The Forgotten Visenya (HOTD)(GOT)(Cregan Stark)

Grief and War

The weeks following Silverwing's clutch of eggs were a blur of cold winds and sharpened steel. Winter's bite had settled fully over Winterfell, and within the keep, the cadence of war preparations had taken over every waking hour. The once-quiet halls now echoed with the sounds of clanging swords, the march of boots across stone floors, and the constant bellow of orders as Cregan Stark readied the North for war.

Visenya had found herself deeply enmeshed in the military efforts. Though she had never been one to shy away from a challenge, there was a particular ferocity to her now, a singular focus that drove her into every drill, every meeting, every decision made in preparation for their march against the greens.

It was easier, she told herself, to drown in the endless details of battle plans and training than to face the hollow ache in her chest. She had received the raven two nights past, its dark wings bearing the heaviest news of her life. Rhaenys Velaryon—her aunt, her kin, the woman who had been the Queen Who Never Was—was dead. Killed at Rook's Rest, her dragon, Meleys, brought down in a fierce and terrible battle with Aegon and Sunfyre. The details were still unclear, but the one thing that Visenya knew for certain was that Rhaenys was gone.

Visenya hadn't wept. She hadn't screamed or raged. Instead, she had thrown herself deeper into her duties, the numbness that had overtaken her heart fueling her drive to prepare Winterfell's forces. She had to remain strong. The war had claimed her grandmother, and it would take more if they weren't ready.

The North was a land of stoicism and strength, and Visenya found herself embodying that more and more each day. Her training with Cregan had intensified, the Lord of Winterfell recognizing in her a kindred spirit—one who sought distraction from grief through the clash of steel and the burn of muscle. They sparred nearly every day now, their swords cutting through the frigid air as snowflakes swirled around them.

On this particular afternoon, the courtyard was alive with activity. Northern soldiers, cloaked in furs and leather, sharpened their weapons, reinforced their armor, and gathered supplies for the long march ahead. Cregan's bannermen had arrived from across the North, pledging their loyalty to the cause of the blacks, to Rhaenyra, and to the Targaryen line.

Visenya, though an outsider to this land, had earned their respect through her tireless efforts. She stood now in the center of the courtyard, her sword raised, sweat running down her brow despite the cold. Across from her, Cregan stood, his broad shoulders relaxed but his eyes sharp, watching her every move.

"Again," he commanded, his voice steady and firm.

Visenya nodded, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. She lunged at him, her sword aimed at his side, but Cregan was quick. He deflected her strike with ease, spinning to the side and sending her stumbling into the snow. She caught herself before falling, her grip on her sword tightening as she spun to face him again.

"You're getting faster," he remarked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But you're still not thinking like a Northerner."

Visenya narrowed her eyes, bristling slightly at his words. "And what would that be?""Patience. We wait, we watch, we strike when the moment is right."

She scoffed, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "Dragons don't wait."Cregan's smile widened. "Perhaps. But you're in the North now."