Amaryllis Joseph died in a hospital shooting while tending to a patient, the youngest surgeon to ever had died on her 21st birthday after refusing medical attention and saving the lives of twelve patients before succumbing to her injuries. Instead o...
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As Visenyra prepared for her coronation, the air in her chambers crackled with anticipation and solemnity. Her maids fluttered around her, fastening the intricate clasps of her gown, woven from the finest silk in the Targaryen colours of black and red. The fabric cascaded around her in elegant folds, accentuating her slender figure and regal bearing.
Finally, the moment arrived for Visenyra to don her crown, a symbol of her ascension to the throne of the Seven Kingdoms. The crown, crafted with meticulous detail, bore the likeness of three dragons intertwined in a graceful dance, their wings outstretched in majestic splendour.
As Visenyra caught sight of herself in the mirror, adorned in her royal attire, a surge of emotion welled up within her. Gone was the princess she once knew, replaced by the vision of a queen, resplendent and commanding in her authority. It was a moment she had dreamt of since childhood, a moment that now unfolded before her like a scene from a long-forgotten prophecy.
Her reflection gazed back at her with a mixture of awe and determination, eyes alight with the fire of her Targaryen lineage. In that moment, Visenyra saw not just herself, but the culmination of centuries of history and legacy, embodied in the crown upon her brow.
With a steadying breath, Visenyra straightened her posture, shoulders squared with newfound confidence. She was ready to embrace her destiny, ready to lead her people with strength and grace. As she stepped away from the mirror, the weight of her crown settling upon her brow, Visenyra knew that she was no longer just a princess—she was the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and her reign had only just begun.
The grand doors of the throne room swung open with a solemn creak, heralding the entrance of Visenyra Targaryen, the newly crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her gown of silk billowed behind her as she strode forward, her steps echoing off the marble floors with purpose and determination.
At the foot of the Iron Throne, three figures awaited her: a priestess of the Fourteen Flames, her robes adorned with patterns of fire and smoke; a septon from the Faith of the Seven, clad in the traditional vestments of his order; and a representative of the Old Gods, his cloak woven with leaves and branches.
As Visenyra approached, a hush fell over the assembled courtiers, their eyes fixed upon their queen with reverence and awe. She ascended the steps to the dais with measured grace, each movement imbued with the weight of her newfound authority.
The priestess of the Fourteen Flames stepped forward, her voice carrying through the cavernous hall with a melodic resonance. "Queen Visenyra Targaryen," she intoned, her words echoing off the stone walls, "do you swear to uphold the ancient traditions of Valyria, to protect and defend your people with the strength of your dragons?"
Visenyra met the priestess's gaze with unwavering resolve. "I swear," she declared, her voice ringing clear and true.
Next, the septon from the Faith of the Seven approached, his demeanour solemn yet reassuring. "Queen Visenyra Targaryen," he began, "do you swear to govern with justice and mercy, to uphold the tenets of the Seven and to protect the rights and freedoms of all your subjects?"
Visenyra nodded solemnly. "I swear," she affirmed, her voice tinged with conviction.
Finally, the representative of the Old Gods stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with ancient wisdom. "Queen Visenyra Targaryen," he spoke, his voice a whisper of wind through the leaves, "do you swear to honour the traditions of the First Men, to respect the natural world and the ancient spirits that dwell within it?"
Visenyra bowed her head in reverence. "I swear," she vowed, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of centuries of tradition.
As the vows were spoken, a sense of solemnity settled over the throne room, binding the queen and realm in a covenant of duty and allegiance.
With her vows spoken and her commitment to the realm affirmed, Visenyra Targaryen ascended the steps of the Iron Throne, her heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and solemnity. The weight of her crown rested upon her brow, a tangible reminder of the responsibilities that now lay upon her shoulders.
As she took her seat upon the ancient seat of power, the Iron Throne loomed before her, its jagged edges a stark contrast to the softness of her regal attire. With a steady hand, Visenyra reached out to grasp the cold metal, feeling its unforgiving touch beneath her fingertips.
The courtiers gathered in the throne room watched in hushed reverence as Visenyra settled into her new role, the weight of her authority palpable in the air. She surveyed the assembled nobles with a regal gaze, her violet eyes alight with determination and strength.
At her side, Daemon Targaryen stepped forward, his sword gleaming in the torchlight as he raised his voice for all to hear. "Long live Queen Visenyra Targaryen!" he proclaimed, his words echoing off the stone walls with a resounding clarity.
A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd, swelling into a chorus of cheers and applause. Visenyra's heart swelled with pride as she gazed out upon her subjects, their loyalty and devotion a testament to the strength of her reign.
With a nod of gratitude to her future husband and consort, Visenyra settled back into the throne, her presence a symbol of stability and authority in a realm beset by uncertainty. From this moment forth, she would lead with wisdom and compassion, guiding her people through the trials and tribulations that lay ahead.
As the cheers continued to ring out around her, Visenyra knew that she was ready to face whatever challenges the future might hold, secure in the knowledge that she was destined to rule as the true queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
The celebrations were in full swing as the nobles danced and ate. Most smiled as they made new connections and silently thanked the gods that Visenyra had finally succeeded to the throne.
As Visenyra settled into her seat on the Iron Throne, her gaze swept across the assembled courtiers until it met the eyes of her sister, Rhaenyra. There, amidst the sea of faces, stood Rhaenyra and Laena, their expressions a mix of anticipation and uncertainty.
"Rhaenyra," Visenyra began, her voice commanding attention as it rang out through the throne room, "and Laena, I have reached a decision regarding your future."
Rhaenyra's brow furrowed in confusion, her violet eyes searching her sister's face for any hint of what was to come.
"You shall be named ambassadors of the Targaryen dynasty," Visenyra continued, her words deliberate and resolute. "You will travel the realms, forging alliances and fostering goodwill in my name."
A hushed murmur rippled through the courtiers at Visenyra's proclamation, whispers of surprise and intrigue dancing through the air. Rhaenyra's eyes widened in astonishment, a wave of gratitude washing over her as she realized the significance of her sister's decision.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Rhaenyra said, her voice thick with emotion as she stepped forward to address her sister. "We are honoured by your trust and your faith in us."
Beside her, Laena nodded in agreement, her features alight with a mixture of relief and gratitude.
But before the moment could linger, Rhaenyra's gaze hardened with resolve as she turned to face her sister once more. "There is one more thing, My Queen," she said, her voice steady as she spoke. "Laena and I request the annulment of our marriage to Daemon."
Visenyra's expression softened, understanding dawning in her eyes as she regarded her sister and cousin. "Very well," she replied, her voice gentle yet firm. "Consider it done."
With a sense of liberation washing over them, Rhaenyra and Laena exchanged a silent look of gratitude before turning to leave the throne room, their steps light with the weight of newfound freedom and purpose.
As they departed, Visenyra watched them go with amixture of pride and affection, knowing that she had granted them theopportunity to forge their own destinies, unencumbered by the bonds of duty andtradition. And as the echoes of their footsteps faded into the distance,Visenyra knew that the future of the Targaryen dynasty was in good hands.
