In a world where power is everything and blood is thicker than water, Visenya must carve out her own path, not just as a Targaryen, but as the dragon she was born to be.
"The Forgotten Visenya" is a tale of love, loss, and the fire that burns withi...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Visenya sat on the floor of her private bedchamber, the flickering light from the hearth casting a warm glow over the stone walls. She was dressed in a white nightgown, the fabric loose and soft against her skin, but her hair—once neatly braided—was now coming undone, strands falling loose around her face as she tried to wrangle the three hatchlings in front of her.
The dragons were full of energy, their tiny claws clicking against the floor as they darted around, eager for attention and, more importantly, food. Visenya chuckled, her heart light as she watched them. These creatures were a part of her now, bound by something deeper than mere blood. They had chosen her when they emerged from the flames, and now it was time for her to choose their names.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Come here, little one," she said softly, holding out a small strip of meat to the red dragon, who had been making small, insistent screeches since Visenya entered the room. The dragon, bold and fearless, approached without hesitation, snatching the meat from her hand with a snap of her jaws.
"What should I call you, little one?" she asked, her voice tender as she tilted her head. "You remind me of her... of my aunt. Fierce and unyielding, like fire itself."
The dragon cocked her head as if listening, before gnawing hungrily on the meat.
"Rhaenara?" Visenya murmured, trying the name out on her tongue. "No... Rhaenya?"
The dragon gave a little snort, as though unimpressed.
Visenya smiled, shaking her head. "You're right. It doesn't quite fit, does it?"
She pondered for a moment longer, tossing another scrap of meat toward the red dragon. "Rhaenys," she finally whispered, her voice filled with reverence.
"You remind me of her," Visenya murmured, stroking the red dragon's scales. "Of Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was. The queen that should have been."
The dragon nuzzled against her hand, and Visenya smiled. Rhaenys had always been a figure of strength in her life, a woman who should have ruled but was denied her rightful place. This dragon would carry her name, a reminder of the strength and fire that had been passed down through their bloodline.
