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.
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.
Visenya knew it wouldn't work, yet, she had to try. Aemond will eventually understand her reasons.
