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 around King's Landing was thick with tension, the kind that settled in the bones of those who knew war's brutal conclusion was imminent. The city had been the center of power for centuries, yet now, it stood vulnerable, its once-mighty defenses crumbling like sand beneath the weight of uncertainty. The Black Army of the Lads, led by Lord Kermit Tully, Benjicot Blackwood, and Alysanne Blackwood, was now only a day's march from the gates. There were no Green forces left to oppose them.
The people of the capital could feel the end coming, whispering amongst themselves in the darkened alleyways and shadowy taverns. King Aegon II Targaryen, who had clung to power through brutality and fear, refused to acknowledge what was now obvious to all. Even as ravens arrived with news that Lord Cregan Stark was marching south, bringing the full might of the North with him, and that armies from the Vale of Arryn were also on the move, Aegon refused to surrender.
The once proud king, now a man beaten by both time and circumstance, sat brooding in his council chamber. The weight of his crown, both literal and figurative, seemed to press down upon him, squeezing any remaining reason from his thoughts. His body had been ravaged by wounds and illness, his flesh pale and sickly beneath his heavy robes of gold and black. The only thing that still burned within him was his hatred—his hatred for the Blacks, for his half-sister Rhaenyra, and for the fact that her cause lived on even after her death.
In the chamber with him was Lord Corlys Velaryon, once a staunch supporter of Rhaenyra, now Master of Ships on Aegon's small council. Corlys, known as the Sea Snake, was as wise as he was experienced. He had navigated more treacherous waters than any man alive, yet even he could not steer Aegon away from the cliff edge upon which he now stood.
"My king," Corlys spoke, his voice calm but firm. "The time has come for us to consider surrender. You have no men left to fight, no dragons to command. We cannot hold King's Landing against the Lads, nor against Cregan Stark and the forces from the Vale."
Aegon's eyes flickered with fury. "Surrender?" He spat the word as if it tasted foul on his tongue. "You would have me bow to the bastards who killed my sister? My bloodline must endure, Velaryon. If I die, so too does Rhaenyra's. There will be no peace without vengeance."
Corlys, ever patient, nodded slightly. "There is still another way. We could surrender under terms. You could take the black, join the Night's Watch. You would live out your days in the North, in peace, and your bloodline—"
"I will not take the black," Aegon interrupted, rising from his seat with surprising speed for a man so crippled by illness. His voice trembled with rage. "If I must die, I will make sure they suffer first. They want my nephew, Aegon the Younger, to rule in my place. If my bloodline is to end, then so will theirs."
Before Corlys could protest, the king turned to his guards. "Bring the boy to me," he ordered. "And fetch me a knife."
The room seemed to grow colder as Aegon gave his command. Corlys stood frozen, his eyes widening in disbelief. "What do you intend to do, Your Grace?"
