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...
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The air was thick with the stench of death and war, a foreboding scent that settled across the land like a heavy shroud. Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City, Rogue Prince, rider of Caraxes, knew this smell well. The sun had barely begun its descent when Daemon departed from Maidenpool, leaving behind the faint scent of saltwater and smoke. As his dragon soared higher and higher, the city below him shrank, becoming little more than a memory.
Manfryd Mooton, Lord of Maidenpool, had stared up at him from the battlements, fear and uncertainty written plainly on his face. Daemon had ordered him to spread the word far and wide. The time had come. "Tell him," Daemon had said with a voice cold as iron, "I will meet him at Harrenhal. He will face me, and me alone."
Lord Mooton had bowed, but as soon as the Rogue Prince was gone, the man's true loyalties were made known. Rhaenyra's banners, the black of House Targaryen with its three-headed dragon, were torn down from the walls of Maidenpool. In their place, the golden banners of King Aegon II fluttered in the breeze, signaling another betrayal in this long, bloody conflict. Daemon expected no less. War was a fickle thing, and loyalty was even more so.
Daemon's thoughts were cold, steely, as he neared Harrenhal. He expected treachery. He anticipated betrayal. He had lived through enough of it to know that the only truth in war was fire and blood. And so, he flew, with the massive, winged shadow of Caraxes casting a long, serpentine shape over the Riverlands below.
Harrenhal loomed on the horizon, a crumbling monolith of stone and death, scarred forever by the fires of Balerion the Black Dread centuries before. The fortress was mostly abandoned now, its once mighty walls little more than a hollow reminder of the Targaryens' ancient power. Aemond One-Eye, Daemon's nephew and his enemy, had taunted him for long enough. The time for words was over. It was time to settle this the only way Targaryens knew how—through the skies, through the fire, through blood.
Daemon landed Caraxes atop the blackened walls of Harrenhal. The dragon's claws scraped against the scorched stone, sending echoes through the empty halls. The castle had long been deserted, save for a few stragglers who fled at the sight of Daemon's dragon. They knew what he had come for. There would be no mercy here, no room for mistakes.
For thirteen days, Daemon waited. Thirteen long days under the cold skies, watching, waiting, preparing for the inevitable confrontation. He roamed the ruins of Harrenhal, a ghost among ghosts, always within reach of his dragon. The wind howled through the broken towers, and the only sounds that filled the night were the faint whispers of old stories, forgotten by time.
But on the fourteenth day, the air shifted. The distant beating of wings grew louder. Daemon knew before he even laid eyes on them—Vhagar had come.
Aemond Targaryen, rider of Vhagar, came not alone. With him was Alys Rivers* his seer, the strange woman who had taken root at Harrenhal. Her belly was swollen with child, the offspring of Aemond, or so the whispers claimed. She stood beneath the walls of Harrenhal as Aemond descended from the skies, her dark eyes watching the heavens.
