The Unburnt

Chapter 22 - Visions of The Future

UM HELLO? 9000 reads? I LOVE YOU AAAAALL💖
I don't think you all understand how obsessed I am with the Painted Table? I would love to live at Dragonstone that is for sure. Also Daemon is such a drama queen, storming off whenever he pleases. AAAAND...haven't we missed our little dreamer Visenya? She isn't explicitly a dreamer, she has only visions but, can it count as a dream? I think next chapter we will dwelve more into their family, enought with the politics, even I am over it and the shit has not even hit the fan. Visenya suggests something than what they have been both fighting for, Daemon always wanted to see Visenya on the throne? Right? Right? I know for a fact Vissy(Viserys) will be pissed off.

Also for this particular chapter, I feel like there is no better representation between Daemon and Visenya than this edit on Instagram (not done by me):
https://www.instagram.com/reel/C9-PsGJofA6/?igsh=MTJ4bTFxdGZmc3d2Nw==

High Valyrian in bold.

Visenya Targaryen

It has been several moons since Laenor Velaryon's funeral. The weight of that day still lingers, though the sharpness of grief has dulled. We stayed at Driftmark longer than expected, and in that time, Daemon—after consulting with me—proposed the betrothal of our youngest son, Daryon, to Baela, their grandchild. Corlys and Rhaenys were surprised by our proposal but Lord Corly was quick to accept, the man knew no limits to his ambitions.

Now, we are back at Dragonstone, the winds howling against its blackened towers, the sea crashing endlessly below. In the dimly lit chamber, we gather around the Painted Table. The map of Westeros carved into stone glows beneath the flickering candlelight, casting long shadows over the realm that we are planning to reshape.

Daemon stands at the head, his hand resting lightly on the table's edge, eyes sharp as he listens to Lord Celtigar and Maester Gerardys discuss the state of Dragonstone. Beside them stands Peter Belmore, the father of my lady-in-waiting, Linda. His face is a mask of politeness, but I can sense the discomfort in him. Daemon has that effect on men—he can bend them to his will with little more than a glance.

I sit silently, my gaze drifting between the faces of the men as they speak. I watch my husband closely, remembering our recent quarrel, a fight that now seems foolish in the grand scheme of things. He knows more than I. He has been at war, tasted blood and steel, commanded men. I may have my strengths, but in matters of military strategy, I defer to him.

As they debate the gathering of an army and which houses might turn against Rhaenyra, I let my eyes fall to the Painted Table. The intricately carved map of Westeros lies before me, illuminated by the glow of the candles, every river, mountain, and coastline marked with precision. I trace the outlines with my eyes, feeling the weight of the realm pressing down on my shoulders.

But I have done my part. I am not without influence, even if my methods differ from Daemon's. "I have funded two orphanages," I say quietly, breaking the tension in the room. The men fall silent as I continue. "I send a ship once a moon to feed the poor in King's Landing, from the Public Kitchens."

Lord Belmore's eyes flick warily between Daemon and me, his expression betraying a hint of nervousness. Clearing his throat, Lord Belmore speaks, his voice cautious. "The people of King's Landing... they praise Princess Rhaenyra for her good heart, my Princess. It seems..." He hesitates, casting another glance at Daemon before continuing, "It seems she has taken credit for your works."

A chill runs through me, but I keep my face composed, though I feel the sting of betrayal deep in my chest. Rhaenyra—again. Even in matters of charity, she seeks to overshadow me, to claim my deeds as her own. My heart tightens, and for a moment, I want to scream, to cry, to lash out at the injustice of it all. But instead, I simply sit back, folding my hands in my lap, trying to steady my breath.