Veil of Shadows | Aemond Targaryen

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TW mention of body dysmorphia and death/ blood ect.

Visenya awoke to the soft rustle of servants preparing her breakfast, the gentle murmur of their movements permeating her room. 

Fatigue lingered in the corners of her eyes, a testament to the meager rest she had found in the embrace of the night. The events of the previous evening, the clandestine walk to the godswood, and the unexpected encounter with Aemond played like a hazy dream in her mind. 

The daylight filtered through the curtains, casting a subdued glow across the room, yet the weight of the impending petition for the seat of Driftmark hung heavy in the air. As she lay in bed, a reluctant spectator to the dawn of a crucial day, the soft hues of sunlight failed to dispel the shadows of uncertainty that clouded her thoughts. 

Weariness clung to her like a persistent fog, but she knew she couldn't surrender to the allure of sleep. Today was a battlefield of words and claims, a battlefield she had to navigate with grace and resilience. The temptation to retreat into the comforting embrace of dreams clashed with the responsibility that tethered her to the waking world. 

With the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders, Visenya rose from her bed, a determined glint in her violet eyes. As the first rays of morning light painted her room, she gathered her resolve, ready to face the day and defend her kin. 

Visenya felt the chill of the stone floor beneath her bare feet. The morning routine, once a comforting ritual, now felt like a prelude to a storm.  

As the servants departed, leaving a solitary breakfast arrangement for Visenya. Her choice to forego the presence of servants or handmaidens extended beyond the confines of her room. At Dragonstone, the absence of servants became a deliberate decision, a testament to her self-reliance and a subtle defiance of the traditional expectations that surrounded her station. 

In the quiet solitude, Visenya moved towards the table, her every step a dance between the warmth of her bed and the unwavering reality that awaited her. The cold sensation beneath her feet seemed to ground her, keeping her in the present.  

The carefully arranged breakfast awaited her, a tableau of culinary delights —fresh fruits glistening with morning dew, the aroma of warm bread wafting through the air. 

However, Visenya's nerves held her appetite captive, and the thought of partaking in the morning feast lost its appeal. The tension of the impending events and the complexities of courtly life created a knot in her stomach that resisted the allure of food. 

Silently contemplating the untouched meal, Visenya acknowledged the absence of her usual morning hunger. The air in the room seemed to carry the weight of the upcoming events—the petition for Driftmark, the family dynamics at play, and the intricate dance of politics. In this charged atmosphere, breakfast became a casualty, set aside as she grappled with the currents that threatened to engulf her. 

Visenya, after contemplating the untouched breakfast, redirected her steps toward the dresser. The soft rustle of fabric greeted her as she opened the wardrobe, revealing an array of dresses in various hues. Her fingers gently trailed along the rich fabrics, and her gaze lingered on a sea-blue dress, the colors of House Velaryon, a silent homage to her "father's" lineage. 

The sea-blue dress that Visenya chose for the day of was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, with details that spoke volumes about her Velaryon lineage. The velvety fabric flowed gracefully, embracing her figure in a cascade of rich hues. The sea-blue, reminiscent of the ocean that surrounded Dragonstone and Driftmark.

The dress was adorned with black details, carefully stitched to form intricate patterns. As Visenya examined it in the mirror, she noticed that the black details took the shape of dragons, their sinuous forms weaving through the fabric like guardians of her identity. The dragons, symbols of House Targaryen, were intricately intertwined with the sea-blue background, blending the legacies of both houses seamlessly. 

The golden details added a touch of regality, like rays of sunlight dancing on the surface of the ocean. These subtle accents highlighted the dragon motifs, creating a harmonious fusion of Targaryen and Velaryon symbolism. The golden threads shimmered as if capturing the essence of sunlight reflecting off dragon scales. 

Each dragon on the dress seemed to possess a life of its own, their wings and tails entwining in a dance that echoed the complex interplay of the Targaryen and Velaryon bloodlines. It was more than an outfit; it was a visual narrative, an artistic representation of the intricate tapestry of her lineage. 

Visenya, despite her status, found solace in the ritual of dressing herself. the notion of servants dressing her seemed unnecessary. The morning routine, devoid of prying eyes and unwarranted assistance, became a private ritual—a moment where she reclaimed control over her own portrayal. 

As she carefully slipped into the dress, the fabric embraced her form, its flowing lines mirroring the graceful ebb and flow of the sea. 

She chose this attire purposefully, a symbol that resonated with the essence of her lineage. Through the sea-blue dress, Visenya intended to convey a message: she was a Velaryon, and no one should dare question or underestimate the strength woven into her identity. The regal hues adorned her like a suit of armor, a manifestation of the unyielding spirit that ran in her veins. 

Despite her true parentage, she carried the name of her late "father," Ser Laenor Velaryon. For the outside world, she was a Velaryon, and in this moment, the sea-blue dress served as both a shield and a banner. As she prepared to face the day and the impending petition of Driftmark, Visenya wore her chosen colors with a quiet resolve, a testament to the complexities woven into her identity.

Visenya approached her reflection, eyes focused on the image that stared back at her. A cascade of silver waves framed her face, and today, she chose to let them flow freely. With skillful fingers, she intertwined small braids with the loose curls, creating an intricate tapestry that danced with every movement. 

As the final braid fell into place, Visenya stood before the looking glass, a portrait of elegance and defiance. Her hair, a symbol of the complexities she bore, flowed in loose waves and structured braids.

Visenya's reflection in the mirror cast a complex dance of emotions across her violet eyes. Though adorned in the regal sea-blue dress and her hair styled in a reminiscent nod to Targaryen queens of old, her gaze lingered on perceived imperfections. The mirror, a relentless critic, reflected the internal struggle she faced with self-acceptance, a daily battle against insecurities that even the grandeur of her attire couldn't completely dispel. 

Visenya's hands delicately smoothed down the fabric of her dress, a subtle ritual of assurance. With a sidelong glance in the mirror, she scrutinized her appearance, momentarily preoccupied with the curve of her belly. Despite the elegant attire, her quest for self-assurance revealed the depth of insecurities that lingered beneath the surface.  

A gentle knock echoed through the room, drawing Visenya's attention away from the mirror's harsh scrutiny. She took a deep breath, her hand still lingering over the fabric of her dress. A mixture of nerves and determination coursed through her veins. 

The guard announced, "Your Grace, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon is here to see you." 

"Allow him to enter," she instructed, a subtle sense of anticipation of the impending challenges of the day etched upon her features. 

As the door creaked open, Jacaerys walked into the room with the light air that always surrounded him. Visenya, caught between anticipation and anxiety, was relieved to see her brother. His presence, like a comforting breeze, eased her nerves. 

Jacaerys took a moment to appraise her appearance. "You look stunning in that dress sister," he remarked, a genuine smile playing on his lips. The compliments from her brother were more than mere pleasantries; they were a testament to the unspoken connection that bound them together. 

Visenya could discern a subtle nervousness in Jacaerys' demeanor. Though he tried to hide it, she, attuned to the nuances of their shared emotions, could sense his apprehension. Despite his efforts to reassure her, she recognized the weight of the impending events they were about to face. 

Acknowledging his compliment with a subtle nod, Visenya offered a reassuring smile. "Thank you, brother. Your words mean a lot."  

"Have you seen Luke this morning?" Visenya inquired, a hint of concern lining her voice. 

Jacaerys nodded in response, his eyes reflecting the shared weight of their worries, "I spoke with him earlier". He paused for a second "He's nervous, as any of us would be. This petition seeks to undermine his rightful claim, and it weighs heavily on him." 

Visenya sighed, acknowledging the truth in his words, "I just hope he knows we're here for him. The unity among us is our strength." 

Observing the subtle signs of nerves in Jacaerys, Visenya couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy. She knew her brother's every expression, and even the slightest flicker in his eyes spoke volumes to her. 

Visenya acknowledged the stark contrast she experienced compared to her brothers. Her Targaryen features shielded her from the same level of questioning and challenges they faced. The privilege of her silver hair granted her a level of acceptance that her siblings couldn't always enjoy. 

"Jacaerys," Visenya asserted with determination, "I won't allow anything to happen to Lucerys. We stand together, and I'll defend our brother's birthright with everything I have." 

Her words carried the weight of her commitment, a vow made in the face of uncertainty, as they prepared to face the challenges that awaited them. 

In an effort to diffuse the tension that hung in the air, Visenya approached Jacaerys with a playful twinkle in her eye. She reached out and ran her fingers through his brown, silky locks, letting out a laugh that echoed in the room. 

"Ah, these locks of yours are the envy of the entire court," she jested, her tone lightening. "I've always said, the ability to wear brown with such grace is a rare gift, my dear brother." 

Jacaerys, caught off guard by the unexpected jest, couldn't help but smile in response. The momentary reprieve offered a brief escape from the serious matters at hand, as laughter echoed in the room, momentarily drowning out the weight of the impending petition. 

Jacaerys looked at her with a solemn expression. "Mother requested that I escort you to the throne room". He said, his tone conveying a mix of duty and concern. 

Visenya, donned in the sea-blue gown she had chosen earlier, nodded in acknowledgment. the playfulness of the moment replaced by a sense of determination. As they left her room, the weight of responsibility settled upon them.  

The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows on the stone walls as they, her hand around his arm, made their way through the echoing halls of the Red Keep. The rhythmic echoes of their footsteps echoed, accompanied by the soft rustle of their garments. A stoic guard, stationed at Visenya's door, fell into step behind them. 

The torches lining the corridor painted the siblings in warm hues as they approached the heart of the castle. Despite the weight of the impending petition, a sense of shared resilience stemmed from the duo.  

Visenya, dressed in the striking sea-blue gown, exuded a regal presence, and the subtle fragrance of the torch-lit corridor surrounded her. The ambient sounds of the castle—the distant murmurings of courtiers, the occasional creaking of a door—accompanied them on their journey. 

Jacaerys, by her side, maintained a composed demeanor, yet the underlying tension hinted at the challenges awaiting them in the throne room. The guard's footsteps, a silent sentinel in their procession, added a solemn cadence to the approaching moment of reckoning. 

Together, they pressed forward through the winding corridors, their path illuminated by the flickering torches, determined to face the court and the petition that awaited them in the heart of the Red Keep. 

As Visenya and Jacaerys entered the grandeur of the throne room, a hushed silence fell over the court. The amenity of the chamber, adorned with dragon motifs and the Iron Throne looming in the background, a symbol of power and authority that had witnessed countless struggles within the Targaryen lineage. 

As they approached, the throne room seemed to magnify in grandeur, amplifying the significance of the pending petition. The subtle rustling of courtiers attire blended with the echoes of footsteps, creating an auditory tapestry that underscored the gravity of the moment. 

Her parents, Daemon and Rhaenyra, stood with a gravity that mirrored the weight of the moment. Lucerys and Rhaena, siblings united in this trial, were already present. As they approached, the courtier's whispers trailed in their wake, eyes following the Velayron-clad Visenya, and the unmistakable sensation of scrutiny intensified. 

Yet, amidst the sea of courtly gazes, Visenya felt a particularly intense stare—the burning gaze of Aemond. His eyes, a familiar violet that once held shared secrets, now carried an unfamiliar weight. The weight of unspoken tensions, shifting loyalties, and the passage of time. 

Jacaerys maintained a composed demeanor, leading Visenya toward their family amidst the unspoken judgments of the court. The echoes of their footsteps reverberated in the grand chamber as they approached their awaiting kin, each step echoing the significance of the impending petition. 

The air buzzed with unspoken judgments and expectations, and the siblings stood united, bracing themselves for the storm about to unfold within the hallowed halls of the Red Keep. The eyes of the court bore witness to the unfolding drama, a tableau of Targaryen power and intrigue. 

As Visenya stood with her parents and siblings, she couldn't help but notice Vaemond's disdainful face. Unfazed by the facade of confidence, she met his gaze with a lethal stare, her violet eyes communicating a silent declaration that she wouldn't yield to his schemes. 

The exchange was a clandestine affair, a battle of wills hidden within the intricate dance of courtly politicking. No one else seemed privy to the unspoken confrontation, but within the silent clash of their eyes, a promise echoed—an unyielding determination to protect her family against the currents of intrigue and rivalry that permeated the court. 

But as she thought that no one saw it. Aemond, perceptive as ever, noticed the unspoken exchange between her and Vaemond. His gaze lingered on her, watching the subtle interplay of expressions that revealed a depth of determination and defiance. At that moment, amidst the courtly spectacle, Aemond remained a silent observer.  

Visenya's gaze swept across the throne room, and her eyes fixated on Otto Hightower seated on the Iron Throne. In that moment, a surge of resentment coursed through her, and she couldn't help but wish that the sharp edges of the throne itself could pierce through him. The tension in the air grew, laden with unspoken grievances. 

"Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survives his wounds," Otto Hightower, the Hand, addressed the assembly, emphasizing the collective hope for Lord Corlys Velaryon's recovery, a palpable tension gripped the room. 

Visenya stood resolute between her siblings. The weight of the impending decisions pressed heavily upon them, and she could sense Lucerys shifting uncomfortably beside her. The gravity of the moment hung in the air.  

Visenya couldn't help but see through the feigned hope for Lord Corlys's survival expressed by the Hightowers. She knew their true desire lay in the potential ascension of Vaemond, and the schemes surrounding Driftmark's succession were fraught with ambitions and hatred towards her family. 

"We gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark," Otto Hightower declared, assuming the throne with an air of authority that Visenya found disrespectful.

"As the Hand, I speak with the King's voice on this, and all other matters. The Crown will now hear the petitions." The formality of the statement resonated through the throne room, setting the stage for the consequential decisions that would shape the fate of Driftmark and her family. 

"Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon," the Hand announced.  

Visenya's gaze followed Vaemond's confident stride as he stepped forward. His demeanor projected an air of superiority. It was a calculated move, a silent acknowledgment that he believed his petition had already found favor with Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent Hightower presiding over the matter.  

"My Queen," Vaemond acknowledged Alicent with a slight nod, and then turned to address the Hand. "My Lord Hand... The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms, to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our Houses became the last of our kind. Our forebears came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to all of their bloodlines and their names." Vaemond declared. Visenya couldn't help but release a breath, finding his words steeped in a theatrical air that made her want to roll her eyes at his boasting. 

Rhaenyra's keen eyes caught the subtle sigh that escaped Visenya's lips, and a glance passed between mother and daughter—a silent understanding. In that exchange, Rhaenyra conveyed a matera motherly command that conveyed "Not now." 

Visenya, with a hint of impatience lingering in her violet eyes, straightened her posture. The weight of the occasion demanded her patience, and she reluctantly shifted her focus back to Vaemond's speech.  
  
"I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother's seat," Vaemond Velaryon proclaimed, his voice resonating through the throne room. "I am Lord Corlys's closest kin, his own blood." 

The weight of his declaration hung in the air, and Visenya caught the subtle edge in the final words, "his own blood." It was a veiled insult aimed at her and her brothers, a calculated move to emphasize his claim and subtly undermine the legitimacy of Lord Corlys's chosen successor. 

Visenya's jaw tightened, her violet eyes narrowing as she keenly perceived the underlying implications of Vaemond's words. The subtle aggression in his tone did not escape her notice, and it fueled the simmering tension in the room. 

This wasn't the first instance of Vaemond openly insulting her and her brothers. Visenya recalled the funeral of her aunt Laena, where he had made similar belittling remarks. The memory of those words lingered, and with each calculated insult, the tension grew.  

Visenya's gaze shifted to Aemond, who wore a small smirk after Vaemond uttered those words. It was a silent acknowledgment of the political maneuvering taking place, and a subtle enjoyment of the tension he helped create. Aemond's amusement didn't escape Visenya's notice, and she couldn't help but feel a surge of conflicted emotions. The intricate dance of alliances and rivalries within her own family played out before her, and Aemond's participation in it added another layer to the complex web of relationships. 

"The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins," Vaemond declared with unwavering confidence.  

Before he could continue, Rhaenyra interjected, her voice tearing through the tense silence like thunder bursting through the sky. "As it does my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your House's blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition–" 

Alicent, with a derogatory and belittling tone, interrupted, "You will have a chance to make your own partition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard." The Queen's words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of the intricate web of politics and power that intertwined within the court. 

Vaemond smirked, reveling in the slight advantage granted by Alicent's words. The tension in the throne room intensified, each participant in this political drama keenly aware of the delicate dance unfolding before them. 

Empowered by the Queen's favor, Vaemond turned to address Rhaenyra directly, his expression smug and patronizing. "What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn't recognize it." 

Rhaenyra, maintaining her composure, chose to ignore Vaemond's provocative words, responding only with a stern and measured gaze that conveyed disapproval without verbal confrontation, for that she has to wait.  

But Visenya felt the burning desire to demonstrate to Vaemond what his blood truly looked like, and her father keenly observed the anger emanating from her. Their eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between them, a shared fire of indignation against the audacity of Vaemond's claims. 

Vaemond continued with his back turned to the court as he addressed the crown, his voice unwavering. "My Queen, my Lord Hand... This is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my House and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother's successor–the Lord of Driftmark and the Lord of the Tides." 

Visenya shook her head in disbelief, astounded by the audacity of a man claiming to love his brother while boldly challenging his chosen successor and questioning his decisions from behind his back. 

Visenya noticed her uncle Aegon, standing on the other side of the throne room, giving her a playful smirk, clearly reveling in the unfolding drama. 

"Thank you, Ser Vaemond," Otto Hightower acknowledged before turning his attention to Rhaenyra, his gaze betraying none of his thoughts because he was way too good at conspiring. "Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Lucerys Velaryon." 

Rhaenyra inhaled deeply, a sigh escaping her lips as she shook her head in exasperation. Stepping out from the crowd, she prepared to address the court with an air of weariness. "If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago, in this very..."  

As the colossal doors of the throne room swung open, their creaking resonance pierced the air, immediately silencing Rhaenyra mid-speech. Every gaze in the room shifted towards the abrupt interruption, two imposing figures garbed in the resplendent white cloaks of the Kingsguard commanding their attention. 

The knights flanked a stooped and frail form, whose every step reverberated through the hall as a cane thudded against the stone floor with each agonizing movement. The sudden entrance created a hushed anticipation that hung in the air, leaving the court in suspense, wondering about the identity of this unexpected visitor and the purpose of their presence in the midst of such a crucial hearing. 

"King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men,". Announced the authoritative voice of Lord Commander Westerling.  

An undeniable shift rippled through the atmosphere, a mixture of curiosity, apprehension, and reverence. Whispers and murmurs surged, only to subside into a collective silence as the onlookers witnessed the aged figure's slow and deliberate advance. Each step carried the weight of great effort, accompanied by the rhythmic cadence of labored breaths. 

His frail shoulders seemed burdened by the weight of history, each slow, dragging step echoing the gravity of the moment. The court itself seemed to hold its breath, anticipating the impact of this presence. 

"Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," Lord Commander Westerling concluded, the resonance of his words underscoring the solemnity that hung in the air. 

A hushed and uncertain aura enveloped the chamber. All eyes remained fixed on the King as he slowly traversed the space towards the throne. There was a mixture of uneasy fascination and profound reverence in the collective gaze, accentuated by the fact that the King had been absent from public view for many years. 

The worry and surprise reflected in her parents' violet eyes were palpable as King Viserys made his way towards the iron throne. The anticipation in the room heightened, and Visenya couldn't help but exchange a glance with her family, all sharing the weight of this unexpected and rare appearance. 

As King Viserys approached the Iron throne, Otto Hightower rose slowly from his seat, his expression reflecting profound shock. The astonishment seemed to cascade through the throne room, catching even the Queen off guard. Her lips parted in surprise, her eyes widening, and a fleeting moment of fear crossed her face as King Viserys glanced in her direction.  

Visenya observed the exchanged glance between Vaemond and Otto, a subtle smirk playing on her lips as she discerned their shared sense of unease. 

Every gaze remained entangled by the aging King's deliberate traverse through the throne room. His feeble frame was adorned with a robe, a symbolic attempt to recapture the grandeur that had faded along with his health. A mask, gilded and enigmatic, veiled half of his visage, concealing the deterioration beneath. Visenya found the sight disconcerting—a stark visual paradox of royal opulence and undeniable fragility. The once formidable King, who had ridden the black dread, now appeared almost unrecognizable. 

Coming to a stop at the foot of the first steps leading to the throne, Viserys directed his gaze toward Otto, and amidst labored breaths, he uttered words that reverberated through the hushed air, "I will sit the throne today".  

"Your Grace," Otto reluctantly acceded, his eyes briefly meeting Rhaenrya and Daemon, his expression tight.  

Viserys's cane struck against the initial stairs, the sound echoing in the hushed throne room. With a visible effort, he struggled to hoist himself upward, his fingers clenching tightly around the cane's head, threatening to splinter it. Though Ser Erryk Cargyll moved to assist the King, Viserys rebuffed the aid, steadfast in his determination to ascend the throne unaided. 

Visenya couldn't help but admire the King's resilience, a testament to the indomitable spirit that had once ridden the black dread. Each step he took was a declaration of his enduring will, a stark contrast to the frailty that marked his form. The courtiers watched in a mix of reverence and uncertainty, unsure of what this unexpected turn of events would bring to the proceedings. 

Visenya's eyes flickered to meet Aemond's, and in that moment, she sensed the displeasure in his gaze. The arrival of his father meant a shift in the dynamics, and it was evident that Aemond, knew what it meant for the potential impact on Vaemond's petition.  

The echoing clatter of the crown meeting the floor sent a collective gasp through the room, and as hearts seemed to descend, Daemon took decisive action. Stepping forward, he retrieved the fallen crown and extended his unwavering support to his weakend brother. 

With a gentle but firm touch, Daemon guided Viserys up the steps to the throne, his strength a reassuring presence. Once seated, Viserys drew ragged breaths and emitted a faint groan, while Daemon, with reverence, placed the crown back atop his brother's head. The room held its breath, witnessing the poignant moment of a once-mighty king, now fragile but still commanding the symbol of his authority. 

Daemon gracefully retreated, returning to his place beside his wife with a measured and composed stride. 

"I must... admit... my confusion," Viserys began, his gaze sweeping across the court. "I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present... who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys's wishes is the Princess Rhaenys."  

"Indeed, Your Grace," Rhaenys replied, her tone composed and respectful. The sight of the King, her cousin had clearly taken her aback. 

Visenya's heart quickened, a turbulent rhythm echoing in her chest as her eyes stayed locked on the approaching figure of Rhaenys, her grandmother. A sense of uncertainty gripped her, casting shadows of doubt on the true nature of the allegiance residing within Rhaenys's heart. The familial bonds between them felt delicate, for despite the title of grandmother, Rhaenys had always made it abundantly clear that their connection held little warmth or shared sentiment. 

"It was ever my husband's will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son... Lucerys Velaryon," Rhaenys declared, her words sending a ripple of surprise across the room. Visenya's expression betrayed a hint of astonishment at this revelation. 

As Lucerys heard his name, his head snapped up, and Visenya offered a small, comforting smile, silently reassuring him in the midst of the tense proceedings.  

"His mind never changed. Nor did my support of him," Rhaenys added. 

Despair painted itself vividly across the faces of the Hightowers, their aspirations and schemes crumbling in the wake of Rhaenys's decisive statement. But deep down they already realized that their cause had crumbled the moment King Viserys entered the throne room, His presence alone signaled an unwavering commitment to preserving the established order, making it clear that he would never sanction the disruption they sought. 

Rhaenys pressed on, her words resonating with unwavering conviction. "As a matter of fact," she declared, "Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons Jace and Luke to Lord Corlys's granddaughter's, Baela and Rhaena. A proposal to which I heartily agree." 

Visenya's confusion stirred beneath her composed exterior as Rhaenys unveiled the unexpected proposal. The difficulties of courtly alliances and marital arrangements were often covered in secrecy, and it seemed her mother, Rhaenyra, had kept this particular plan concealed from her.

Visenya's realization deepened as she recollected her mother's assurances about marrying Jacaerys and ruling together. The unspoken understanding between them had created an implicit expectation of a shared reign. The sudden revelation of potential marriages between her brothers and half-sisters hinted at a shift in the planned course.

She grappled with the uncertainty surrounding her position and her mother's intentions. The absence of a clear title as heir and the unexpected revelation about potential marriages involving her brothers sparked questions about her future role within the family.

As she contemplated the implications, Visenya acknowledged the need for a direct and honest conversation with her mother. Understanding her mother's perspective, clarifying any changes in plans, and expressing her own aspirations would be crucial in navigating the complexities of their lives.

The throne room echoed with a collective murmur that reverberated through the assembly, a subtle undertone of acceptance that rippled among the courtiers. It was a moment charged with significance, as the court grappled with the unforeseen turn of events. 

The hushed whispers of courtiers, the exchanged glances between nobles, all bore witness to the acknowledgment of the finality that now characterized the decision. 

"Well... The matter is settled," Viserys declared, his frail voice carrying the weight of authority and finality. "Again, I hereby reaffirm. Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and as the next Lord of the Tides." 

The air, once charged with uncertainty, now bore the stamp of finality. Visenya, her gaze fixed on her younger brother Lucerys, witnessed the realization of their collective efforts to secure his rightful place. A sense of relief settled over her, though the echoes of political maneuvering lingered in the recesses of the throne room. 

As the court absorbed the weight of the settled matter, Viserys's words echoed, emphasizing the end of the struggle over Driftmark's succession. The courtiers, their expressions reflecting a range of emotions from approval to resignation, acknowledged the resolution brought forth by the aging King's decision. 

"You break law," Vaemond's voice cut through the air, laden with disbelief and anger, as he challenged the established laws and traditions that had governed the realm for centuries. 

The weight of his words reverberated in the throne room, echoing his fervent objection to Visenya and her brother's perceived disruption of the rightful order.  "And centuries of tradition to install your daughter as the heir." 

He boldly stepped forward, taking the place of Rhaenys, his eyes ablaze with fury and indignation. It was as if he had relinquished control, steering his ship recklessly into the storm, caring little for the impending consequences.  

"Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon," Vaemond continued furiously. "No, I will not allow it." 

" 'Allow it' ," Viserys repeated in something that edged on a scoff, a subtle disdain laced in his frail voice "Do not forget yourself, Vaemond." he added, his gaze steady, a glimmer of the once-dominant Targaryen king still evident in his eyes. 

The court held its breath, anticipating the unfolding exchange between the defiant Vaemond and the ailing but still authoritative Viserys. The tension in the throne room seemed to thicken, a storm brewing beneath the seemingly calm surface of royal decorum 
Vaemond's entire form quivered with pent-up rage, the words swelling within him like molten fury. 

In an abrupt turn, he spun on his heels, pointing a trembling finger at Lucerys. His voice erupted in a shout, echoing through the hushed throne room. "THAT is no true Velaryon!" The accusation hung in the air, a storm of words threatening to shatter the fragile balance within the room.  

Vaemond's accusation hung heavily in the air as Visenya swiftly positioned herself in front of her brother, a protective shield against the storm of words. 

Her hand discreetly slid into the hidden folds of her sea-blue dress, the fabric concealing the innate response to reveal the shared essence that bound them all. In the tense silence, the court awaited the King's response, and Visenya's poised presence spoke volumes about her determination to defend her family.  

"And certainly no nephew of mine," Vaemond growled, turning his anger towards the King. 

Rhaenyra's voice cut through the escalating tension, instructing her son to leave the confrontation. "Go to your chambers," she commanded, her stern gaze fixed on Vaemond. "You've said enough." 

Despite his mother's directive, Luke stood frozen behind Visenya, as if compelled to bear witness to the unfolding drama, torn between following his mother's order and the intensity of the moment. 

With a gentle but firm grip, Visenya intertwined her fingers with Lucerys's, a subtle yet powerful gesture conveying solidarity and support. Her touch carried the unspoken promise that, no matter the storm raging around them, they would face it together as siblings bound by blood and shared history. 

As Vaemond's accusations echoed through the throne room, Visenya's steadfast presence served as a shield, silently affirming that they were Velaryons, true and resilient. 

Viserys's voice pierced the air with an icy detachment as he declared, "Lucerys is my trueborn grandson," sending a chilling breeze through the throne room, shattering the lingering tension with the weight of his words. 

The aura of true anger emanated from King Viserys, a rare sight that Visenya had witnessed only a few times in her life. In that moment, he bore his fury with the commanding authority befitting a king, demanding respect from all those present in the room. It stirred a reminiscent image of her father, Daemon, who carried a similar intensity in moments of passion. 

Viserys continued in that cold intense tone of his, "And you are no more than the second son of Driftmark." 

Vaemond's temper flared, casting aside the veneer of decorum and respectability that had cloaked the proceedings 

"You may run your house as you see fit," he spat at the King, his restraint unraveling with each word. "But you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides. And the gods be damned..." 

He turned on his heel once more, his face contorted in a snarl of anger. The weight of unspoken words hung in the air, dangerously close to being uttered aloud. In that pivotal moment, a flicker of restraint emerged, as if he had managed to rein in the tempest within. ""I will not see it ended on the account of this..." His voice trailed off, leaving the tense silence to echo his unspoken frustrations. 

However, Daemon's provoking whisper sliced through the silence like a sharpened blade, injecting a venomous undercurrent into the already charged atmosphere.  

" Say it " 

In that moment, the world teetered on the precipice of anticipation, caught in the gravity of an impending revelation. The collective breath of the court held in suspense, each heartbeat echoing in the hallowed halls of the Red Keep. The atmosphere grew dense and burdensome, as if the very air thickened with the weight of expectation. 

Visenya, ensnared in the swirling tempest of tension, felt the gravity of the unfolding drama. Her gaze flitted anxiously between Lucerys and the King, her grandfather now seated with an unwavering composure upon the Iron Throne. The courtiers, adorned in opulent attire, exchanged wary glances, sensing the impending storm that threatened to spill  

A pregnant pause lingered, a silence so profound that it seemed to absorb the essence of time itself. The court held its collective breath, poised on the edge of revelation. The echo of Vaemond's voice, fraught with a revelation that had long remained veiled in shadows, hung in the air like a harbinger of profound change. "Her children..."  

Suddenly, as if a storm had erupted within the hallowed halls of the Red Keep, Vaemond's voice thundered through the oppressive silence, breaking it with a declaration that hung in the air like a striking bolt of lightning. The revelation, once concealed in shadows, was now forcibly thrust into the world with a resounding fury. "ARE BASTARDS!" 

The court recoiled in collective disbelief, the air charged with a palpable tension as Vaemond's bombshell revelation settled into the minds of those present. 

Murmurs of astonishment and uncertainty enveloped the room, a stark contrast to the prior hush that had held sway. Undeterred by the seismic impact of his words, Vaemond pressed on with a venomous edge, directing his accusation at Viserys with a final, cutting blow. 

With a surge of righteous fury, the King propelled himself from the throne, the Valyrian steel dagger in hand gleamed as if it were a talisman of his wrath. In that moment, he stood not as the ailing monarch burdened by time but as the formidable warrior of his youth, untouched by the ravages of age. The echoes of pain were drowned in the tempest of his rage 

"I will have your tongue for that," Viserys thundered, his eyed ablaze with anger.  

Daemon, swift and elegant, wielded Dark Sister, his Valyrian steel sword, with a deadly precision. The blade cut through the air in a silent dance, its meeting with Vaemond's flesh producing only a muffled sound—an ode to the razor-sharp edge it possessed. Unfazed, it cleaved through Vaemond's skull with an effortless grace, a macabre ballet that unfolded in stunned silence. 

Vaemond's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, its descent punctuated by the court's collective gasp—an orchestration of disbelief and horror. The clean separation of his head from the rest of his form left an indelible image, the detached skull rolling away with a detached nonchalance. 

A ghastly display of death, Vaemond's tongue, the harbinger of his venomous words, clung grotesquely to his jaw. As blood spilled forth, it painted the stone beneath in a morbid tapestry of crimson, a stark reminder of the price one paid for challenging the sanctity of the court. 

Daemon, unaffected by the macabre scene that unfolded, cast a casual remark into the stifling air of the throne room. "He can keep his tongue," he quipped with an air of nonchalance, as if the brutal execution had been a routine matter of course. The court, however, remained ensnared in a tapestry of shock, their collective gaze fixed on the lifeless form of Vaemond sprawled on the unforgiving stone floor. 

Otto Hightower, appalled by the display of bloodshed, bellowed the first command to quell the unsettling aftermath. "Disarm him!" The Kingsguard responded with practiced efficiency, unsheathing their swords or readying themselves to do so. 

Daemon, unaffected by the urgency, nonchalantly stepped away from the lifeless body, his Valyrian steel sword glistening with the evidence of the swift execution. Without a hint of concern for potential stains on his doublet, he wiped the blade clean and uttered dismissively, "No need." 

Visenya stood resolute, her eyes unwavering as she beheld the macabre tableau unfolding before her. Though the court gasped and recoiled in horror, she maintained a composed facade, concealing the tumultuous emotions that roiled within. 

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on her shoulders, and beneath the veneer of control, a sense of elation simmered. A prideful satisfaction bloomed within her at the decisive action her father, Daemon, had taken. 

In her heart, she believed it was no less than Vaemond deserved—a swift and unambiguous reckoning for his audacious accusations and insolence.  

Viserys, his rage dissipating, sank back onto the throne, the echoes of his groans harmonizing with the pooling blood beneath Vaemond. The throne room, once a stage for political machinations, now bore witness to a darker tableau. 

In urgency, the Queen's call for the Maester reverberated through the hallowed space, and she rushed to her husband's side. Visenya, ever astute, observed the unfolding scene with a discerning eye. 

To her, it seemed like a staged drama, a performance orchestrated for sympathy, as the Queen's feigned concern contrasted sharply with the strained dynamics of their marriage. The Queen's sudden display of worry appeared no less calculated than Visenya's own act of disdain toward the bloodshed. 

With the careful assistance of Maester Orwyle and the firm support of Commander Westerling, Viserys was gently escorted back to his chambers, his frailty highlighted by the contrast of the regal setting he was leaving behind. The court, once a stage for political maneuvering, now began to disperse, its members buzzing with discussions and speculation about the shocking and brutal events that had just unfolded. 

Visenya, standing amidst the remnants of the macabre spectacle, observed as Vaemond's lifeless body was solemnly removed from the throne room. The grim pool of blood and scattered locks of silver hair bore silent witness to the finality of his fate. 

He had been presented with an opportunity to concede, to accept that Luke is thenrightful heir to Driftmark. Yet, in a deliberate act of defiance against his brother's wishes and the judgment of the King, and in that moment, Visenya spared no pity for a man who had willingly walked the path to his own demise. 

With Lucerys's hand securely held in hers, Visenya turned to him, a subtle triumph in her gaze, and whispered, "I told you beforehand that everything would turn out well." Her words carried a quiet assurance, a confirmation that their calculated steps in the intricate dance of court politics had led to a favorable outcome for them.  

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Over 7000 words (!) I struggled a bit with this chapter and I changed a bit afterwards, around the petition where Rhaenys is speaking. It was not easy at all to write all of this and it took me some time, but I'm happy with the outcome <3 please let me know what you think of it! And I want to wish you all a happy new year!!