mere embers of memory. Yours was the former, along with a few others, but they were beyond my reach. It was strange too, I might add. Your spirit. Toxic even. Unnatural. I did take it upon myself to read your histories, of the Seven Kingdoms. You were not portrayed in the most flattering of lights, I'm sorry to say. However, hidden in that mire of incestuous filth, there was mention of how you were suspected of sorcery. And I immediately understood why your spirit haunted this place. It was tainted."
Visenya's eyes narrowed, her mind racing with both anger and confusion. "And why should I care what you and the peasants think," she said, her voice steady despite the chill running down her spine. "I did what I did to secure my line."
"And you failed," Chang's expression remained impassive, but his eyes held a glint of something dark and knowing. "Mindless though you were, you were still strong. For reasons unknown to me, your spirit somehow found itself circling the mother of your new body like a vulture. It took no small amount of effort, but I eventually pointed it in the right direction. After that, your spirit quickly suffocated the new life growing in the woman's belly before its light could truly blossom. Very tragic."
Visenya's mind reeled, struggling to process the implications of Chang's words. "Impossible," she snarled, her voice shaking with a mix of fury and disbelief.
Chang smiled a disconcerting smile, his crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "For anyone else, it would be, your grace. It was a delicate operation, to be sure, but not without its rewards."
She clenched her fists tighter, the fire in her hand growing wilder. "Why? What do you gain from this?"
Chang's smile was somehow colder than it had been only moments ago. "Chaos, Visenya," his voice grew deeper, and more ancient. "Ten-thousand years of it."
"What madness compels you with such notions, creature?" she snarled, the thought of murdering the man then and there had crossed her mind, but she knew how wide the gulf between them was and thus relented. For even if she succeeded, his death would not go unnoticed, and it was doubtful the Fire Lord would believe a word she said about the monstrosity that found itself now standing before her. The only she could do now, was listen and learn for a way to turn it to her advantage.
"It is not madness, little dragon. The Fire Lord seeks order and control, and your presence here is a key component of that misguided vision. And there are others beside her that have greater ambitions. Lingering in the void. I am sure of it. But your spirit, your knowledge, your power—the Fire Lord's crimson lickspittles tell her you show promise. And I will give credit where it is due, because for her part, she does not trust them. She gives them leeway, as long as their visions keep her on the path she desires. A narrow path to an unexpected end. And though I am not privy to the council they give her, I do know how to see patterns when they emerge."
Visenya's mind raced, analyzing every word. Chang's tone was more than just authoritative—it resonated with a weight of something malevolent. "Why tell me this?" she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
"Because," Chang replied, his eyes gleaming, "the Fire Lord's grip on power is tenuous, even if she doesn't realize it. Every tool, every piece on her board, must be perfectly placed. You, Targaryen, are a piece she has yet to fully understand. And that makes you dangerous."
"I am no piece on her board," Visenya snapped, clenching her hands. The flames flared within her grasp, their heat matching her fury.
"Perhaps. But make no mistake, you are certainly one on mine. The one that can take the white lotus piece," Chang grinned, an old monster's smile, before raising his hand.
Her breath left her in an instant, and the flames in her hands died. Her small body collapsed onto the floor in a heap, a sudden coldness enveloping her. Darkness consumed her vision, save for where the old man had stood. In his place appeared a collection of eerie crimson lights, forming a figure with the lower half reminiscent of a ribcage and an almost feather-like pattern at its head. At its center was a golden diamond with a pinpoint of black at its core, pulsating ominously.
Visenya tried to move, but her body refused to respond. The spectral lights seemed to pulse in time with her own heartbeat, each beat growing fainter. Her mind raced, fighting against the encroaching darkness.
The figure hovered closer, its form becoming more defined against the surrounding shadows. It emanated an aura of ancient power, far beyond anything she had encountered before. Visenya's thoughts were a chaotic swirl, grappling with the terror and defiance battling within her.
"You think you understand power, little dragon? I can dispose of you just as easily as I found you," the figure's voice echoed in her mind, a chilling whisper. "You are but a flicker of flame in the darkness. Know your place."
Visenya's vision blurred, the world around her fading into a sea of black. She awoke hours later, shivering with a deep cold. The cooking flame had long since died, and her meal had been taken back by the rats she had failed to catch.
As she stirred, every part of her ached, and the chill of the catacombs seeped into her bones. She pushed herself up slowly, her mind reeling from the encounter with Chang and the spectral lights. The eerie image of the crimson figure lingered in her memory, its presence haunting and oppressive.
Shaking off the residual fear, Visenya assessed her situation. The fire pit was now a smoldering pile of ashes, and her makeshift bed offered little comfort. The Baratheons, the Fire Lord, the creature in the guise of Chang—they had all marked themselves as her enemies. Her inner flame began to surge anew, and as the anger returned, her body warmed once again. Sooner or later, she would find a way to rid herself of them all.
The thought of her enemies fueled her resolve. She could not afford to be weak, not now. They had underestimated her, and that was their mistake. She would use their arrogance against them, striking when they least expected it. But for now, she needed to focus on survival and gathering information.