𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 - 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐃

𝙈𝙮 𝙆𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙧.

Her sobs have calmed down, face damp from devastation.

Her torch dimly lights the dragon-mont, and she lets herself believe that her excuse to sit on the harsh stone flooring of the tunnel is the heavy weight of her illuminant, when really, she intends to quietly cry.

She clutches her head, before continuing forward, up the steps.

"Fire Breather, Winged Leader, But two heads," The princess sucks in a deep, shaky yet confident, breath. "to a third sing. From my voice, the fires have spoken, and the price has been paid, with blood magic. With words of flame, with clear eyes, to bind the three, To you I sing. As one we gather, and with three heads, we shall fly as we were destined, beautifully, freely." Kneeling, the torch is set down.

Not a single sound is to be heard until so suddenly, the greatest flame illuminates the cave, a loud grunt elicited from the beast. Bright amber eyes look into her own violet, the insistence of its stare barely unsettles her, the dragon huffes as he peers at her. "Dohaeras, Vermithor." His breathing calms. "You have been asleep so long. It is time for you to arise."

Visenya lays her hand along the thick skin of his snout, her care for safety nonexistent. If she were to die now, it was decided that she would go contently. Perhaps she was a true dragon, and unable to burn. "We are going to avenge him, Vermithor."

Within minutes the dragon resides at the coast of Dragonstone, ready for flight. "If subtlety is something you require on your journey to wherever you're going, Vermithor is not the dragon to take." Daemon comments, the sudden voice makes her jump.

"You shouldn't scare me like that." She purses her lips. "I don't care for subtlety. It has no place in war."

Silently, he reveals his weapon, showing it to her by the handle. "Here. Take it."

"Dark Sister?"

The man nods. "It belonged to a Visenya Targaryen that came long before you, it is the reason we have a Queensguard today." Daemon's head tilts, a newfound softness to him. "It was forged for a warrior of your character."

The younger plucks it carefully from his loose grasp, inspecting the blade for just a second before sliding it into her scabbard. "Thank you, papa."

"Are you going to kill him?"

"If the seven see it fit."

⚔

The flight is faster on the bigger dragon, she reaches King's Landing just as he returns from Storm's End.

Visenya sneaks in with ease, remembering every nook and cranny of the castle, and the position of every guard while Vermithor remained by the coast, just outside the city. It hadn't changed when she was little Senya running through the corridors, or when she was the bride of Aemond Targaryen thrown into her room and starved, it hasn't changed now, yet.

She knocks twice.

"Come in." His voice is monotoned, one he'd used to address an expected maid.

Opening the door slowly, an odd creak steals his attention before his eyes find her. "Visenya." Aemond lets out a breath, a small smile painted onto his face as he stands. "I've missed you, my love." He wraps his arms around her, scooping her into the warmth of his embrace.

His touch burns into her skin, an inexplicable heat eliciting from his hold that she can't seem to deny. Maybe she wasn't a true dragon after all, as her skin aches and body melts into his. "Have you, Aemond?"

"Of course, I have."

Her tone holds no malice, no sadness, nothing. "What did you miss about me?" She speaks again before he could respond with flattery. "Did you miss me? Did you crave to see the devastation on my face? Did you mourn when you missed the opportunity to laugh at me when I learned of my brother's death?"

The Prince pulls away. "What do you mean?"

"Please, do not lie to me." Her hand threatens to unsheathe the sword. "I really dislike it when you lie to me, Aemond."

"It was an accident, Visenya. You must believe me."

He pulls out his own blade at the sight of hers. "Why? When have you ever told me the truth?" She cries, striking him, only to be blocked.

Aemond was sure not to connect his sword to her skin as he dodges her attacks. "From the day we met, everything has been true. My love for you has been nothing but the truth."

"How could you do this to me?"

She continues with her aggression, not noticing or caring for his continuous steps backwards until he trips, falling back onto the rug with his head just a few inches from the fireplace. Mere inches away from meeting his death.

Visenya drives the blade down with full force, the tip wedging itself into the flooring. Dark Sister catches a few strands of his hair, instantly slicing off the blond locks. A knock at the door sounds. "Everything alright in there, Prince Aemond? I heard a noise."

He does his best to sound less strained from the ground, a blade so close to his ear. "Yes, all fine."

The princess releases a sigh as footsteps retreated, falling onto her husband's body, straddling him as she holds onto the sword. "How could you?"

"I'm sorry."

"If I had a piece of gold for every time you have wronged me, and I have shown you mercy, I could perhaps be the richest woman in Westeros." Visenya plucks the blade from the ground, holding it to his neck, he shows little objection. "Now you are to die at the hands of your wife."

Aemond chuckles, it is small. "It would be the greatest pleasure."

The steel begins to lightly break skin. "I don't want to give you that pleasure. You are not owed any pleasure."

"Then deny me of it."

"I want you to burn, to die screaming."

He gently takes a hold of her wrist, not to prevent his imminent demise, but to touch her once more. "You shall have whatever you desire, my Visenya."

Tears cloud her, as they had done often this day, but his one lavender eye had pierced through, engraved into her brain. Dark Sister parts from his neck and is carelessly pushed across the room, Aemond sits up, their chests leaving no room for the hatred she attempts to exude. 

"My Visenya." It's a mere whisper, his slender hands cup her cheeks, her head involuntarily bobs. "My wife, my life."

Lips attach themselves to her neck, a small, experimental, peck. Visenya's eyes close uncertainly, eyelids bounce between pleasure and exhaustion as his mouth trails wet and warm down to the barely exposed shoulder. His left hand works at the lacing at the back of her garment, it releases quickly.

"Aemond." It's not a halt, she calls for him breathy, he returns to join their lips passionately before rendering her bare before him. She rolls off his hips, laying down on the rug as she awaits him, he undresses slowly, watching her stillness, drinking in the sight of her. 

Visenya is relieved when he joins her once again, her arm curling around his shoulders to keep him close.

The warmth is overstimulating, the heat of their skin, the heat of the fireplace, the highest temperature of the passion in their movement. They find themselves gasping, releasing sighs, sinking into the very warmth that clouds the judgement of their minds.

Morning nears, and though Aemond has his arm securely over her stomach, hand curling around her waist, the woman's glare is maintained through the window at the paler blue sky that is soon to welcome the sun. 

She stands abruptly, he knows her departure is to come, he merely sits up and spectates her redressing. 

"My forgiveness is not a virtue for you to count on." She tells him, and he silently agrees, nodding.

Visenya slips away, through the door, he is unable to tell which corridor she has scurried through.

He hears the distant cry of Vermithor, and he smiles with a closed eye.