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...
From the high cliffs of the Vale to the scorched fields of the Reach, all of Westeros seemed to tremble under the shadow of dragons. It was not a war fought by armies alone but by the fire-breathing beasts of old, their roars echoing across mountains, rivers, and valleys. Death was everywhere, and yet life continued to cling to the land with desperate tenacity. This was no simple rebellion or petty skirmish—it was a dance of destruction that spread like wildfire, touching every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.And at the center of this storm, the two sides of House Targaryen sought to tear each other apart.
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**The Riverlands: Aemond's Wrath**
The Riverlands burned. Prince Aemond Targaryen, riding the monstrous Vhagar, left naught but charred remains in his wake. Darry, Lord Harroway's Town, Blackbuckle, Buckle, Claypool, Swynford, Spiderwood—village after village, town after town, crumbled beneath Vhagar's fiery breath. Aemond showed no mercy. His campaign in the Riverlands was nothing short of a terror, each strike a message to those who dared support Rhaenyra.
Yet even as the Riverlords watched their lands burn, their resolve did not waver. Aemond's cruelty only hardened their hearts. Though their keeps were reduced to rubble, their banners still flew, and their men still sharpened swords for the day they would strike back. Aemond may have thought his terror would break them, but he did not know the resilience of the Riverlands.
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**The March of Criston Cole: The Butcher's Ball**
Ser Criston Cole, once famed for his skill and honor, found himself marching south through a kingdom that seemed to rot before his very eyes. Forests once lush and teeming with life were now nothing but graveyards of the dead. His scouts reported scenes so grotesque they seemed pulled from the darkest nightmares—armored corpses, arranged beneath trees as if feasting in mockery of life. It became a twisted ritual during their march, these "corpse feasts," and Criston's men grew numb to the horror.
But at Crossed Elms, death did not sit still. The corpses there were no mere fallen soldiers but riverlords lying in wait. As Criston and his men passed by, the dead came to life—blacks who had disguised themselves as the slain, springing their ambush with brutal precision. Steel clashed, and blood soaked the ground.
