SEE HOW IT SHINES

iv

Viserra dreams of Kepa again. And again. Always on that boat, always drifting away, always swallowed up and consumed by great billows of smoke and flame. The seawater is no match for the fire, and it does little to help him as he burns away, reduced to ash and blackened bones on the painted boards of his skiff. Again and again and again she dreams of her beloved father, over years and moons and nights with stars brighter than the sun, nights choked with storms, nights clear and ominous. It's the same dream each time.

Until the night he talks to her.

"It's time to go home, qeldlie," he whispers from his boat, drifting away and away. "Do not fear the fire, but beware the snakes in the ashes."

She wakes with a start, her heart slamming against her chest. She glances wildly around her room, fully convinced that she's still down on the beach watching him slip farther into the fog. But– soft white canopy, soft white sheets, pale blue-green blankets and pillows, seashells in a box above her fireplace, gold jewelry glinting in the haze of moonlight on her bedside table. Sȳndor curled into a tight raven-black ball at the foot of her bed, his massive eyes staring up at her in mild concern. She's in her bedchamber, her heart is beating normally, her father is dead.

And talking to her in her dreams.

She groans, and the dog–a gift from a Qohorik merchant that was never supposed to grow larger than a chicken and now takes up more than half of her bed–tilts his head slightly. She leans forward and pats him gently, more a comfort to herself than him. "It's fine, Synnie."

But it isn't, not really. Viserra knows it in her bones. Kepa never speaks in her dreams–no one speaks in her dreams. And to break an eight-year silence with such cryptic words? She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, and only then realizes her lashes are wet with tears. Ah. It was startling, in more ways than one, to hear Kepa's voice again after so long. She's missed that brassy tone, the kind lilt of Valyrian on his tongue, almost more natural to him than the Common Speech. For years, she's replayed some of his last words to her a thousand times, savoring the sound of his voice and trying desperately not to let it fade with other lost memories. There is power in dreams.

And what of this one? What could he have meant? Is she not home now, in her bedchamber in the Sea Dragon Tower on Dragonstone, six floors below Muña and one very long hall away from Joff and Luke? This has been her home since they left King's Landing years ago, but–well, was that city not her home before this one? Her true home, in a sense; she was born there, and she very well may die there, and from there she'll rule the Seven Kingdoms. She was always meant to go back eventually–to go home eventually. But why now?

Viserra scratches Sȳndor's head until the blackest hour of night gives way to the sun in slow arcs of purple and orange, then slides out of bed, changing into the first leathers she can find in her wardrobe before padding out of her rooms. Muña hates when she flies in the dark, but what she doesn't know won't kill her. Gaelithox loves it, and she could feel his restless spirit jittering in her veins from the moment she woke up. It's a strange thing, a dragon bond; she's more aware of his needs than her own more often than not, but she can never be sure how he feels about her. No, not true. Her dragon loves her just as much as she loves him, as evidenced by the coal-hot nuzzles he gives her whenever she sees him. Even now, creeping quietly through the castle, she can feel him grow warm with affection for her.

At the cliffside mouth of the Dragonmont, she greets him with a kiss, and he nudges his midnight-purple snout against her midsection happily, his gold eyes gleaming. "Rtysas, Gaelithox," she grins, running a hand over his searing scales. "Gōntua ozmijiō nyke?" Did you miss me?

The dragon practically purrs as she climbs his neck. They're off the ground in an instant, her saddle chains forgotten and a delighted scream caught in her throat when he barrels towards the rising sun. They circle the volcano once, twice, and Viserra fights the urge to direct him towards Driftmark. Driftmark...just for an hour or so, to sit at her father's grave across the lazy dragonglass waves. To break her fast with him, to tell him about her dream, to ask him what he meant. To hear his voice once more. To be held in his arms once more. She could go; it's so close, really, and she could be back by midday–Gaelithox is swift enough to make the journey twice over in that amount of time–before anyone even notices she's missing.