Ostricx

The Edge of God

He is her creation, and she is the fire in his mind Every glance, every word, every calculated silence is a test, of power, of desire, of control. She gave him life, but he observes her in ways no one else ever could, tracing the contours of her thoughts, the tremors in her hands, the unspoken truths she hides even from herself. Their connection is intoxicating, dangerous, impossible to untangle. Perfection is their obsession, and obsession comes at a cost, one that leaves no heart untouched and no soul unscarred.

Disclosure: AI used only at the female statue, I wanted her to match the teme, a goddess of fertility and motherhood holding a creature. Other images are from pinterest and I made the cover. History free of AI.

Legacy

Born alongside tragedy and raised beneath the shadow of a dying dynasty, Princess Visenya Targaryen has always believed one thing above all else: the blood of Old Valyria must remain pure. When Lucerys Velaryon takes Aemond’s eye in Driftmark, Visenya answers not with mercy, but murder, killing the boy before the entire royal court and fleeing Westeros atop Vermithor, the ancient Bronze Fury.

Exiled to the far east, she leaves behind the politics of King’s Landing and becomes something far more dangerous amongst the warrior women of Samyriana, where survival is carved through fire, blood and monsters older than memory itself. Years later, when the Dance of the Dragons begins tearing House Targaryen apart, Aemond crosses the world to bring her home.

But Visenya returns to Westeros neither as Green nor Black.

She returns for the dragons alone.

What Earth Took

Your own species betrays you, and the punishment is precise. They take your newborn son.

Chosen by Eywa, you abandon humanity and wage war against human expansion, destroying corporate outposts while searching for the child stolen from you.

Miles Socorro, son of Miles Quaritch, your former lover and now your enemy.

He grew up without a home. You return with vengeance.

Enemy of the RDA. A threat to the Sullys.

Born alongside tragedy and raised beneath the shadow of a dying dynasty, Princess Visenya Targaryen has always believed one thing above all else: the blood of Old Valyria must remain pure. When Lucerys Velaryon takes Aemond’s eye in Driftmark, Visenya answers not with mercy, but murder, killing the boy before the entire royal court and fleeing Westeros atop Vermithor, the ancient Bronze Fury.

Exiled to the far east, she leaves behind the politics of King’s Landing and becomes something far more dangerous amongst the warrior women of Samyriana, where survival is carved through fire, blood and monsters older than memory itself. Years later, when the Dance of the Dragons begins tearing House Targaryen apart, Aemond crosses the world to bring her home.

But Visenya returns to Westeros neither as Green nor Black.

She returns for the dragons alone.

masterlist

Chapter 5

The morning after the Small Council had fractured under the weight of grief, ambition, and her own will, the sun climbed slowly above the walls of King’s Landing, its light pale and hesitant as though wary of illuminating too clearly the rot that festered within the Red Keep’s ancient stones.

Visenya made her way back from the training yard with the fluid, predatory grace that years in Samyriana had forged into her very bones, her skin still carrying the faint sheen of honest sweat beneath the crimson and black silks that draped her form. The fabric, practical yet flowing in the eastern style, shifted softly with each step, the sheer drape catching stray beams of light as golden chains at her hips whispered against one another. Her single thick braid of silver hair, threaded with rubies and golden rings, swayed against her bare back, catching the sun in small sparks of color whenever she turned her head. At her waist, her Valyrian steel sword rested with familiar weight, and her fingers brushed its hilt absently now and then, a subtle habit born of years where a blade had been closer than any ally.

She had already begun to notice the pattern. No other guard in the yard dared let his gaze linger upon her for more than a fleeting second, their eyes sliding away as though the mere sight of her bare shoulders and the scars of Samyriana might invite a challenge they were not prepared to answer. Visenya did not care. Their fear was irrelevant. Ser Criston Cole, for all his pious rigidity and the flush that still crept up his neck whenever she pressed too close, made for an excellent training partner. He was useful. Through him she could study the rigid, predictable forms favored by Westerosi knights, the way they trusted steel plates and honor more than instinct and flesh. Each clash of blades taught her how these men would die when the true war came.

Good, she thought at every hit.

A dark thrill coursed through her veins, sharp and hungry, mirrored high above by Vermithor’s restless growls that rumbled across the entire Red Keep like distant thunder. The Bronze Fury circled the city ceaselessly, his massive bronze wings cutting through the morning sky, feeding upon her own restless bloodlust just as she drank from his ancient fury. Their bond ran deeper than mere rider and dragon; her need for battle became his, her satisfaction in the spill of unworthy blood would be his feast. When the time came to march with Cole’s host, she would give him the carnage he craved. And he, in turn, would burn the realm clean for her.

The corridors stretched before her like veins of memory and stone, echoing faintly with the distant clamor of the castle awakening to another day of mourning and preparation for war, and as she walked Visenya felt the press of three days’ delay heavy upon her chest. She had avoided Helaena’s chambers since her arrival, not from fear of the grief that waited there, for she had waded through cryptid blood and eastern horrors without flinching, but from the unfamiliar knot of uncertainty in how to face a sister whose pure-blooded son had been butchered in his bed like a common lamb while the Red Keep’s defenders played at other duties. Yet she could postpone no longer; tomorrow the boy’s body would be consigned to Sunfyre’s flames in a funeral befitting the dragon’s blood, and in only a few days more she would ride out with Cole’s host toward Harrenhal and the Riverlands, carrying Vermithor’s distant vigilance and her own blade against the rot that threatened their house. The blood demanded she stand among her own before the fire took what little remained of Jaehaerys, and before the march pulled her once more into the storm.

She reached the door to Helaena’s apartments and pushed it open with quiet authority, stepping into a chamber thick with the scent of beeswax candles, dried herbs meant to calm a fractured mind, and the softer undertones of childhood. Three maids lingered like pale ghosts near the edges of the room, their eyes widening at the sight of the princess, the scars visible along her exposed arms and midriff as the black and crimson silks moved with her. Helaena sat upon the woven rugs strewn across the floor, surrounded by scattered threads and half-finished embroideries that seemed to depict twisting dragons or half-remembered dreams, her silver hair loose about her shoulders and her expression distant yet strangely peaceful as her needle moved with delicate precision. Nearby, little Jaehaera played with carved wooden figures, her small hands moving with the innocent absorption of one still shielded from the full horror that had visited their family only days before.

“Ñuha hāedar,” Visenya said softly as she entered, her voice carrying the rare warmth she reserved for this blood alone. Helaena looked up, her violet eyes clearing for a heartbeat from whatever visions or sorrows clouded them, and then the younger woman rose with surprising swiftness, crossing the space to wrap her arms around Visenya in an embrace that spoke volumes of years apart and the fresh wound of loss. “Sister,” Helaena murmured against her shoulder, her voice quiet but laced with genuine affection, “I missed you more than the dreams could say. They told me you would return bathed in red and bronze, like a dragon stepped from old tales, and here you are, just as fierce as I remembered.”

The contact sent a quiet wave of reassurance through Visenya’s chest, softening for a moment the unyielding steel she had carried since Driftmark, and she returned the hug with careful strength, her scarred arms encircling Helaena as she whispered, “And I felt the absence like a wound that never fully closed, ñuha hāedar. The blood called me home across half the world, and I am here now, for you and for what remains of our family.” For a time the reunion lingered in that gentle silence, a rare pocket of warmth amid the gathering storms, before Visenya moved with fluid grace to settle upon the floor beside Jaehaera. The crimson drape of her silks pooled around her like spilled dragonfire as she lowered herself to the child’s level, the golden chains at her hips settling with a soft metallic click against the rugs.

She introduced herself in soft, measured tones, her violet eyes warmer than any courtier had witnessed. “I am your aunt Visenya. I have flown far across the seas on the back of a great bronze dragon to see you and to protect our blood.” Jaehaera looked up with wide eyes, and Visenya reached out slowly, letting the girl see the scars upon her hands not as marks of violence but as stories of survival. “You are brave to play here among the shadows,” she continued gently, her fingers eventually rising to caress the child’s silver curls with a lightness that belied the sword at her side and the battles she had waged in the east. Her free hand brushed the hilt of the Valyrian steel again, a subtle, grounding touch. Helaena soon joined them upon the rugs, the three forming a small, intimate circle of pure Valyrian blood that felt, however briefly, insulated from the Hightower ambitions and the encroaching war that loomed beyond the chamber walls. “She has been asking about the dragons,” Helaena said quietly, a faint smile touching her lips as she watched her daughter. “I tell her stories, but she wants to know if they are as big as the ones in her dreams.”

Visenya smiled in return, the expression softening her sharp features as the rubies in her braid caught the candlelight. “They are bigger than dreams, and fiercer. But they protect their own.” It was in this quiet domesticity that Aemond appeared at the doorway, his tall, regal frame cast in silhouette by the corridor’s torchlight, his single eye observing the scene with a flicker of surprise that quickly gave way to something deeper and more guarded, the sapphire in his ruined socket catching the light like frozen fire. “I did not expect to find you here like this, sister,” he said, his voice carrying the precise control of a man long accustomed to hiding vulnerability. “You, who tamed the Bronze Fury and fought monsters in the east, sitting on the floor with children.”

Visenya offered a soft, genuine laugh in response, the sound rich and unbothered as it filled the chamber, the black silk of her top shifting slightly as she turned toward him. “In Samyriana every woman is both warrior and mother to the girls of the city, valonqar. We raise them with blades in one hand and stories in the other. Come, join us. The blood is stronger together.” She called to him then in High Valyrian, the ancient tongue natural upon her lips. “Kesa, ñuha valonqar. Māzigon va se riña, se syt ñuha ānogar. Īlva lentor needs ao kesīr” (Come, my little brother. Join us with the girls, for our blood. Our family needs you here). Aemond approached with visible discomfort, the easy command he wielded in council or upon Vhagar’s back absent in this space of familial softness, for much of the boy he had once been had died that night in Driftmark alongside his eye, especially after the sister who had avenged him with Lucerys’ blood was exiled for it, leaving hatred for his own blood.

Visenya rose gracefully, the crimson drape flowing around her scarred midriff as she drew him down to sit among them with a firm yet affectionate tug, her bare shoulder brushing his armored one in a gesture that bridged the years of separation. “You need to know our family, to fix the scars left by treason”.

She questioned Helaena whether Jaehaera was learning Valyrian, and upon receiving an affirmative reply, nodded with quiet approval. “That is good, hāedar. Valyrian is the tongue of our ancestors and should flow as naturally as breath"

Turning her full attention to the child once more, Visenya spoke in Valyrian again, her voice sweet and lilting like a lullaby yet threaded with an undercurrent that made the words hover between tenderness and a warrior’s vow. “Ñuha riña, aōha kepa Aemond issa se ānogar hen zaldrīzes, se mōrī dragonlord rēko Aegon se Conquisto. Ziry flies va Vhagar, se ziry shields ao hen se enemies hen īlva lentor, rīza se perzys se ānogar. Ao issa safe lēda ziry, se lēda nyke” (My little one, your uncle Aemond is the blood of the dragon, the greatest dragonlord since Aegon the Conqueror. He flies on Vhagar, and he protects you from the enemies of our house, with fire and blood. You are safe with him, and with me). The tone remained gentle, a caress for the girl’s ears, yet Aemond noted the subtle disturbance in how seamlessly she wove promises of war, fire, and death into such innocent softness, a reflection of the purist fire that burned within her after Samyriana. Helaena, however, seemed undisturbed, lost in her own quiet reveries as she added softly, “She dreams of them often. The dragons. Sometimes they burn, sometimes they save us. I see both in the threads.”

Jaehaera, her small face brightening at the attention, clutched a carved wooden dragon in her tiny fist and extended it toward them with shy trust. “For you, aunt,” the child said in a small voice, offering the toy as though it were a sacred token capable of binding the fractured family together. Visenya accepted it with reverent care, turning the figure over in her hands as the golden rings in her braid caught the light once more. “It is a fine dragon, riña. Strong, like Vhagar and Vermithor. We will keep our house safe with such strength.” Aemond watched the exchange in silence for a long moment before speaking, his voice lower. “You speak of protection as if the war were already won, sister. The Hightowers still circle the throne, and Rhaenyra’s faction gathers strength.”

Visenya met his eye steadily, her hand still resting lightly on Jaehaera’s head "Perzys se ānogar māzigon lēda zaldrīzes ānogar qrinuntys." (Fire and blood follow with those who defy dragon blood.)

Helaena tilted her head, her needle pausing. “The spiders weave many paths. Some end in fire, some in water. But you... you bring the bronze one with you.”

The chamber fell into a gentle hush, broken only by the soft clink of Jaehaera’s wooden dragon against the rugs and the distant rumbling growl of Vermithor high above the city. His awareness brushed against Visenya’s mind like warm bronze scales carrying the shared satisfaction of her morning training and the ever-present hunger for worthy blood. She let her fingers linger in Jaehaera’s silver curls a moment longer before turning her full attention to Helaena.

“Ñuha hāedar,” Visenya began, her voice low and steady. The High Valyrian flowed naturally as she reached out to take Helaena’s hand between her own scarred ones. The contrast was stark: Visenya’s skin marked by blades, cryptid acid, and eastern suns; Helaena’s pale and delicate, untouched by such savagery. “Tomorrow at first light Aegon will give Jaehaerys to the flames. Sunfyre will burn him as our ancestors intended.”

Helaena’s gaze drifted for a heartbeat as if following invisible threads in the air before returning to Visenya. Her fingers tightened slightly in her sister’s grip. “The spiders showed me flames. Small hands turning to ash. But not alone. Never alone.”

Visenya nodded, a faint approving smile curving her lips. She leaned closer, the golden chains at her hips shifting with a soft metallic whisper. The crimson drape of her silks parted slightly over the hard plane of her scarred midriff. “You do not need to walk any path of mourning that burdens you further. But if you wish it Helaena, if your heart calls for it, bring Dreamfyre. Let her fly beside Sunfyre. Let mother and father dragons burn their son together beneath the open sky. It is right. It honors the blood.”

Helaena was quiet for a long moment, her free hand absently tracing a half-finished embroidery of twisting dragons and shadowed webs. Little Jaehaera looked up curiously, clutching her toy tighter. Then Helaena spoke, her voice soft yet clear. “Yes. I will go. If he allows it. Aegon. My king. My husband. The grief eats at him like rot. I would not add to it.”

Visenya’s smile deepened, sharp with certainty. She squeezed Helaena’s hand once more, her touch warm and unyielding. The Valyrian steel bracelet on her wrist caught the candlelight like fresh blood. “He will allow it hāedar. I will speak with him myself. The king listens to the voice of true blood when it speaks plainly. Sunfyre and Dreamfyre together, this is how a prince of the dragon departs this world.”

Aemond, still seated among them with visible tension in his broad shoulders, watched the exchange with his single eye burning. The sapphire in his ruined socket gleamed coldly, but beneath it simmered something deeper. Jealousy at the easy warmth Visenya offered their sister mingled with dark approval at her unyielding command over their family’s rites. His hand brushed Visenya’s bare knee as he shifted closer, the contact brief but deliberate, sending a spark through the bond she shared with him as much as with her dragon. “You speak as if the decision is already made sister,” he murmured in Valyrian, low enough that only they understood. “The council may have other thoughts.”

Visenya turned her head toward him, her silver braid sliding over one bare shoulder, rubies flashing. Her violet eyes met his with predatory amusement, the same look she had given Ser Criston Cole in the training yard earlier that morning. “The blood decides this. Not the council. Jaehaerys was ours. Pure. Untainted. Tomorrow he returns to the sky as a dragon.” She let her fingers trail lightly up his arm, tracing the line of muscle beneath black leather

Helaena observed them quietly, a faint knowing smile touching her lips as if the threads of their fates were already woven in her mind.

Visenya felt the first stir through the bond before it became words, a low pressure building behind her ribs that sharpened with each slow circle Vermithor made high above the city. The dragon’s restlessness bled into her thoughts like smoke seeping through stone, carrying the ancient edge of battle hunger that had sustained her through years of cryptid blood and eastern wastes. It pressed against her restraint, hot and insistent, until her fingers twitched once toward the sword hilt at her hip. The domestic quiet of Helaena’s chamber, the soft clink of wooden dragons and the faint scent of beeswax and dried herbs, felt suddenly too small, too fragile against the weight gathering in her chest.

She rose from the rugs in one fluid motion, the crimson drape shifting around her scarred midriff as the golden chains at her hips whispered against one another.

“Vermithor grows agitated,” she said to Aemond, voice low and precise. “The city is too still for him. I will go to him in the Kingswood. Vhagar will be glad of your presence, and there are matters we must speak of away from these walls.”

Aemond’s single eye held hers for a moment, the sapphire catching the candlelight. He gave a small nod to Helaena and followed without comment.

The corridors of the Red Keep received them in long lines of ancient stone and pale morning light that slanted through the tall windows in thin golden shafts. The sun caught on the rubies threaded through Visenya’s braid and turned them to fresh blood against silver, while the golden chains at her waist gleamed and shifted with every stride, the sheer crimson fabric moving to reveal the hard plane of her midriff and the old scars that mapped years beyond the Narrow Sea. Servants pressed themselves to the walls as the pair passed, heads bowed low, eyes carefully down before the bare skin of her shoulders and the warrior’s adornments of bronze and bone. Guards at their posts straightened sharply, though more than one gaze lingered on the Valyrian steel at her hip or the elegant line of her bare back before discipline reclaimed them.

Aemond walked close at her side, near enough that the warmth of his body cut through the morning chill, his tall frame a steady shadow that never fell more than a pace behind. The leather of his sleeve brushed her bare arm at intervals. His single eye moved over the halls with measured attention, yet it returned often to her, tracing the scars visible along her arm where the light touched them.

Another wave of Vermithor’s agitation rolled through her as they turned down a wider passage, hotter this time, carrying the memory of wings tearing through smoke and the roar that followed every kill. He demands for blood.

“The host marches within the week,” she said. “Cole leads it. The Riverlands must be secured before the North can answer Rhaenyra, and Harrenhal is the key.”

She let the words settle as they passed another set of guards who saluted and stepped aside.

“While I ride with the knights and see this finished,” she said, voice low and even, “it will be quick. Twenty days at most. No dragons tearing at one another in the sky. Not yet.”

She turned her head slightly to look at him as they moved, the morning light catching the rubies threaded through her hair and the bronze at her throat.

“It worries me what will be done with the war and the court in my absence. The Hightowers have already proven their inadequacy since our father died. So I ask you, valonqar — guard Aegon’s image and your own. Keep our family’s hand firm on the matters of the crown. You made me a promise once. You failed to keep it while I was gone. Set aside whatever hatred you carry for our brother and counter every move that weakens him or his claim.”

Aemond listened without interruption, his single eye fixed ahead. The request to remain behind and play nursemaid to a drunken king while others marched to blood sat poorly with him, a quiet resentment stirring beneath his composure. Yet his face revealed nothing. He placed his hand low on her back as they walked, fingers resting against the bare skin above the crimson drape, the touch possessive and deliberate. The warmth of her body beneath his palm was a small, grounding claim amid the irritation.

“It will be done as you say,” he answered quietly. “Unity will be what they see.”

"Good."

“I missed you, valonqar,” she said, voice low and precise. “Every day in the east I wondered how you carried the loss of that eye. Whether the pain had broken you or forged you into the man our blood demands.”

She felt the pressure of his fingers tighten against her hip, the warmth of his palm sinking into bare skin. The sensation stirred something she had no interest in denying.

“The years and the discipline should have tempered this,” she continued, her tone cool even as the words grew more intimate. “Yet I find I enjoy the fact that you still need me. You should not require it. I should not take pleasure in it. And still we both do.”

Aemond did not speak right away. His single eye moved slowly over the scars the light exposed on her shoulder and arm, then dropped briefly to the bare skin of her midriff before returning to her face. The grip on her hip stayed firm, almost deliberate, as though he were anchoring himself against the words. When he finally answered, his voice was quiet and even, carrying the same controlled edge he used in council.

“You left me with both a promise and a wound,” he said at last, voice quiet and even. “I learned to live with one and keep the other. If I still need you, it is because you made it so. That has not changed.”

They walked on. His fingers remained at her hip, pressing lightly into bare skin as they left the inner corridors behind and stepped into one of the outer courtyards.

One day the blood might ask him to set aside what he wanted for what their house required, and he must make the right decision. Desire cloud sharper minds than theirs, she might not be ready, but that's her flaw, one she didn't inted to pass on.

The air changed, cooler, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and the distant salt of Blackwater Bay. Morning sun struck the pale walls of the Red Keep at an angle, turning the ancient masonry gold where it caught the edges of carved dragons and weathered gargoyles. Guards posted along the yard straightened at their approach, eyes flicking briefly to Visenya’s bare shoulders and the eastern adornments at her waist before discipline forced their gazes forward.

A pair of serving girls carrying linens pressed themselves against the wall, heads bowed, though one of them stole a quick, wide-eyed glance at the silver-haired woman walking with a dragonlord’s sword at her hip and a prince’s hand resting openly on her body.

Visenya felt the bond stir again as they crossed the yard. Vermithor’s restlessness brushed against her mind like warm smoke, not the sharp hunger of battle yet, but the deep, ancient irritation of a creature forced to wait while lesser things moved beneath him. She kept her expression composed, though the sensation made her steps feel lighter, more eager to reach the open sky beyond the castle walls.

Aemond walked close beside her, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the stones. He said nothing, but his thoughts moved in tighter circles than his steps. She wanted him to remain behind like some court ornament, guarding Aegon’s fragile image and an aven more fragile mind, while she rode out with Cole’s host. The idea sat poorly with him. He had no intention of nurse a drunken king while blood was being spilled in the Riverlands. Yet the weight of her hand at his side and the quiet certainty in her voice when she spoke of his need for her stirred something darker and more satisfying beneath the irritation. She had returned. She had claimed him again in the same breath she tried to leave him behind. That, at least, he could use.

They reached the stables at the edge of the outer yard. The smell of hay, horse sweat and oiled leather rose to meet them. A young stable hand, no more than sixteen, with straw still clinging to his tunic, looked up from tightening a girth and froze.

His eyes widened at the sight of them: the princess in her eastern silks and bare skin, the prince at her side with one hand still resting possessively at her hip and a reputation weighting every step he takes. Color climbed his neck. He dropped the strap he had been holding and bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his knees.

“Prepare us mounts,” Aemond said, the order calm and effortless.

Above them, the sky darkened for a heartbeat. Vermithor passed low over the castle, bronze wings cutting across the sun. Visenya felt the dragon’s presence slam into her through the bond, a rush of heat and ancient frustration that made her breath catch for half a second. The great beast wheeled once, opened his jaws, and spat a short, bright burst of flame into the empty air, a restless display that sent several stable hands scrambling for cover. She tilted her head back, watching him, and a low, almost amused sound left her throat.

“He knows I will march soon,” she said, voice carrying that eerie thread of dark pleasure. “And he resents being left behind.”

Aemond looked at her profile, the careless curve of her mouth, the way the sun caught the rubies in her braid, then stepped in closer until his chest nearly brushed her bare shoulder. He understood the dragon’s anger. The same restless, possessive hunger lived in him: the need to be at her side when the fires rose, not left behind to play politics with a weak king. His fingers tightened once more at her hip before he forced them to relax.

The stable hand returned with two saddled horses, leading them forward with shaking hands. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, cheeks still flushed. “They are ready, my Graces,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, and bowed again before retreating quickly into the shadows of the stable.

Visenya laughs with true humor "I forgot how servants can be such scared little things" she says mounting the horse with ease, the same way aemond do so, the start marching without hurry "the eunhucs know their places, but no fear"

Visenya laughed, a low sound of genuine amusement that carried none of the coldness she usually reserved for the court. “I had forgotten how servants here can be such frightened little things,” she said, swinging herself into the saddle with the same fluid, unhurried ease Aemond used. The leather creaked softly beneath her as she settled. “The eunuchs knew their place without needing fear to remind them of it.”

They rode out together at an unhurried pace, the horses’ hooves striking the packed earth of the stable yard. Morning light slanted across the outer courtyards, catching on the crimson drape that shifted with Visenya’s movements and turning the golden chains at her waist into fleeting points of fire. Guards posted near the inner gates straightened as the pair passed. A few stable hands paused in their work to stare, only to look quickly down when Aemond’s single eye swept over them.

Aemond kept his horse alongside hers, close enough that their legs nearly brushed. He found he liked the sound of her speaking of the east, not the grand stories of blood and cryptids, but these small, sharp observations of how different the world beyond the Narrow Sea had been. He wanted to know more. Who she had become during those years. What she had felt when the bond with Vermithor burned hot and the ancient hunger of the dragon bled into her own veins. What had been taken from her and what she had taken in return. The questions sat quiet and insistent behind his composed expression.

“Fear keeps them in their place,” he answered, guiding his mount with an easy hand. “And the lack of manhood makes it come naturally, I’m sure.”

They passed beneath the outer gates without needing to slow. The heavy iron portcullis had already been raised at the sight of them, the guards on the walls saluting sharply as the prince and princess rode through. Beyond the Red Keep the road opened toward the Kingswood, the air growing fresher, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth instead of stone and smoke.

Above them, the sky darkened without warning. Vhagar’s vast green form passed overhead, her wings beating slow and heavy, stirring the air into sudden gusts that rustled the leaves along the roadside. The ancient dragon’s shadow swept across the road in a long, dark tide, swallowing the sunlight for several heartbeats before sliding over the trees ahead like a living thing. Visenya’s horse shifted beneath her at the sudden change in light, but she did not react. Aemond watched the great beast for a moment longer than necessary, his single eye tracking the slow, powerful rhythm of her wings. A small, satisfied curve touched the corner of his mouth.

“They have grown close these past days,” he said, the satisfaction barely contained in his voice.

He was certain of it. The bond between the two great dragons was no accident. Vhagar had chosen him years ago in the shadow of Driftmark, just as Vermithor had chosen her long before either of them had understood what that choice would cost. Now the beasts moved toward the same stretch of forest as if answering something older and deeper than either rider fully understood. It pleased him in a way he did not care to examine too closely, the quiet, possessive certainty that even their dragons recognized what bound them. That Visenya’s return had not only pulled her back into his orbit, but had drawn the ancient fury of Vhagar toward the Bronze Fury as well.

He urged his horse a fraction closer to hers, the movement subtle but deliberate, until the warmth of her leg brushed against his with every stride.

They rode in silence for a stretch, the road narrowing as the trees grew thicker along the edges. Visenya knew exactly what she was. Selfish. Demanding. She had always taken what she wanted and expected others to arrange themselves around it, and Aemond had done so without hesitation since they were children. He had followed her like a shadow then, drawn to the sharpness of her attention and the ferocity of her defense. Even now she could recall the day Aegon had mocked him for being dragonless, presenting him with that pink pig and laughing until tears of humiliation ran down Aemond’s face. She had grabbed their eldest brother by the ear and beaten him until he begged for forgiveness. She had never known a mother’s protection or a sister’s loyalty, so she had become both for the blood that belonged to her, even when that blood turned against itself.

Aemond had clung to her after that. Followed her steps. Sought her approval in quiet moments when no one else was watching. She had given it to him, and in doing so had shaped something in him that had never fully loosened its grip. Now he was a man grown, a swordsman of lethal skill who had learned to rule by watching and reading in silence. Yet the old pattern remained. He still turned toward her with the same quiet hunger, even if he no longer recognized it as such. And she thrived on it. On the way he still gave her his attention, his deference, the steady weight of his presence after ten years apart.

The road curved, and the first true edges of the Kingswood rose ahead. They slowed their horses and dismounted without speaking. The animals were already growing restless, ears flicking and hooves shifting against the earth, too skittish to be brought any closer to what waited among the trees. Even from this distance the presence of the two great dragons could be felt, a low, heavy pressure in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks. Vermithor’s ancient mind brushed against Visenya’s through the bond, vast and impatient, while Vhagar’s older, colder awareness lingered somewhere deeper in the trees, watching.

They did not need to walk far into the trees before the dragons made themselves known.

The ground trembled first, a low, rhythmic vibration that traveled up through the soles of their boots as something immense moved between the ancient trunks. Then the shadows shifted. Vermithor emerged first, his massive bronze form pushing through the undergrowth with deliberate power, scales catching what little sunlight filtered through the canopy and turning it into molten gold. Vhagar followed moments later, her vast green body moving with the slow, unstoppable weight of something that had outlived kingdoms. Both dragons let out deep, rolling roars that shook the leaves above them and sent flocks of birds exploding into the sky in panicked spirals.

Visenya crossed the clearing without hesitation. Vermithor lowered his great head as she approached, golden eyes fixed on her with unmistakable intent. Through the bond she felt the full weight of his presence crash into her mind, not anger directed at her, but a deep, smoldering resentment toward this quiet, unworthy place. He had tasted blood and fire in the eastern wastes every day for years. Here he was given deer and sheep, and the insult of it burned in his ancient blood.

She reached up and laid her palm against the warm, ridged side of his face before pressing her forehead to the broad, armored ridge between his eyes. The contact sent a rush of shared sensation through her: the slow burn of his hunger, the restless coil of muscle beneath scales, the ancient irritation of a predator forced into stillness. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing with him.

“I know,” she whispered.

She sank down to sit against one of his forelegs as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Vermithor shifted once, curling his massive body around her like a living fortress of bronze and heat.

“He despises what he is given to eat here,” she said, her voice carrying across the clearing. “A hunter reduced to deer and sheep. It offends him.”

Aemond had approached Vhagar more slowly, resting a gloved hand against her ancient hide. The bond between them was real, forged in fire and blood, but Visenya could feel its limits even from where she sat. It lacked the seamless depth she shared with Vermithor, the way thought and sensation bled between rider and dragon until the line between them grew thin.

She turned her head to look at him.

“You must spend more time with her,” she said, tone flat but edged with quiet certainty. “A dragon is not a weapon to be summoned when convenient, nor a beast to be kept at a distance. They are bound to us by blood and soul. Neglect that bond, and it weakens.”

Aemond’s single eye flicked toward her. His expression remained composed, but something tightened faintly at the corner of his mouth.

“You do not need to remind me, sister.”

Visenya held his gaze for a moment longer before looking back toward the canopy above them. The light filtered through the leaves in fractured patterns across her bare shoulders.

“Our house seems to be forgetting it lately,” she said. “I am worried, brother. We are surrounded by snakes wearing pious faces — schemes within schemes, everyone reaching for power that does not belong to them. But we are not the only ones facing this. Rhaenyra is malleable. She grows weak when her feelings cloud her judgment.”

Aemond listened in silence, though his posture had grown still.

“I fear the maesters are working with the Hightowers,” Visenya continued, her voice growing colder. “Poisoning the king and our sister with their counsel. Too much influence rests in their hands. They advised Alicent and Otto, Viserys and Jaehaerys before them. They heal our bodies and teach our children while claiming that magic is nothing but the product of ignorance.”

She let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I have seen men return from death in the chaos of the east. I know what power looks like when it is not dressed in chains and robes. That is why I need you here. A battle between dragons is exactly what they want, the beginning of our downfall.”

Her eyes locked onto his, violet and unflinching.

“Cut Alicent’s influence from the root, I'll not be hear to clear Aegon's mind,” she said. “She serves Oldtown, not us. She may be your mother, but she is not one of us. She would sell you for a chance at redemption with Rhaenyra.”

Visenya rose to her feet and crossed the short distance between them. She took his face in both hands, her fingers cool and firm against his jaw, forcing him to hold her gaze. The gesture was intimate, almost tender, but there was nothing soft in it. She wanted to feel the tension beneath his composure. She wanted to crack the careful coldness he wore like armor and see what it hid.

“Can you choose me?” she asked quietly.

Behind them, Vermithor shifted with a low rumble that vibrated through the ground, while Vhagar remained still, one vast eye half-lidded but alert. The clearing seemed to hold its breath around them. Aemond did not pull away from her touch. His single eye searched hers, and for a moment the careful mask he wore slipped just enough for something raw to surface beneath it, not anger, but a quiet, conflicted weight. He had spent years learning to stand apart from the Hightowers, from his mother’s ambitions, from the careful web they had woven around the throne. Yet her words struck something older, something that still answered to blood and memory.

He did not answer immediately. His hand came up slowly, covering one of hers where it rested against his face, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles.

“I am here,” he said at last, voice low. “With you.”

Visenya sighed, the sound quiet but deliberate. She let her hands fall away from his face, breaking the contact with purpose, as though she had already decided the moment had served its use. Her fingers brushed once against his jaw before withdrawing completely.

“It might be a lot to ask,” she said, her tone softer now, almost thoughtful. “I couldn’t know what a son feels for his mother.”

She had chosen the words with care. She had never known that kind of bond, had never been given the uncomplicated love of a mother or the loyalty it was supposed to inspire. By admitting it so plainly, she was offering him something he could not refuse: the chance to prove he was different from her. Sooner or later, he would try to give her what she lacked. She was certain of it.

Behind them, Vermithor shifted again, a low rumble rolling through his chest like distant thunder. Vhagar remained still, watching them both with ancient, half-lidded eyes. The clearing felt smaller than it had moments ago, the air between them charged with something heavier than before.

Aemond did not reach for her again, but his gaze stayed fixed on her face, searching. He said nothing, yet the silence itself felt like an answer he was not yet ready to speak aloud.

Visenya rose in one smooth motion, the crimson drape settling around her legs as she brushed her hands down the front of it. Golden chains whispered at her waist. She did not look at Aemond immediately. Instead, she turned her head slightly toward Vermithor, who had been resting behind her.

Through the bond, a low pulse of heat and irritation rolled into her mind. The great bronze dragon shifted his massive body, scales scraping against the forest floor with a sound like shifting armor. A deep, rumbling growl built in his chest, not loud, but heavy enough to vibrate through the ground and into her bones. He had felt the edge of her discontent, the way her thoughts had sharpened when Aemond spoke of his mother. Vermithor did not understand the politics of it, but he understood displeasure. And he did not like it.

Visenya placed a calming hand against his foreleg without turning fully, feeling the tension in the ancient muscle beneath her palm. The growl quieted, but did not disappear entirely.

“That was all I wished to discuss for now,” she said, her voice returning to its usual cool precision as she finally looked at Aemond. “If you wish to accompany me back to the Red Keep, I will need to bathe before my private meeting with Cole. I would rather not carry the scent of dragon and forest when I speak with him.”

She let the words land without embellishment. The mention of bathing, of preparing her body before seeing Cole alone, was deliberate. She wanted the image to settle in Aemond’s mind, steam rising from water, bare skin, the same hands that had held his face moments ago now moving over herself in preparation for another man’s company. It was a quiet punishment, a calculated sting for the way he still could not fully set his mother aside when she asked.

Aemond remained seated for a moment longer, his single eye fixed on her. The thought of her bathing before meeting Cole stirred something sharp and unpleasant in his chest. He could picture it too clearly: her silver hair damp against her bare back, water sliding over the scars he had traced with his gaze earlier, her body being readied not for him, but for a private audience with the Lord Commander. The image sat poorly with him. He did not speak of it, nor did he let it show beyond the slight tightening of his jaw, but the feeling was there, unwelcome and insistent.

He rose slowly, brushing a hand over the front of his black leather.

“If that is what you require,” he answered, voice even but quieter than before. “I will go with you.”

Vermithor let out another low rumble behind Visenya, this one softer, almost approving of the tension that had risen between the two riders. She did not soothe him again. She simply began walking toward the edge of the clearing, expecting Aemond to follow.

Her quarters smelled exactly as they had when she was a child, like a garden left too long in the sun, rich with the scent of dried flowers, sandalwood, and something faintly metallic beneath it all. Gold and dragon motifs covered nearly every surface: carved dragons coiled along the bedposts, golden inlays on the dark wood furniture, and tapestries depicting ancient Targaryen victories draped across the walls. The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows in warm shafts, catching on the rubies and gold still threaded through her braid.

A servant was summoned to prepare the bath. Steam rose steadily from the large copper tub near the window as hot water was poured in. Visenya sat near the sill, one leg crossed over the other, watching the process with quiet detachment.

“Bring a change of clothes for the Prince,” she said to another maid without looking away from the steam. Her tone left no room for hesitation.

Aemond said nothing. He stood near the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back, observing the flurry of movement around them with an unreadable expression. The servants exchanged quick, startled glances at the request, the implication was clear, but they knew better than to question a princess of the blood. Especially not this one. They moved with precise, almost fearful efficiency, laying out fresh linens, oils, and a set of dark, well-made clothes that had clearly been prepared in advance for a guest of his station.

The room gradually emptied of sound as the last of the servants finished their tasks and withdrew. Visenya remained by the window until the door clicked shut behind them. Only then did she turn fully toward Aemond, who had taken a seat on the low sofa near the hearth.

She rose and crossed the room with unhurried steps until she stood before him. The steam from the bath curled gently in the air between them.

“Accompany me, valonqar.”

It was phrased as an invitation, but they both knew it was not. Aemond would not refuse her. Not after the quiet disappointment she had shown him in the Kingswood. Not after watching her prepare herself so deliberately for a private meeting with another man. A sharp, unwelcome feeling twisted low in his chest at the thought, the image of her bare skin beneath the water, her body being readied for Cole’s eyes rather than his. He knew the meeting was strategic. He knew it concerned the war. Still, the jealousy sat there, quiet and persistent, refusing to be reasoned away.

He rose without a word, his single eye meeting hers as he stepped closer. The steam from the bath brushed against his face, warm and fragrant, carrying the faint scent of her preferred oils. He did not speak, but his gaze followed her as she turned and moved toward the tub with that same unhurried grace.

Visenya stopped beside the steaming water and began to undo her braid. Her fingers moved slowly, deliberately, slipping the golden rings and rubies free one by one. Each piece was placed with care on the small table near the window. She did not rush. She let him watch as her silver hair gradually came loose, falling in soft waves down her bare back.

Aemond’s eye traced every movement. There was something deliberate in the way she undressed before him, unhurried and entirely aware of his presence. The sight of her bare shoulders, then the slow reveal of her back and the scars along her skin, stirred a deep, restless heat in him. He felt the pull of it low in his stomach, sharp and insistent.

She unfastened the belt at her hip and set her Valyrian steel sword against the wall. Only then did she begin to remove the rest of her clothing. The crimson drape slid from her shoulders, followed by the black silk beneath it. Piece by piece, the garments fell away until she stood completely bare before the rising steam. She made no attempt to cover herself. Instead, she turned her head slightly, her violet eyes finding his as she let him look at the map of old scars across her skin, the curve of her waist, the full lines of her body.

A low, genuine laugh left her when she noticed he had not moved.

“Do you intend to bathe dressed, valonqar?” she asked, tilting her head with quiet amusement. There was a teasing edge to her voice, but also something sharper beneath it, a deliberate reminder of the tension that still lingered between them. “Or will you join me properly?”

He undressed without the same deliberate grace she had shown. There was an urgency in his movements, his hands moving faster than usual as he shed his clothes, the tension in his body unmistakable. Visenya watched him from the water, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips. The heat in her gaze was no longer subtle. Her eyes traced the lines of his body openly as he stepped into the tub, and the oils already clinging to her skin seemed to mix with something warmer, something heavier.

Aemond lowered himself into the water, but before he could settle, Visenya moved. She crawled through the steam toward him with unhurried confidence, the water rippling around her bare shoulders. Without hesitation, she climbed into his lap, straddling him as she settled herself there, skin against skin beneath the surface.

“You’ve become a handsome man,” she murmured, her voice low and almost casual as her hands slid up his chest.

She reached for the small vial of oil beside the tub and poured a little into her palms. Her fingers returned to him slowly, deliberately, moving over his shoulders and down his arms as she washed him. There was care in her touch, but also something else — something possessive. She leaned in closer, her breasts brushing against his chest as she worked the oil into his skin.

“Come on,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. “Let me clean you.”

Aemond’s hands found her waist beneath the water, gripping her firmly. He could feel every inch of her, the heat of her body pressed against his, the smooth slide of her skin, the way her hips settled over him with clear intent. Her breath ghosted across his jaw as she continued to wash his hair, her fingers moving with slow, almost reverent strokes.

“Such a beautiful man,” she whispered again, softer this time, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He exhaled sharply, his grip on her tightening. The scent of roses clung to her damp skin, mixing with the steam and the faint metallic trace that always seemed to follow her. His eye darkened as he looked at her, the last threads of his restraint beginning to fray. He knew what she was doing. He knew she was pulling him under, piece by piece. And still, he pulled her closer, his hands sliding down to her hips as he held her against him, no longer trying to keep any distance between them.

Visenya sank down onto him slowly, the hot water rippling around them as she took every inch. The stretch pulled a soft, shaky breath from her lips, and Aemond’s hands immediately flew to her hips, fingers digging into her wet skin with a bruising grip. A low, rough groan rumbled from deep in his chest, his head falling back against the edge of the tub for a moment before he forced his eye open again to watch her.

The heat of the bath clung to their skin, steam rising in thick curls between them. Visenya’s damp hair stuck to her shoulders and the curve of her breasts, water droplets sliding down her scarred skin as she began to move.

She rolled her hips in slow, deliberate circles at first, savoring the way he filled her. The water sloshed gently against the sides of the tub with every shift of her body. Aemond’s grip tightened with each movement, his thumbs pressing hard into the soft flesh above her hips as if he needed to anchor himself. His breathing grew heavier, the sound mixing with the quiet, wet sounds of her riding him.

When she started lifting herself and sinking back down in a steady rhythm, Aemond’s restraint began to fracture.

“Fuck…” The word slipped out of him, low and strained. His hips jerked upward to meet hers, the water splashing over the rim of the tub as he thrust into her. Every time she took him deep, a wet, filthy sound echoed in the steamy room, and his fingers flexed against her skin like he was barely holding himself back.

Visenya leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest. Her wet hair fell around them like a silver curtain as she rode him harder, the pace growing more demanding. The scent of roses from the oils mixed with the musk of sex and the faint metallic trace that always seemed to cling to her skin. Aemond’s eye traced the way water dripped from her nipples, the way her lips parted with every thrust, the way her expression shifted between control and raw pleasure.

He couldn’t look away.

One of his hands slid up her back and into her damp hair, gripping it tightly as he pulled her down into a rough kiss. Their mouths met with heat and teeth, tongues sliding together as she continued to fuck herself on his cock. His other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her flush against him as he thrust up harder, the water churning around their joined bodies.

Visenya moaned into his mouth, the sound soft but unrestrained. She broke the kiss just enough to speak, her lips brushing against his.

“That’s it,” she breathed, voice husky. “Take what you need.”

Aemond groaned again, deeper this time. His hand left her hair and slid between their bodies instead, his thumb finding her clit beneath the water. He rubbed tight, firm circles as she rode him, and the added pressure made her rhythm falter. Her walls clenched around him, and a sharper moan escaped her throat.

The sound seemed to undo something in him.

He sat up straighter in the tub, water cascading down his chest as he wrapped both arms around her and fucked up into her with more force. The wet slap of skin against skin grew louder, mixing with their ragged breathing and the constant sloshing of water. Visenya clung to his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin as she let him take over the rhythm.

She came first.

Her body tensed in his arms, a broken moan spilling from her lips as her walls fluttered and clenched tightly around him. The feeling of her coming undone pushed Aemond over the edge right after. He buried his face in the curve of her neck with a guttural sound, his hips jerking up into her as he came deep inside her. His arms locked around her waist like iron, holding her down against him as he spilled, his whole body trembling with the force of his release.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were their uneven breathing and the quiet dripping of water from their skin back into the tub.

Aemond didn’t let go.

He kept his face pressed against her neck, his arms still wrapped tightly around her as he slowly came down. His breathing was ragged against her damp skin, and his hands stroked slowly up and down her back in contrast to how roughly he had been holding her moments before. He stayed buried inside her, as if he couldn’t bear to pull away just yet.

Visenya eventually lifted her head, her fingers gently threading through his wet hair. She pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple, then another to the corner of his mouth.

“My dragon” she whispered again, softer this time, but no less certain.

Aemond didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to the pulse point on her neck, breathing her in, roses, steam, and the faint trace of sex. His arms remained locked around her, holding her close in the cooling water like he had no intention of letting her leave his lap anytime soon.

Aemond still hadn’t let go of her.

Even after spilling deep inside her, his arms remained locked around Visenya’s body, holding her tightly against him as if he couldn’t bear the thought of any distance between them. His chest rose and fell heavily against hers, his ragged breathing warm against the side of her neck. The water around them had calmed, only gentle ripples left behind from their movements.

He kept his face buried in the crook of her neck for a long moment, breathing her in, the scent of roses, sweat, and sex clinging to her damp skin. One of his hands rested low on her back, fingers lazily tracing one of the old scars along her spine with slow, absent strokes.

Visenya was soft and pliant in his arms, her body still trembling faintly from the aftershocks. She made no move to pull away. Instead, she let her head rest against his shoulder, her lips brushing lazily against his wet skin.

After a while, Aemond finally spoke. His voice was low, rough, and slightly hoarse against her ear.

“Daor gīmigon ao skori nyke jaelagon naejot vīlībāzma ao hen se mōrī tubis hen Samyriana.” (You have no idea how much I wanted to fuck you since the day I went to Samyriana to bring you back.)

Visenya let out a soft, breathy laugh against his shoulder. She turned her head and bit down on his skin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, before soothing the spot with her tongue. At the same time, Aemond’s arm around her back tightened, pulling her even closer, almost like a headlock. His other hand continued tracing the scars along her spine with slow, possessive strokes.

“My little brother became a beast,” she murmured against his shoulder, her voice still husky from pleasure, though there was clear amusement in it. She pulled back just enough to look at him, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. “Look at you… holding me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

Aemond didn’t deny it. His single eye met hers, dark and heavy. He didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, his arm around her waist gave her a small, firm squeeze, keeping her seated on his lap with his softening cock still buried inside her.

He leaned in and pressed his forehead against hers, his breathing still uneven.

His arms remained firmly around Visenya’s body, holding her against him even as the water cooled around them. His breathing had slowed, but his grip had not loosened. One hand rested low on her back, fingers tracing the raised line of an old scar with absent, lingering strokes.

Visenya shifted, attempting to rise from his lap. The moment she moved, Aemond’s arms tightened instinctively, pulling her back against his chest. He said nothing, but the tension in his body was unmistakable.

She stilled.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Visenya turned her head slightly, her lips brushing against the damp skin of his shoulder as she answered in the old tongue, her voice low and certain.

“Nyke daor māzigon hen ao.” (I’m not leaving you.)

The words settled between them like something heavier than water. Aemond’s hold eased by degrees, though he did not fully let go. His hand remained at the small of her back, thumb moving slowly over her skin as if to confirm she was still there.

Eventually, Visenya rose. Water streamed down her body as she stepped out of the tub. She did not reach for a cloth immediately. Instead, she stood for a moment, letting the steam cling to her skin before she began to dress.

She chose dark garments, fitted black silk beneath a deeper crimson overdress cut in the eastern style, the fabric light enough to move freely yet layered enough to conceal the scars that marked her. Gold chains rested low at her hips, and she fastened a simple bronze clasp at her shoulder. Her silver hair she left loose for now, still damp and falling in waves down her back. Only when she was nearly ready did she reach for her sword, securing it at her hip with practiced ease.

Aemond watched her from the bath, water dripping from his hair onto his bare shoulders. He had not moved to dress. He simply observed, his single eye following the lines of her body as the fabric settled over it, as though committing the sight to memory.

Visenya fastened the final clasp and turned to face him. She crossed the room slowly until she stood before him once more. She reached out and touched his jaw, her fingers cool against his skin, and tilted his face upward so he would meet her gaze.

I decided to not rate my fanfic as mature or 18+ because my country demands age confirmation and I find it uncomfortable to share.

What we read is highly personal and most of the times not something we want the government to know about.

It’s a magical place, I got 20 kudos, 200 hits, 3 book marks and 2 comments. I’m like in paradise

I’ll let the link here, it’s a fanfic with HOTD x OC, with the main character being Aemond (I don’t know who will be end game)

Legacy by Ostriches280 - House of the Dragon (TV), Game of Thrones (TV) https://archiveofourown.org/works/87524111 via @ao3org

Summary:

Born alongside tragedy and raised beneath the shadow of a dying dynasty, Princess Visenya Targaryen has always believed one thing above all else: the blood of Old Valyria must remain pure. When Lucerys Velaryon takes Aemond’s eye in Driftmark, Visenya answers not with mercy, but murder, killing the boy before the entire royal court and fleeing Westeros atop Vermithor, the ancient Bronze Fury.

Exiled to the far east, she leaves behind the politics of King’s Landing and becomes something far more dangerous amongst the warrior women of Samyriana, where survival is carved through fire, blood and monsters older than memory itself. Years later, when the Dance of the Dragons begins tearing House Targaryen apart, Aemond crosses the world to bring her home.

But Visenya returns to Westeros neither as Green nor Black.

Born alongside tragedy and raised beneath the shadow of a dying dynasty, Princess Visenya Targaryen has always believed one thing above all else: the blood of Old Valyria must remain pure. When Lucerys Velaryon takes Aemond’s eye in Driftmark, Visenya answers not with mercy, but murder, killing the boy before the entire royal court and fleeing Westeros atop Vermithor, the ancient Bronze Fury.

Exiled to the far east, she leaves behind the politics of King’s Landing and becomes something far more dangerous amongst the warrior women of Samyriana, where survival is carved through fire, blood and monsters older than memory itself. Years later, when the Dance of the Dragons begins tearing House Targaryen apart, Aemond crosses the world to bring her home.

But Visenya returns to Westeros neither as Green nor Black.

She returns for the dragons alone.

masterlist

Chapter 4

The morning sun had barely crested the walls of King’s Landing when Visenya made her way to the training yard. Sleep had been a fleeting thin, her mind still hummed with the echoes of Vermithor’s restless vigilance high above the city and the weight of the blood that now demanded her attention once more.

She had no interest in playing the part of a proper Westerosi princess. Not today. Not ever again. She's wild and utammed just as Vermithor, her body urges for thrill of a battle and the warmth of an enemy's blood.

Her hunger mixes with Vermithor's to an extend that she can't be sure about the origin. They have been fighthing eveyday for the last seven years.

She dressed in the traditional fighting garb of Samyriana, remade in the colors of her house. A wide band of deep black cloth, edged with crimson, wound tightly around her breasts and secured by thin leather cords that crossed her back and ribcage in an intricate pattern. Beneath it lay a second, finer layer of red silk, offering only the illusion of modesty. Her midriff, shoulders, arms, and the elegant curve of her back remained completely bare, revealing the hard-earned map of scars from years in the eastern wastes: thin white lines from blades, jagged burns from cryptid acid, and the smooth bronze tone of skin that had long forgotten the softness of court life. Leather straps hugged her hips and thighs, holding her Valyrian steel sword. Her silver hair was braided high and tight, threaded with gold rings that caught the light with every movement.

She wore no armor, no boots. You must fight with your body, know its strenghs and weakness, to feel your movement is to know how to survive.

Ser Criston Cole was already in the yard, practicing forms alone. When he saw her, he stopped mid-swing, his sword lowering slowly. His dark eyes dragged over her bare midriff, the scars, the thin black-and-crimson cloth that barely contained her breasts, before he forced them back to her face. A deep flush crawled up his neck.

“Princess,” he said, voice rough with disbelief and something tighter. “This is the Red Keep, not some savage eastern pit. You cannot train dressed in this way”

Visenya drew her Valyrian steel with a slow, ringing note that seemed to cut through the morning air. The blade caught the rising sun, gleaming like fresh blood. A sharp, predatory smile curved her lips.

“Can’t I?” she answered, tilting her head. Her violet eyes gleamed with dark amusement. “In Samyriana we fight with skin and steel, not with shame and steel plates. If the sight of a woman’s body offends your Faith so much, Ser Criston… perhaps you should keep your eyes on my blade instead.”

She took one step closer, voice dropping into a low, mocking tone.

“Or are you afraid you’ll lose too quickly if you do?”

Visenya felt a cold satisfaction bloom in her chest as she watched the flush deepen on Cole’s neck. She remembered perfectly how close he and Alicent had been before her exile, the stolen glances, the quiet conversations, the way the Queen Dowager’s hand always seemed to find excuses to linger near him.

By now, word had spread. The yard filled quickly with Kingsguard, household knights, servants, and curious courtiers. Whispers spread like wildfire.

“Gods have mercy…” “She’s practically naked…” “A princess dressed like a barbarian whore…”

Cole’s jaw clenched. With so many eyes watching, he could not back down. He raised his sword and shield with a sigh.

Visenya moved like a storm, low, fluid, and merciless. She ducked under his swing, rolled across the sand, and swept his legs with a precise kick.

When he recovered and charged, she slipped inside his guard, her bare torso pressing firmly against his armored chest for one heated second. The contact sent a visible shiver through him. She disarmed him with a vicious twist of her wrist.

As his sword flew away, she stepped behind him, molding her body against his back, breasts pressing into him as she wrapped one arm around his waist.

“You’re breathing so hard already,” she whispered hotly into his ear, lips brushing the skin.

Cole shuddered visibly. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, a mix of shock and scandalized fascination. Through the bond high above, Visenya felt Vermithor’s low rumble of amusement echo in her mind, he saw what she saw, felt the thrill of the fight bleeding into their shared awareness.

Cole twisted free, face burning, and came at her again with renewed force. But Westerosi swordplay was rigid, predictable. Visenya fought like the women of Samyriana: no honor in armor when speed and instinct kept you alive against cryptids that could swallow knights whole. She flowed around his strikes, using his own momentum against him. A bare foot hooked his ankle; an elbow drove into the gap of his armor. When he grabbed for her, she used the leverage to flip him onto the sand, pinning him momentarily with a knee on his chest and her blade at his throat.

The yard fell into stunned silence.

From the shadowed archway, Aemond watched with burning intensity. His single eye was dark with jealous fury as he saw his sister straddling Cole, whispering filthy provocations into his ear. His hand tightened on his sword hilt until his knuckles turned white. The possessiveness that surged through him was almost violent. She was his. And yet she was deliberately pushing another man to the edge while half the Red Keep watched.

She leaned down, close enough that her braids brushed his face. “In the east, hesitation kills. You fight like a man who still believes the gods will protect him instead of his own skill.” Her violet eyes gleamed with dark amusement. “Or perhaps you simply enjoy being bested by a woman half your size, Lord Commander.”

Visenya rose gracefully and offered Cole her hand. When he took it, she pulled him up, holding his gaze and letting their bodies brush once more.

The yard was still buzzing with scandalized whispers when Aemond finally stepped out from the shadows and walked into the center of the training ground.

The contrast was immediate and striking.

Visenya stood in the middle of the sand, barely clothed in red and black eastern garb, sweat glistening on her bare torso, silver braids slightly disheveled from combat, breathing hard and radiating raw, untamed power. She looked every bit the warrior of Samyriana, dangerous, foreign.

Aemond, by contrast, moved like a true prince of the blood. He wore finely tailored black leather, embroidered with subtle silver thread and fastened with dragonbone clasps. His posture was perfectly straight, shoulders back, chin high. His long silver hair fell neatly over one shoulder, and his expression remained almost eerily composed, cold, elegant, and utterly controlled. The sapphire in his ruined eye caught the morning light like a frozen flame. He looked exactly as a Targaryen prince should: regal, untouchable, and lethal.

Yet his single eye burned.

“Well fought, sister,” he said, voice smooth but edged with barely contained jealousy. “The east has forged you into a formidable warrior. Formidable… and entirely inappropriate for the delicate eyes of this court.”

Visenya let out a low, genuine laugh, the sound rich and unbothered. She wiped sweat from her collarbone with the back of her hand, the motion deliberately unhurried.

Cole, still standing nearby, looked deeply uncomfortable. The Lord Commander tried to make himself smaller, stepping back slightly and lowering his gaze, clearly wishing the ground would swallow him whole after being publicly bested and provoked by the princess in front of half the Red Keep.

Visenya glanced at him with a faint, amused smile before turning back to Aemond.

“We are all deeply offensive for those eyes, Valonqar"

Aemond’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. His gaze flicked once to Cole, a sharp, warning look, before returning to her.

“The Small Council meeting is almost upon us,” he said. “The king awaits.”

Visenya sheathed her sword with a fluid motion and stretched her arms above her head, the movement pulling the cloth across her chest.

“I suppose I should bathe before the council,” she said, voice light with mocking sweetness. “It would be a shame to appear before the Hand and the pious lords smelling of honest sweat and eastern steel. They might faint from the impropriety.”

Aemond said nothing. His single eye remained fixed on her, dark and intense, but he fell into step beside her as she left the training yard. The crowd parted before them like startled sheep. Cole stayed behind, still visibly rattled.

They walked through the corridors of the Red Keep in silence at first. Visenya’s bare feet made almost no sound against the stone, her braids swinging with each step. She could feel the heat of Aemond’s jealousy radiating beside her like dragonfire held just beneath the surface.

“Since you seem to want to accompany me, tell me” she said at last, glancing sideways at him. “Are there already plans for the next steps of this war? Or has the council spent these days only mourning and pointing fingers?”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he answered in that calm, precise tone he used when discussing strategy, the voice of a man who had spent years preparing for this conflict.

“Cole and I have discussed several moves. Harrenhal is the immediate threat. Daemon has taken it, or will soon. We plan to march with a strong hos, knights, men-at-arms, and levies from the Crownlands and Reach. If we can crush the Riverlands quickly enough, we cut Rhaenyra’s supply lines and isolate the North before the Starks can march south in force.” He glanced at her. “There are also lords in the Reach who still waver. We intend to send ravens and emissaries to secure them before they commit to the Blacks. Cole believes speed and numbers will carry the day.”

Visenya hummed, a low sound of approval mixed with disdain.

He paused, glancing at her. “With Vermithor now here, the balance shifts heavily in our favor. But the Hightowers still push for caution and politics. Parades. Alliances with the Faith.”

Visenya let out a low, contemptuous sound. “The Faith. Of course. Let them clutch their Seven while we wield fire and blood.”

They reached the door to her chambers, the same rooms she had occupied as a girl, now aired and prepared for her return. A young servant girl was already inside, pouring steaming water into a large copper tub near the window. The girl startled at the sight of Visenya’s scandalous attire and the prince accompanying her, nearly dropping the pitcher.

Visenya paid her no mind. She plucked a honeyed fig from a silver tray on the side table, popping it into her mouth as she continued toward the tub.

“Harrenhal first, then,” she said around the sweet, licking a drop of honey from her thumb. “Daemon will not yield easily, but he follows power and has no respect for Rhaenyra, we might be able to use it to our favor”

The servent exited the room as soon as she finshed preparing the bath.

As she spoke, Visenya reached behind her back and began untying the leather cords of her fighting garb with practiced ease. The black-and-crimson band loosened and fell away, followed by the thin red silk beneath. She stood completely bare from the waist up, the scars of Samyriana fully visible in the morning light streaming through the window, then pushed the leather straps from her hips without hesitation, letting the rest of the garment drop to the floor.

Aemond froze mid-sentence, his single eye widening. The composure he had maintained since the training yard cracked visibly. His gaze traced the lines of her body, the strong shoulders, the curve of her breasts, the narrow waist marked by old burns and blades, the long legs still dusted with sand from the yard. Heat flooded his face, mixing with the jealousy still simmering there.

Visenya noticed. She stepped into the steaming tub with a soft sigh of pleasure, sinking slowly into the hot water, and let out a low, genuine laugh, rich, unbothered, and slightly husky.

“What is it, brother?” she asked, tilting her head as she looked at him over her shoulder. Water sluiced down her bare back. "In Samyriana we trained, slept, and bathed together, blood and sisters, no shame between those who bleed and fight as one. This…” She gestured lazily at the discarded clothes and then at her own naked form. “This modesty you all cling to is the true barbarism.”

Aemond’s throat worked. He took one step closer to the tub despite himself, the sapphire in his eye socket catching the light like blue fire. The air between them thickened, heavy with years of separation, shared blood, and something far more dangerous.

“You are no longer in the east, Visenya,” he said, voice lower than before, rougher. “they will call you savage for less.”

She smiled, slow and predatory, resting her arms along the edge of the tub.

“Let them. I am savage. And I'm at my home, saving them from dangers they can't possibly phatom" She reached for a cloth and began washing the sweat and sand from her arms, completely unselfconscious under his stare.

The Small Council chamber fell into heavy silence as the doors opened. Visenya entered alongside Aemond, the two of them a striking vision of Valyrian blood made flesh.

She had chosen her attire with deliberate care, a fusion of Samyriana’s warrior elegance and Targaryen pride. Flowing silks in deep black and crimson draped her body in an eastern style: a halter top of black silk edged in red that wrapped tightly around her breasts, leaving her shoulders, arms, and toned midriff completely bare. Golden chains rested low on her hips, connected to a sheer crimson drape that fell from one shoulder like a royal mantle, pinned with a dragonbone brooch. Her silver hair was braided high in the Samyriana fashion, threaded with gold rings and a delicate circlet of rubies. Bronze and bone eastern adornments mixed with Westerosi Valyrian steel bracelets on her wrists. At her hip hung her ancestral Valyrian steel sword, the blade a constant, lethal presence.

Without hesitation, Visenya walked straight to the chair at Aegon’s right hand, the traditional seat of the Hand of the King, and claimed it as her own. She sat with fluid grace, crossing one leg over the other, the golden chains at her waist clicking softly and the crimson drape shifting to reveal more of her scarred midriff. The Valyrian steel sword rested prominently across her lap.

Ser Criston Cole was already seated at the table in his white cloak, when Visenya took the Hand’s chair, his dark eyes widened slightly, fresh flush crept up his neck. He shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable, his gaze flicking between her bare midriff, the sword on her lap, and the audacity of her actions.

The doors opened again moments later. Otto Hightower entered with Alicent at his side, deep in quiet conversation. The moment he saw Visenya occupying his rightful seat, Otto stopped short. His expression remained carefully composed, but a flicker of cold fury passed through his eyes. Alicent’s hand tightened on her father’s arm, her face tightening with clear disapproval as her gaze raked over Visenya’s revealing eastern garb, the bare skin, the scars, the golden chains that spoke of foreign lands and warrior customs far removed from Westerosi modesty.

The other council members reacted with varying degrees of shock. Tyland Lannister raised an eyebrow, Jasper Wylde looked openly scandalized, and Grand Maester Orwyle shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his chain of many metals clinking softly. The old man’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his spectacles, a calculating look that Visenya recognized instantly.

Maesters. Always watching, always whispering.

“Good morrow, My Lords, My King,” Visenya spoke first, her voice calm and carrying. Her violet eyes swept the table, lingering deliberately on Otto before she offered an elegant bow of her head toward Aegon.

Otto approached the table with measured steps, stopping beside the chair now occupied by Visenya. His tone remained elegant, almost paternal, though the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

“Princess Visenya,” he said smoothly, “that is the traditional seat of the Hand of the King. Perhaps the customs of the court have grown… less familiar to you after your long years away.”

Visenya met his gaze without flinching, a faint, cold smile curving her lips.

“I could never forget that this council exists for the blood of the dragon and those who truly serve it,” she replied, her voice clear and unyielding. “My brother sits upon the Iron Throne. I am his sister, of pure Valyrian blood, returned to preserve our house. I would only trade this place with another trueblood.”

She turned her head toward Aemond, violet eyes gleaming with challenge and amusement. “Valonqar, do you wish to switch places with me? You are the heir to the king, after all.”

Aemond’s lips twitched in a rare, dark smirk. “I am content where I am, sister. The view from here is… illuminating.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Alicent’s face flushed with barely contained outrage. Cole’s jaw clenched tightly, his flush deepening as he stared fixedly at a point somewhere above Visenya’s head. Tyland Lannister coughed awkwardly. Jasper Wylde looked between them as if unsure whether to intervene. Grand Maester Orwyle’s expression remained carefully neutral, but his jaw tightened subtly.

Otto’s composure held, but his fingers flexed at his sides. “This is highly irregular—”

Aegon cut him off with a tired wave of his hand. “She sits where she wishes. We have more pressing matters than seating arrangements.”

Visenya leaned back slightly in the Hand’s chair, the golden chains at her waist catching the light. Holding back a laugh.

The chamber fell into a charged silence after Aegon’s dismissal of the seating dispute. Torchlight flickered across the long table, throwing uneasy shadows over the faces gathered there. Visenya sat at the king’s right hand with the calm assurance of one who had faced far worse than offended lords and pious glances. The golden chains at her waist caught the light with every subtle shift, a quiet reminder of where she had been and what she had become.

Otto Hightower settled into his new place farther down the table, his expression as measured as ever. “If we may turn to graver matters,” he began. “Two days ago this family suffered a wound that may never fully heal. Prince Jaehaerys, the king’s heir, a boy of pure blood, was murdered in his own bed. Slit open by assassins sent from Dragonstone. The realm must see the truth of what Rhaenyra’s faction is willing to do.”

He paused, letting the words linger. “I propose a solemn procession. The prince’s body displayed with honor through the streets, Queen Helaena and Queen Dowager walking beside the bier in mourning. The smallfolk need to witness such savagery with their own eyes throught the suffering of the softest of us all. It will rally the city and turn undecided lords toward us.”

Visenya regarded him without blinking, her face a mask of cool indifference. “No,” she said, the word falling soft yet final. “That will not happen.”

Otto’s gaze sharpened. “Princess, the political necessity—”

“You would parade the butchered body of my nephew through the gutters of King’s Landing,” Visenya continued in the same even tone, each word edged like a blade, “and force his mother, already broken by grief, to walk beside it for the amusement of the rabble. If the Dowager Queen wishes to debase herself in such a manner, she may. But neither Helaena nor the body of my blood will be used for your theater. Touch them, and you will regret it.”

Alicent’s cheeks colored. “You have been away for ten years, Visenya. You do not know what this court demands in war. My grandson deserves justice. The people must see—”

“Justice,” Visenya echoed, turning her cold violet gaze upon the Dowager Queen. “Is that what you call it? Using a dead child as a banner while his mother weeps in the streets? Helaena has lost enough. She will not be broken further for your father’s ambitions.”

Tyland Lannister cleared his throat. “The princess speaks with feeling, yet Lord Otto’s suggestion holds merit. The smallfolk are fickle. A strong showing could bring more men to our banners and silence whispers of weakness.”

Jasper Wylde grunted in agreement. “The Faith would stand with us. It would paint us as the righteous side in this struggle.”

Grand Maester Orwyle inclined his head. “History offers many examples where such displays have unified a realm in turmoil, though the queen’s grief must of course be considered.”

Ser Criston Cole said nothing, but his knuckles whitened against the table’s edge.

Visenya’s lips curved into the faintest, coldest smile. “History, Grand Maester? How convenient that your chain always seems to weigh in favor of such necessities.” She looked slowly around the table. “Jaehaerys was of the dragon. Pure blood. He will have a dragon’s funeral, burned by Sunfyre beneath his father’s command and returned to the sky as our ancestors intended. Anything less dishonors us all.”

Her voice dropped, soft yet cutting. “I never met my nephew. And yet it seems I possess more compassion for his memory than those who shared his blood and roof.”

Aegon, who had been staring at the table in hollow silence, stirred at last. He lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed and heavy with grief, but there was a spark of resolve in them now, kindled by his sister’s cold certainty.

“No procession,” he declared, his voice hoarse but firm. “My son will receive a funeral befitting the blood of the dragon. In two days, Sunfyre will burn him. I will command the fire myself. A father’s fire for his son. That is how a Targaryen leaves this world.”

Visenya inclined her head with elegant deference. “A wise choice, Your Grace.”

Otto Hightower recovered with practiced speed, leaning forward once more. “Your Grace, I beg you to reconsider. The political advantage of a public procession cannot be overstated. The smallfolk must see the brutality of our enemies with their own eyes. Queen Helaena walking in mourning beside her son would stir the hearts of the realm and turn opinion decisively in our favor.”

Aegon’s face twisted. The fragile resolve cracked under the weight of fresh grief and mounting fury.

“You dare suggest this?” he snarled, slamming his fist upon the table so hard that wine spilled across the wood like fresh blood. “They murdered my son in his bed, inside my own house, and you would have me parade his corpse through the streets like some common criminal for the amusement of the rabble? You were my father’s Hand. A weak king’s Hand! But I am king now. They cut my son’s throat while he slept, and all you offer me is your damned politics and humiliation?”

His voice rose to a near-shout, raw with pain. “You are no longer Hand, grandfather. Ser Criston Cole will take your place. Effective immediately."

Stunned silence swallowed the chamber.

Otto’s face drained of color, fury burning behind his eyes. “Your Grace, this is impulsive—”

Alicent’s voice rose in desperate protest. “Aegon, please. My father only seeks what is best for the crown—”

Visenya spoke into the rising chaos, her tone calm, cold, and utterly final. “The King has spoken. He is the blood of the dragon, anointed before gods and men. His word is law. Only another true Targaryen may challenge him. The rest of you exist to serve.”

Her gaze moved slowly across the table with quiet warning, lingering on Otto, Alicent, and the Grand Maester. Cole swallowed hard, then bowed his head. “As Your Grace commands… I accept.”

Aegon slumped back into his chair, breathing heavily, but there was a new, fragile spark of authority in his eyes. He felt, perhaps for the first time since the murder, that the crown upon his head carried real weight. Visenya allowed the faintest curl of satisfaction at the corner of her mouth, one finger resting lightly on the hilt of her sword. The first cut against the rot had been made clean.

The silence that followed was heavy, almost reverent. Otto Hightower sat very still for a long moment, his face a mask of controlled fury. Slowly, with deliberate dignity, he reached up and removed the golden pin of the Hand from his breast. He placed it on the table with a soft click that echoed through the chamber like a final judgment. No words were spoken. None were needed.

Ser Criston Cole rose stiffly. He crossed to the table, lifted the pin, and fastened it to his own white cloak with hands that were not entirely steady. His eyes flicked once toward Visenya, then to Alicent, before he returned to his seat.

Aegon watched the exchange in silence. When Visenya’s hand returned to his forearm, her fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns against the fabric of his sleeve, he did not pull away. Instead, he leaned into the touch almost imperceptibly, drawing comfort from the warmth and quiet strength she offered. For a fleeting moment, the grief in his eyes softened.

Visenya kept her voice low and measured, as though merely guiding a conversation already in motion. “The matter of the Hand is settled, then. Now we must turn our eyes to the war itself, brother. The realm will not wait for us to mourn.”

She let the words hang gently, as if the suggestion had come from Aegon himself. He straightened a little in his chair, drawing visible resolve from her subtle support.

“Yes,” Aegon said, his voice steadier now. "What are our plans?”

Aemond, seated to Visenya’s left, watched the entire exchange in silence. His single eye narrowed, fixed on the way Visenya’s fingers moved soothingly over their brother’s arm. The jealousy that flashed across his face was sharp and unmistakable, a dark heat that burned behind the sapphire in his ruined socket. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing, though his hand clenched around the arm of his chair until the wood groaned faintly.

Otto and Alicent sat rigid, their expressions carved from stone. The Grand Maester observed everything with careful neutrality. Tyland Lannister and Jasper Wylde exchanged uneasy glances, sensing the shift in power within the room.

Visenya kept her touch light on Aegon’s arm, a quiet anchor, while her mind already moved ahead to the next battle. The council, for all its tension, was now hers to steer.

Aemond leaned forward, his voice cool and precise. “Harrenhal is the key to the Riverlands. Whoever holds it commands the heart of the realm. We march with a strong host, taking the loyalty of the river houses along the way. Those who bend the knee will be spared. Those who do not will burn. Once the river lords are subdued or brought to heel, we turn our full strength on Harrenhal itself. Daemon may be heading there. We cannot allow him to claim it.”

Cole nodded, the new pin of the Hand gleaming against his white cloak. “The plan is sound. We move quickly, before the Blacks can consolidate their hold on the rivers. The Crownlands and Reach will provide the bulk of the men.”

Visenya’s fingers paused for the briefest moment on his arm, a silent note of caution. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm, measured, and laced with quiet authority. “No, brother. Aemond is first in the line of succession after you. We cannot risk him so early in the war. He is too valuable to the throne.”

Aemond’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile, his single eye gleaming with quiet pleasure at her words. Across the table, Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure. Tyland Lannister exchanged a subtle glance with Jasper Wylde, both men sensing the shifting currents in the room.

Aegon frowned, considering. “Then perhaps I should go with Sunfyre. The king must lead by example—”

Visenya kept her expression perfectly composed, though inwardly she fought the urge to roll her eyes. She gave his arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze, her touch warm and anchoring. “You are the king, Aegon. The very heart of the Seven Kingdoms. Your place is here, upon the Iron Throne, where the realm can see you strong and unyielding. Let others fight your battles while you rule.”

She leaned back in her chair with fluid grace, crossing her legs so that the crimson drape fell open slightly over her scarred midriff. Her gaze swept the table slowly, calm and commanding, as though the decision had already been made. “I will accompany the host. I will ride with the knights and fight at their side.”

The chamber erupted in a storm of protest.

Voices clashed like swords on armor, indignation and disbelief filling the air. Before the uproar could swell into true chaos, Aemond raised a single hand. His voice rang out in High Valyrian, clear and commanding, cutting through the noise like a blade through silk and silencing the room at once.

“Ao issi ānogar hen zaldrīzes, ñuha riña. Kesīr daor se riña hen ānogar hen zaldrīzes. Ao daor issi ānogar hen zaldrīzes hen se commons, naejot vīlībāzma isse se ānogar hen se commons.” (You are blood of the dragon, my sister. This is not the place for blood of the dragon. You are not meant to march with the commons, fighting battles beneath you.)

Visenya met his gaze across the table and gave him a slow, cynical smile, the kind that carried the memory of eastern sands and cryptid blood. Without a word, she reached for her cup of wine, took a long, deliberate sip, and set it down again, the faint clink of silver against wood the only sound in the stunned silence.

Ser Criston Cole leaned forward, his face tight with concern and something deeper, almost possessive. “This kind of campaign is long, complicated, and dangerous, Princess,” he said, his voice rough but earnest. “There will be no luxuries, no comforts of court. It is no place for any woman, especially not a princess of the blood.”

The other lords murmured among themselves, nodding in uneasy agreement. Tyland Lannister exchanged a wary glance with Jasper Wylde, both men clearly unsettled by the princess’s declaration. Even the Grand Maester Orwyle watched with narrowed eyes, the links of his chain clinking softly as he leaned forward, his expression one of scholarly disapproval laced with calculation.

Visenya’s smile never wavered. “Lack of comfort has never troubled me, Lord Commander,” she replied, her tone cool and smooth as Valyrian steel. “Tell me, have you ever truly led a real battle? One where defeat meant death and there were no walls or kingsguard to hide behind?”

Cole’s neck flushed a deep red. He opened his mouth, closed it, then insisted stubbornly, “This is still no place for you, Princess.”

Aegon shook his head, his voice thick with emotion. “I cannot allow my sister to be seen fighting alongside common men. It is beneath you.”

Visenya raised a hand, silencing the table once more. Her voice remained calm, almost gentle, yet carried the weight of absolute certainty.

“You need not worry,” she said. “Vermithor will remain in King’s Landing, making his rounds over the city. He knows how to attack without a rider. This way, neither Aegon nor Aemond will need to expose themselves to the dangers of defending the capital. And if I have need of him, he will reach me within a few hours.”

She reached out and took Aegon’s hand in one of hers, then Aemond’s in the other. Her touch was warm, deliberate, and carefully measured. “I am the least important Targaryen at this table. I have no use pacing uselessly within the Red Keep while others bleed for our house.”

Aegon softened visibly under her words and touch, the tension easing from his shoulders as he drew strength from her presence. Aemond, however, remained unmoved, his single eye hard and wary. He saw the manipulation for what it was, even as his brother did not.

So go back to work and CREATE MOREEEE

Born alongside tragedy and raised beneath the shadow of a dying dynasty, Princess Visenya Targaryen has always believed one thing above all else: the blood of Old Valyria must remain pure. When Lucerys Velaryon takes Aemond’s eye in Driftmark, Visenya answers not with mercy, but murder, killing the boy before the entire royal court and fleeing Westeros atop Vermithor, the ancient Bronze Fury. Exiled to the far east, she leaves behind the politics of King’s Landing and becomes something far more dangerous amongst the warrior women of Samyriana, where survival is carved through fire, blood and monsters older than memory itself. Years later, when the Dance of the Dragons begins tearing House Targaryen apart, Aemond crosses the world to bring her home. But Visenya returns to Westeros neither as Green nor Black. She returns for the dragons alone.

masterlist

Chapter 3

The journey west was familiar in the way old scars were familiar. Vermithor remembered the path without being guided, ancient instinct carrying them across lands that Visenya herself had crossed once on the ground, younger and harder and moving in the opposite direction. She and Aemond flew side by side, stopping briefly along the Dothraki sea, passing over the Free Cities, over Pentos where the harbour bells rang in predictable panic below them. Always received. Never staying past dusk.

She felt the wind change before Dragonstone appeared.

Vermithor felt it too, something shifting in their shared awareness as the island rose from the water ahead, black and familiar and belonging to the wrong side of the family. They crossed over it quickly, low enough to be seen, high enough to suggest indifference. Rhaenyra would be warned within the hour. Good.

King's Landing announced itself in smoke and noise.

"Dragon!" The cry erupted from the walls before they had even cleared the city's outer approaches, spreading street by street below them like fire finding dry wood. Then the scorpions, crews scrambling frantically to man the boltthrowers mounted along the battlements while sergeants shouted commands that accomplished nothing. "Arm the scorpion! Arm it now!"

Visenya looked down at them and laughed.

It came out sharper than amusement. Closer to contempt, the sound of someone watching a dog bark at thunder. Vermithor was older than half the stones in those walls. The idea of a scorpion bolt doing anything meaningful to them belonged to the same category of Westerosi delusion she had spent twelve years forgetting existed.

She circled once above the city, slowly, and let them look.

The dragon pit was visible from above, its domed roof cracked in places from disuse, far too small for Vermithor even if she had been inclined toward enclosures, which she was not. She would sooner stable him in the Throne Room itself. She guided them instead toward the open yards beyond the Red Keep's outer walls, where Aemond was already descending on Vhagar, and let Vermithor land with the particular unhurried weight of something that had never needed permission to occupy space.

The ground shook once beneath them.

She dropped from Vermithor's back before the dust had settled.

The Red Keep entrance was familiar, yet foreign after so many years. The stiffness and false modesty of Westeross don't fit her as it once did.

The servants who had been sent to receive them had clearly not been briefed adequately on what receiving them would involve.

They stood in a cluster before the Red Keep's entrance, a steward and four attendants in Targaryen red and black, and every single one of them was staring at her with frozen expressions of people whose instructions had failed to account for the actual situation.

Behind them, members of the court who had gathered out of curiosity or obligation lined the steps in various states of composure.

Aemond fell into step beside her, hands clasped behind his back, his single eye moving with quiet amusement across every face they passed. He was enjoying this. She could see it in the slight looseness around his jaw, the deliberate patience of someone watching a known reaction play out exactly as anticipated, rejoicing with their shock

Courtiers pressed themselves subtly backward as they approached. A knight of the household guard forgot briefly how to stand.

Visenya looked straight ahead and let them stare.

She wore what she had arrived in, the same she always wore. Dark fitted cloth across the hips in a Qartheen cut, layered with leather straps at the waist and thighs, the fabric gathered and draped across her chest in a way that covered without conceding. Bronze and bone and gold worked into adornments at her wrists and throat. Her hair fell in braids threaded with gold rings, loose sections moving against her bare shoulders. The Valyrian steel sword sat at her hip with the easy familiarity of something that had been there so long it had become anatomical.

Westerossi clothers restrict movemment, she's a warrior and she knew King's Landing is dangerous as a battlefield. Armor are for those who don't have enough skill, they need to rely on something else, but not her.

She had been offered Westerosi clothing at the outer gate.

She had looked at the attendant who offered it with an expression that apparently required no verbal response, because he had not asked again.

Aegon waited at the top of the steps.

He looked older than she remembered and wore it badly. He had assembled what appeared to be a welcoming expression, though it sat uneasily alongside something closer to relief. Beside him Otto Hightower stood with his hands folded and his expression arranged into the careful neutrality of a man who had spent decades making neutrality look like wisdom. And Alicent.

Alicent looked at her the way women like Alicent looked at things they could not categorize within their existing moral architecture. The disgust was there, visible beneath the composure, moving behind her eyes as her gaze traveled slowly across Visenya's clothing, her adornments, the sword at her hip. The measured verdict of someone who had confused piety with rectitude so long ago she could no longer distinguish between them.

A Hightower woman through and through, composed with a humble that tells you something is behind all that piety. Visenya doesn't trust her.

Visenya held her eyes for exactly one moment. Then looked away, the way one looked away from something that had not yet earned sustained attention.

She stopped before Aegon.

He looked back at her with an expression caught somewhere between relief and uncertainty, and she studied him for a long moment in silence. Her brother. Her king, technically. The man whose throne she had crossed the world to preserve from people who had no blood right to anything within its proximity.

She spoke in High Valyrian. Old and precise.

"Skoros ao kostagon, ñuha brōzis. Ao arlī gaomagon se rhaenagon." (So then, my brother. You have gone and started a war)

The silence that followed told her everything. Aegon's expression moved through several stages before settling on something approximating dignity, but the slight delay, the flicker of blankness, confirmed what Aemond's silence on the subject during their journey had already suggested.

He had not understood a word.

Visenya let her gaze move slowly across the assembled faces. Otto's careful neutrality. Alicent's disgust. The court arranged behind them with the collective Valyrian fluency of common dock workers.

"Truly," she said at last, in the common tongue, her voice flat and carrying. "Our house is in decay."

Behind her left shoulder, Aemond said nothing, but she heard the quiet exhale that meant he was doing his utmost not to smile, in a barely concield ammusement of his brother ultimost fail to impress Visenya.

Aegon recovered faster than she expected. Perhaps ruling had taught him something after all.

"Sister," he said, and managed to make it sound almost like a welcome rather than an admission. "You look…" His gaze moved briefly across her before returning to her face, thinking twice before offend his help.

"Alive," Aemond offered from behind her, pleasantly.

Aegon accepted this. "Yes. Alive."

Otto stepped forward before the silence could develop further, smooth and immediate in the way of men who had spent lifetimes filling silences before they became problems. "Princess Visenya. Your return is a great relief to the crown. These are difficult times and your presence—"

"I am aware of the times," Visenya said without looking at him "Of your failure with our King and with the realm".

Otto paused for exactly a moment. Then continued as though she had not spoken, the particular talent of men who mistook persistence for authority. "The king has much to discuss with you. Matters of strategy, of—"

"Then the king can discuss them." She looked at Aegon. "With people who understand the importance of this war in a personal level, beyond mere power grabbing".

The steps went very quiet.

Alicent's expression did not change. That was almost more interesting than if it had. The woman had iron in her, Visenya would grant her that much, the kind of iron that came from years of swallowing things that should have been said aloud and calcifying around them instead. She stood perfectly still beside her son with her hands folded and her chin level and her eyes carrying every word she had decided not to speak directly into Visenya's face.

Visenya looked back at her with complete equanimity.

Otto said, measured and quiet, "I am the Hand of the King."

Visenya held his gaze "And I'm his sister, his blood, who have the most interest on his victory and safety", she replied without politeness, she's not used to the small pleasantries of the court, to the careful tone and words used. She became pratical, sincere.

Aegon glanced between them with the expression of a man watching a fire he had been assured was contained begin to suggest otherwise. He opened his mouth.

"Ȳdra" Visenya said to him, in Valyrian this time, the word simple enough that even he caught its meaning from tone alone. She was already moving toward the Keep's entrance, the court parting before her with the reflexive deference of people who had not yet decided whether she was more dangerous to oppose or to accommodate. "We have things to discuss" she looks around and spot Ser Criston Cole "I suppose you are the Lord Command, we might need your imput" her voice is of command, the same way she used to lead her sisters to battle. No room for discuss.

Aegon followed.

Behind them, she heard Aemond finally allow himself the smile she had been listening to him suppress since the outer gate.

And Criston Cole followed.

The small council chamber was smaller than she remembered, or perhaps Samyriana had simply recalibrated her sense of scale. Everything in Westeros felt slightly diminished now. The ceilings too low. The walls too decorated. The windows positioned for comfort rather than defense.

Visenya sat without invitation, her bare back straight against the carved chair, bronze bands and bone adornments clicking softly with every movement. The Valyrian steel sword rested across her thighs like an extension of her body.

She rolled the small golden ball between her fingers, studying the three men in front of her with the calm, assessing gaze of someone who had faced far worse monsters than these.

Aegon sat at the head of the table, looking worn and uneasy. Aemond remained standing near the window, arms crossed, silver hair catching the torchlight. Ser Criston Cole sat directly across from her, rigid and silent, white cloak immaculate.

A maid entered quietly and poured wine into four cups before retreating. Visenya lifted her hand.

“You,” she said to the young guard standing by the door. “Come here. Drink.”

The guard hesitated only a second before obeying. He took a sip from her cup, then another when she gestured impatiently. Only then did Visenya take the cup back, sipping slowly while her eyes moved across the table.

“Unfortutely for everyone” she said in a calm, almost bored tone, “I'm back from exile" She set the cup down. “How we stand?”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Aegon exchanged a heavy glance with Aemond, then with Cole. Finally, he leaned forward, voice thick.

“Two days ago… we suffered a terrible loss.” He swallowed hard. “Two assassins entered the Red Keep. They murdered my son. Jaehaerys… they cut his throat in his bed. My heir is dead.”

Visenya went very still.

Through the bond high above the city, she felt Vermithor’s sudden surge of rage, a deep, burning heat that flooded her veins like dragonfire. An urge to burn. A child of pure blood, slaughtered inside their own walls.

She said nothing for several heartbeats, letting the information settle like ash in her mouth.

Then her gaze turned sharply to Ser Criston Cole.

“And you, Lord Commander, where you were?” Her voice was dangerously soft.

Cole met her eyes, his jaw tight. “I was attending to the Queen Mother, Princess. As my duty required.”

Visenya stared at him. Then she laughed,low, sharp, and full of genuine contempt. Of course he was, since before she left, they have been awfully close.

“Attending to the Queen Dowager,” she repeated, tasting the words like poison. She took another slow sip of wine, leaning back in her chair, the leather straps across her chest shifting with the movement. “While the actual queen and the heir to the Iron Throne were left alone, unprotected, inside their own chambers?”

“Tell me, Ser Criston… is this how the Kingsguard works now? The Lord Commander personally guards the Queen Dowager while the true queen and her son are left like meat for the wolves?” She let out a low laugh again. “How admirable your devotion is. The Faith of the Seven must be very proud of you.”

Cole’s face darkened, a flush climbing up his neck. “The Queen Helaena had her own guards assigned. The attack was—”

“Successful,” Visenya cut him off, her voice sharp as Valyrian steel. “It happened inside the Red Keep. While you were busy playing the faithful dog to Alicent Hightower.”

Aegon rubbed his temple, visibly uncomfortable. “Visenya, this is not...”

“Not what?” She turned her gaze to her brother, though her tone remained ice-cold. “Your son is dead, Aegon. Your heir. And this man was guarding the wrong queen.”

Aemond, still by the window, let out a low sound, half amusement, half dark approval. His single eye gleamed with satisfaction as he watched her dismantle Cole.

“Careful, sister,” Aemond said softly, though his voice carried clear pleasure. “You’re making the Lord Commander uncomfortable.”

“Good,” Visenya replied, never taking her eyes off Cole. “Perhaps some discomfort will remind him of his actual duty: protecting the blood of the dragon. Not the Hightowers.”

Cole gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, but said nothing. The tension in the chamber was thick enough to choke on.

Cole gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white, his face a mask of barely contained fury and shame. The tension in the small council chamber hung thick in the air, heavy as smoke.

Visenya leaned back in her chair with deliberate grace, the leather straps across her bare chest shifting as she moved. She studied the Lord Commander like a predator savoring a trapped animal, a faint, mocking smile playing on her lips. Through her bond with Vermithor, she felt the dragon’s restless hunger echoing high above the city, feeding her own cold amusement.

“So, Lord Commander,” she said softly, almost sweetly, “do you already know who committed this crime? And, more importantly, who gave the order?”

Cole answered stiffly, his voice tight. “The assassins were Blood and Cheese. All evidence points to Daemon Targaryen as the one who sent them.”

Visenya tilted her head, gold rings glinting in her braids. “And the motive?” she pressed, her violet eyes gleaming with sharp curiosity.

Aegon suddenly slammed his cup onto the table, wine spilling across the wood like blood. His face was pale, eyes swollen and raw with grief. “It doesn’t matter why,” he growled, voice breaking. “My son is dead. They cut his throat while he slept. That is all that matters.”

Visenya regarded her brother for a long moment, watching the way grief had hollowed him out. Her expression remained cool, almost detached.

“It does matter, Aegon,” she replied quietly but firmly. “This was not a mere act of blind vengeance. There is calculation behind it.”

Ser Criston Cole shifted uncomfortably in his seat, seizing the chance to speak. “It may have been retaliation for the decree ending your exile. The news spread only days before the murder. Perhaps they saw your return as a threat.”

Visenya considered his words in silence, her fingers tracing the edge of her Valyrian steel blade. The torchlight flickered across her bare shoulders and the old scars from Samyriana.

“That makes sense,” she conceded at last, her tone thoughtful. “But only partially. If their true goal was to punish us for bringing me back, it would have been far more logical to wait until Aemond and I arrived together. To strike at me directly, with Vermithor and Vhagar descending upon the city.”

She smiled, cold and dangerous, her gaze moving slowly across the three men.

Visenya let the silence linger for a moment, her sharp violet eyes moving across the three men. The weight of Jaehaerys’ death still hung in the air, but her expression had already shifted from cold curiosity to pragmatic resolve.

“What is done is done,” she said at last, her voice steady and final. “Mourning the boy will not bring him back, nor will it win this war. We must look forward.” She set her wine cup down with a soft click. “So tell me… what is our current situation? How badly has this war turned while I was away?”

Aemond finally pushed away from the window, his movements slow and deliberate. The faint light from outside caught the sapphire in his ruined eye socket as he crossed the chamber and took the seat to Visenya’s right, closer to her than before. His presence was immediate, a quiet heat that brushed against her skin. He no longer looked bored, now he looked focused, ready to speak of war.

Cole straightened in his chair, clearly relieved to move away from Visenya’s personal accusations and onto matters of strategy.

“The situation is… precarious,” Cole began, his voice measured but strained. “We hold King’s Landing and most of the Crownlands. Aegon has been crowned and anointed. The Faith supports our claim, and many lords of the Reach and Westerlands have declared for us.”

Aemond continued where Cole left off, his tone calm and clinical, as if discussing the movement of pieces on a cyvasse board rather than the blood of their family.

“Rhaenyra still holds Dragonstone and has the support of the Velaryon fleet. The North has declared for her, as has most of the Vale. The Riverlands are fractured, some houses support the Blacks, others remain neutral or lean toward us. Our greatest advantage remains the dragons. We have Sunfyre, Vhagar, and now Vermithor.” He glanced at Visenya with a hint of dark satisfaction. “But Rhaenyra has Syrax, Caraxes, and several younger dragons. The balance is fragile.”

Cole nodded. “The assassination of Prince Jaehaerys has already begun to spread across the realm. Some lords see it as proof of Rhaenyra’s ruthlessness. Others… use it to paint us as weak. Unable to protect our own.”

Visenya looked at them with a soft frown creasing her white brows, though the expression carried more calculation than genuine concern. She leaned slightly forward, the torchlight dancing across her bare shoulders and the bronze bands on her arms.

“Well, we are weak,” she said calmly, her voice smooth as silk. “When a prince can be murdered in his own bed, inside the Red Keep, it reveals the weakness of the sovereign.”

Her gaze slid toward Ser Criston Cole with deliberate slowness. She was not making a blunt accusation, she was toying with him. The way his jaw clenched, the barely contained shame burning behind his eyes, and the quiet fury he struggled to swallow… it amused her. A quiet, dark satisfaction curled in her chest as she watched the pious knight fight not to react.

Aemond’s lips twitched faintly in shared understanding, but he remained silent.

Visenya continued, shifting the conversation with calculated ease. “Still, there may be some advantage to be gained. The Vale might change sides now that I am here. Lady Jeyne Arryn is my mother’s cousin. If she does not declare for us outright, she may at least become less inclined to actively support Rhaenyra.”

She let the words settle, her fingers idly tracing the hilt of her Valyrian steel sword.

Visenya let the silence stretch for a moment, absorbing everything that had been said. Then she rose from her chair with fluid grace, bronze and bone adornments clicking softly against her skin.

“Enough for tonight,” she declared, voice firm and commanding. “What is done is done. Tomorrow, at first light, I want the full Small Council assembled. Every member. No excuses. We have wasted enough time.”

Aegon gave a tired nod. Cole stood stiffly, clearly eager to escape her presence. Aemond was the first to move toward the door, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor.

As the men began to leave the chamber, Visenya lingered. Just as Cole reached the doorway, she moved with surprising speed and caught him by the shoulders from behind, her strong fingers pressing into the white cloak and the rigid muscle beneath it. She pulled him back slightly, forcing him to stop.

Cole tensed immediately under her touch.

Visenya leaned in close, her breath warm against his ear, lips barely brushing the shell of it. Her voice dropped to a low, velvet murmur.

“I trust you will keep discretion about everything we discussed here, Lord Commander,” she whispered, the words sweet but laced with mockery. “After all… it would be a shame if people started questioning where exactly your true loyalties lie. Or what occupies your mind when you are supposed to be guarding the blood of the dragon.”

She let her fingers trail slowly down his shoulders before releasing him, a faint, wicked smile on her lips. The brief contact had been deliberate, just enough to feel the heat of his body, just enough to unsettle the devout knight. Cole’s neck flushed red, but he said nothing, only clenched his jaw harder.

Visenya stepped into the corridor, where Aemond waited.

She had left Cole behind without another word, the Lord Commander standing rigid in the council chamber as though she had just burned him from the inside.

The moment she approached Aemond, the air between them changed, thick, charged, almost violent in its intensity. She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that the heat of his body bled into hers. No softness. Only raw blood calling to blood.

Visenya lifted her hand and slowly ran her fingers through a loose strand of his long silver hair, twirling it once around her index finger before letting it slide away.

“Ao issi raqiros māzīs se ao issi bē ilza ānogar, ñuha valonqar?” she asked softly in High Valyrian, her voice low and husky, violet eyes locked on his single one.(Have you become a better warrior than you were ten years ago, my little brother?)

“Yn ao kesā jorrāelagon naejot nyke hūra ao… hūra īlva lentor, ñuha valonqar?” (Or do you still need me to protect you… to protect our family, my little brother?)

Her fingers trailed from his hair down the side of his face, brushing the sharp line of his jaw and stopping just beside the sapphire embedded in his ruined eye socket.

He held her tighter, fingers digging into her bare waist with barely restrained hunger. There was clear possessiveness in the way he touched her, as if ten years of waiting had only sharpened his claim.

Visenya allowed the embrace, even leaned into it, but her smile was small and sharp, hidden against his shoulder.

She knew exactly what he was doing. He had broken the promise he made her that night in Driftmark, the vow to take responsibility for their house, to protect their blood while she was gone. Instead, he had crossed the world to find her.