Visenya Targaryen, now Lady Stark, thought her journey was done when her husband took his final breath. Yet, a single step into the godswood sends her into a new world entirely-Middle-earth. With her youth restored and no one to trust, Visenya must...
Visenya's sword sliced through the air, the weight of it familiar in her hand. Elrohir, one of Elrond's twin sons, grinned across the practice field, his own blade drawn, eyes gleaming with playful mischief. They had been sparring for some time now, the sounds of clashing metal and the swift footfalls of their dance echoing through the valley. Though Elrohir was quick, with the grace of an elf, Visenya had years of experience on her side—decades of battle, both on dragonback and the field, honing her instincts.
But today, it wasn't just experience she relied on. No, today she decided it was time to show Elrohir what she had learned in her own land—how to win by any means necessary.
As Elrohir feinted left, Visenya dropped into a low crouch, sweeping her leg out in a swift arc. The move caught him off guard, his footing lost for a moment as his ankle connected with her boot. Elrohir stumbled, and in the blink of an eye, Visenya was on him, her blade at his throat, a smirk curling on her lips.
"Yield," she said, her voice light with amusement.
Elrohir scowled good-naturedly, eyes darting between her face and the sword hovering just above his skin. "You fight dirty," he muttered, though there was a hint of laughter in his voice.
Just as she helped him back to his feet, a deep laugh echoed across the training grounds.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Well, it's about time someone put these elves in their place!" boomed a rough voice.
Visenya and Elrohir both turned, and there, standing at the edge of the field, were the new arrivals—dwarves. The shortest of them, his thick red beard nearly hiding the gleam in his eyes, was Gloin, whom Visenya had heard much about but never had the chance to meet.
Beside him, several other dwarves stood, broad and sturdy as the mountains from which they hailed. They were watching her with a mixture of surprise and admiration, clearly entertained by her victory.
Elrohir flushed slightly, the tips of his ears turning red as he muttered under his breath, "She only won because she fights dirty."
Visenya laughed, the sound bright and full of life as she sheathed her sword. "In war, there is no fighting dirty or clean, young elf," she said, clapping him on the shoulder. "There is only life or death."
Elrohir gave her a rueful smile, but the gleam in his eye told her he'd take her words to heart. He was young, at least in her eyes, with an exuberance that she had come to enjoy during her time in Rivendell. The twins—Elrohir and Elladan—were carefree and playful, always teasing her or challenging her to sparring matches, though it seemed neither had yet learned that Visenya Stark was not one to be underestimated.
Gloin and the other dwarves approached, Gloin still chuckling under his breath. "That was a fine match," he said, nodding approvingly at Visenya. "I like you already, lass. You've got spirit, and more sense than these elves."
Visenya grinned, already liking Gloin's straightforwardness. "Thank you, Master Dwarf. I'm glad I could offer some entertainment for your arrival."
Gloin waved a hand dismissively, his broad smile still intact. "Entertainment, aye, but also a reminder that there's more to battle than dancing around like these long-legged folk." He shot a good-natured wink at Elrohir, who shook his head in mock exasperation.
