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...
The passing days felt like a blur to Visenya, lost in the deep fog of her own mind. Time became a cruel trickster, moving in odd patterns, some days dragging while others flew by without a trace. Battles were fought, alliances were broken, and men fell by the hundreds. And yet, within the walls of Dragonstone, she felt numb to it all. The war that had once stirred the fire in her blood now seemed like a distant echo, and the grief she had been shouldering for so long had morphed into something darker, something that kept her bound to her chambers.
Weeks had passed since the devastating news of Jacaerys' death, and in that time, Visenya had retreated into herself, locked away in her thoughts, drowning in her sorrow. She spent days sitting by the fire, watching the flickering flames, letting the hours drift by without ever leaving her room. Her body, once lean and battle-ready, had grown softer, her belly swelling with the unmistakable roundness of pregnancy. She could no longer hide the life she carried, nor could she ignore the tiny kicks and movements that reminded her, even in her darkest moments, that she was still connected to this world.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The hatchlings had grown too. The three dragons, once small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, were now the size of house cats, their scales shimmering in the firelight as they prowled her chambers. They were wild, unpredictable, and yet they were her only companions in those quiet moments of despair. They would curl up at her feet or by the hearth, their warm bodies a small comfort in the coldness of her solitude.
Letters had come and gone. Every few days, there would be a knock on her door, and a servant would bring her another message from Cregan. His words were full of love, of hope, of plans for their future. He wrote of the North, of the preparations he was making to join her once again, of his longing to see her and their child. And yet, Visenya could not bring herself to respond with anything of substance. She wrote back, of course—brief notes to assure him that she and the child were fine—but her heart was not in the words. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to confide in him, but every time she sat down to write, the weight of her grief silenced her.
The war had not paused for her grief. The reports of battles came frequently, each one more brutal than the last. The Battle at the Red Fork had been bloody, with House Tully's forces clashing against those loyal to Aegon. The rivers had run red with blood, and Visenya had heard whispers of Rhaenyra's forces gaining a small victory there. But victory felt hollow when the cost was measured in the lives of good men.
The Battle at Acorn Hall had been another bitter fight. The lords of the Riverlands had rallied to Rhaenyra's cause, but their forces had been ambushed by Criston Cole's army. Visenya remembered the tension in the hall when the news had come. The room had gone deathly quiet as Rhaenyra read the message, her knuckles white as she gripped the parchment. The losses were great, but they had managed to hold the line. A victory, though costly, was still a victory.
And then there was the Battle by the Lakeshore, where Daemon himself had led a daring assault against Aegon's forces. The lakes had mirrored the violence of the battlefield, their waters stained with blood as men fought and died on the shores. The reports spoke of Daemon's ferocity, of how he had cut through his enemies with a vengeance, and how his dragon, Caraxes, had set the skies ablaze with his fire. It was a victory, but one that had come at a great price. Many of Rhaenyra's men had perished, and even more were injured, their bodies broken by the horrors of war.
