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48. Visenya IX
🕑 Added 2025-03-05 16:51:00 +0000 UTCHello everyone, I am so sorry for the delays in getting this chapter out, but I have been horribly busy and also have been fighting writer's block. I hope that this chapter is up to your expectations of me because I am not certain how I feel about it. Please let me know what you think in the comments. That being said, things will start ramping up soon; expect more drama, more war, and more dragons. So stay tuned for that! I will keep you all updated should anything change. Have a wonderful day!
Visenya IX
8th Moon, 37AC
The Stormlands never failed to live up to their name, regardless of how many times Visenya tested it. Storms never failed to bracket these lands, especially in Autumn. They had actually just flown through a massive autumn storm. Luckily, getting out of the wet and cold would be easy within the walls of Storm’s End.
She had flown through worse, of course. She had done so in worse shape, on worse days, and without company. Yet storms seemed to weigh heavier on her now than they once had. It irked her greatly, yet she could do nothing about it.
“How are you feeling, Mother?” her son dropped back just a little to step in line with her. He spoke just loud enough to be heard by her and no one else.
“Fine, why do you ask?” Visenya asked with narrowed eyes. She had an inkling of what her son was thinking, but she hoped she had raised him better than that.
“Well…” Maegor began, but Visenya was already disappointed.
“I am old, not dead,” she said with narrowed eyes. He, of all people, should know better. She had conquered kingdoms and shattered armies long before he took his first steps. Who cared if she had slowed down a little since she and her son had put the pathetic, faceless weaklings in their place? She was still able to ride her beloved Vhaga, and that was enough.
She might not wield a sword as she once had, but she was still a warrior. Time had not, and would not, take that from her. So long as she could move her body and mount her dragon, she was more than capable of anything.
“I know. I merely wish to ensure you are not pushing yourself,” Maegor said with just a hint of worry in his tone.
“I am not. If I did not feel up for this assignment, I would not have come,” she retorted.
She would not deny that she felt the urge to simply remain on Dragonstone with Shiera and her grandchildren. The thirst for glory, the hunger for war, those fires had dimmed years ago. She could still burn her enemies to ash atop Vhagar and would if she must, but the desire for such violence no longer stirred as easily within her
What stirred her now were smaller, gentler things that she had once dismissed as beneath her notice. She had not expected to enjoy being a grandmother as much as she had. The prospect of her line continuing, House Targaryen’s future being secured for the next hundred years, excited her, but it was the mundane things that had captured her attention recently. Her grandchildren had changed everything. They had rekindled something inside her she thought long dead.
They did not see the Queen Dowager, all her faults and past mistakes. They saw only their grandmother, someone to cling to when frightened, to laugh with in the morning sun, to listen wide-eyed to tales of ancient battles and mighty dragons. They loved her unconditionally, and she had not expected it to affect her in such a way.
Daeron, bold and eager, never tired of riding Vhagar with her, she almost felt bad for constantly bothering her she-dragon, even if she knew deep down that Vhagar loved the flights just as much as Daeron did.
Flying daily reminded her of her past, but of the fun memories of her past. When she first claimed her beloved she-dragon and would take her flying every single day. When she flew Vhagar to Oldtown and the Arbor in her youth with her brother. It reminded her of happier times.
Baelon, meanwhile, sharp and excitable as he was, begged constantly for stories of conquest and heroic battles. His questions were endless, and his admiration was plain on his face for all to see. She was, of course, more than happy to indulge him, letting her relive her triumphs and those of her ancestors instead of her mistakes.
Little Visenya, her namesake, was quiet as a shadow and curious as a cat, always watching, always learning. Much like she had been at her age, albeit her namesake was considerably more joyful than she had been in her youth.
And then there was her youngest grandchild, Daenys, who needed nothing from her but warmth and presence, who smiled at her as if she were the sun itself.
Her grandchildren had brought a light into her life that no crown or victory ever had. Their effect on her life could only be compared to the birth of her son Maegor, but she had still been too stuck in her past regrets and mistakes to properly recognize it then. Now she could relive it all once more.
In their laughter, she found peace. She had lived for decades among lords and soldiers, traitors and flatterers, but never had she felt so needed, so seen, as she did when she held her grandchildren close.
In those moments, rocking Daenys to sleep, whispering stories by firelight to her grandsons and namesake, or simply watching them all grow, Visenya felt alive in a way that battles and bloodshed had never given her. More alive than she had been in decades.
So when the Dornish began stirring up trouble in the Marches, once again troubling the kingdom she had helped build, Visenya had felt no rush to act. The fire that once leapt at the call of war now flickered low. She had already turned a blind eye to the problems festering in the Riverlands and the Iron Islands, content to let others deal with them. She was Queen Dowager of Westeros, yes, but her crown, like her sword, weighed differently now. Her responsibilities no longer lay with the realm. They lay with Maegor, Shiera, and her grandchildren.
But something had pulled her from Dragonstone. Some half-formed longing or restlessness she couldn't name until it was too late to turn back. A choice made in a moment she hadn’t fully thought through, spurred not by strategy or duty, but emotion.
She had volunteered to come to the Stormlands. Not out of necessity. Not because she had to. But because of him.
Her unfinished work, the scattered Dragonseeds and Velaryon bastards she’d been gathering into a web of informants and potential candidates for glass candle training, could wait. She came for one reason alone. And now, that reason knelt before them, greyed and lined with time, yet still unmistakably him.
“Your Grace, welcome to Storm’s End,” said her little brother, Orys, head bowed, voice steady.
He had descended from the dais, flanked by family and bannermen, to kneel before Aenys like a loyal subject. It was a display Visenya thought unnecessary, even if she knew Westerosi customs demanded it. Orys Baratheon had earned his place at Aegon’s side with blood and loyalty. He had not needed to kneel then.
His kneeling to Aenys, in particular, felt wrong. But Visenya said nothing. Her expression remained a carefully held mask, but her mind... her mind was not so quiet.
She hadn’t seen him in years. Letters had bridged the gap, familial, comforting, but never enough. He was the last living piece of that world she had forged with her siblings. Her last tie to a life that had defined her, consumed her, changed her. She both loved and hated that life. Loved it for the greatness they had built together. Hated it for what it had cost.
Aegon was gone now, taken by time. Rhaenys was gone too, taken by the very same Dornish invading her little brother’s Kingdom now. Time had taken much from her, her parents, her younger brother and sister, uncles, friends, and enemies, but not Orys. Not yet. And for reasons she could not quite explain, she had needed to see him again.
Aenys returned his uncle’s greeting with a regality he had been practicing as of late, measured, cautious, but not without purpose. Then they all partook in guest right, a ritual gesture at best. Visenya knew Orys Baratheon would never raise arms against her kin, no matter what squabbles the realm found itself embroiled in.
“Uncle, I trust that the army outside the walls is prepared to march?” Aenys asked, his voice calm, and unusually steady.
For perhaps the first time, Visenya couldn’t read her nephew like an open book. Aenys had always worn his emotions on his sleeve, meekness, fear, and indecision, the same way her son wore his courage and ability. But something had changed in him. The same boy who once trembled at council meetings now seemed to speak from a practiced script. Not natural, not truly kingly, but... improved. Still, the softness lingered.
“Indeed it is, Your Grace. We await more reinforcements from Cape Wrath, but the majority of my forces are ready to march at your command.”
Visenya studied her brother closely. Even now, decades older and thickened by age, he stood like a soldier, ready to strike if commanded. She saw the fire still in his eyes, the hunger to repay old debts. He would relish the chance to put the Dornish in their place, but she knew they were not here for that. She only hoped that Orys would understand once more was made clear to him.
“We will rest for the night, allowing the storm to pass. Then we will make for the Marches,” Aenys declared after a moment of thinking, and the castle staff dispersed without a word, receding from the throne room like waves from the shore.
Visenya did not speak right away. She merely watched her nephew, no longer a boy, not quite a king. There was steel there now, but it was not the same as Maegor’s. It was brittle. Borrowed, maybe. She doubted it would last against a proper test.
Still, she could not deny he had changed. He had grown in the ways she hadn’t expected, he had tacitly embraced the sword in the last few moons, sparring with his Kingsguard and her son daily. He was also portraying more strength, the strength a king should have, but she knew her nephew far too well to really believe in his change. To properly toughen up her sister’s weak boy, he would need a far greater push.
She turned her gaze to the window instead, watching the storm roll on. It was fitting, really. Westeros always seemed to be caught in one storm or another.
The truth was, she had little care left for these lands. The politics, the lords, the endless squabbles over borders and blood. The future wasn’t here, in this ramshackle kingdom she and her siblings had never truly unified. It was across the sea, in the city Maegor had carved from the rot of Essos, among the towers of marble and stone where her grandchildren played beneath a dragon-banner renewed.
That was where her heart beat now. Not with Aenys and his children. Not with the Crown she had once fought for. But with Maegor’s vision. With her legacy. She was oh so tempted to let the Seven Kingdoms tear themselves apart. She had given them blood, fire, and years of her life. What more could they ask? But she would play her part here, perhaps for the last time, because her son thought it important.
He recognized, probably correctly, that it was imperative to maintain a good relationship with Aenys and his family. Not only to secure peace, Dragonstone, access to dragon eggs, and future marriages, but to try and stop any future conflicts before they could spawn.
The thought of her blood killing her blood disgusted her, but she could no longer dismiss the possibility. If Maegor’s family spurned Aenys’s the familial bonds that kept them together would fray. She thought it quite a leap that the future generations of her house may one day fight. But she supposed if they did not view their kin as family, they were just rivals to envy and fight. For who could challenge House Targaryen now but itself?
Her brother’s family certainly couldn’t. ‘Not that they would try,’ Visenya thought as she took the chance to examine her brother’s family as they had not dispersed like their servants. The last time she had truly cared to look at her nephews and grandnephews by her brother had been decades ago. So the sight before her was interesting at least.
While Orys invited the three of them to discuss plans and their course of action in the coming days. Visenya first eyed Argella Durrandon before she chose to leave the throne room.
Time had not been kind to the last of the Durrandons, her shining black hair had turned fully white in her old age, her face had been beset by wrinkles, and she looked pleased to stand once more. Visenya had never befriended the woman, really none of them had. As it was kind of hard to look past the conquest of her Kingdom and the death of her father.
That did not stop her from being a dutiful wife, however. The prideful bitch might have resented House Targaryen but she had done her duty as a wife, even if Visenya wished she had done more. Had the last Durrandon given her little brother a daughter, perhaps her family might have survived the death of Rhaenys.
Visenya cast the thought aside, turning her gaze to the heir of Storm’s End as they walked the halls of the ancient castle. She had been there when Davos Baratheon was born, back in the squalid halls of the Aegonfort
That stirred up some more pleasant memories. Of a time when her family was whole and not consumed by bitterness and hatred. When she, Rhaenys, and Aegon all ruled effectively and together. When Orys stood by their side as Hand of the King. They had grand plans for a dynasty that would rule Westeros for millennia yet to come.
Yet those days were long gone. Argella never gave Orys a daughter to wed Aenys or Maegor. Then the damnable Dornish conflict began, leading to the death of her sister, the near-collapse of her marriage, and the flight of Orys from the capital.
That catastrophic year would never leave Visenya’s memories for as long as she lived. That was the day her old life died and her new one began. Yet, seeing Davos again brought back some pleasant memories, and Visenya had no intention of casting them out.
Orys’s second son was, of course, present in the castle as well, even if he had other duties than his brother. He had been chosen as one of Aenys’s Kingsguard escorts for their jaunt in the Stormlands and Dorne. It would both give him some time in his old home and it would allow him to reconnect with his family a little.
Visenya figured it was far better than what his sworn brothers were doing, who remained in King’s Landing to guard her nephew’s manse. Aenys, for reasons she could not fathom, had chosen to remain in the capital after his anointing by the High Septon. Dragonstone had been made open to him, Maegor had made that clear, even after the transfer of governance had finally been formalized. Her son ruled the island now, wholly and without question.
The thought brought a smile to her face. Her childhood home would not be a far away dream for her grandchildren and descendants. Dragonstone belonged to her bloodline now and could not be stolen away again by Aegon. She knew her son would never allow it to slip from his grasp again, unlike how Aenys had let their ancestral seat of power slip from his grasp.
Aenys had chosen to slink back to the neglected city he fancied as his seat of power. Back to that manse, a glorified hovel by her estimation, while he forced his workmen to hurry along the Red Keep’s never-ending construction. She had overheard reports from Maegor that the Red Keep might be barely habitable before the year’s end, though nowhere near complete. Another half-built dream in a half-built city.
King’s Landing was a cesspit. Always had been, and she figured it always would be. An ugly, sprawling testament to Aegon’s early ambition and short-sightedness. Its streets were filled with filth, its people worse, and its castle, if one could call it that, still nothing but stones and scaffolding. And yet, Aenys clung to it like a child with a broken toy, for reasons she could not understand.
Her family, meanwhile, had a bright future back in Pentos, their eyes set not on half-finished keeps but on cities of marble and gold. Pentos, a true daughter of Valyria, was being reforged into a proper capital of a Valyria reborn. Her son had carved it into something worthy of their blood, something worthy of housing the last of the Dragonlords.
Perhaps Aenys’s return to King’s Landing had to do with his family, his weak excuse for a family. Her brother’s namesake had caused quite some trouble back on Dragonstone. Visenya had witnessed it firsthand, the boy’s open disrespect toward his mother, openly rejecting and humiliating his sister, all in front of the gathered nobility. The Pentoshi lords, clever creatures who had followed Maegor to their island, had eaten up the scandal with amusement.
Visenya had watched the drama unfold with something like satisfaction. Her nephew’s wife, that irritating seahorse with delusions of queenly grace, could do little but stew in her rage as she failed to rein in her family. Now, the whispers of Aenys’s disappointment with his wife were spreading like wildfire.
It was a beautiful disaster to behold.
Her grandchildren, meanwhile, had no such problems. They were still young, Daeron was only seven, Baelon five, Visenya nearly four, and little Daenys not yet out of swaddling, but even so, they carried themselves with a dignity and fire that put Aenys’s squabbling brood to shame. There was strength in their eyes, a clarity of purpose already beginning to flicker behind sharp gazes and curious stares.
She could see it, even if others were too blind to look past the nursery. Daeron already listened like a soldier and asked questions like a king. Baelon had a curiosity that she liked, something his nursemaids disliked, but Visenya knew it would serve him well if maintained. Visenya, her namesake, had the eyes of a hawk and the quiet intensity of someone watching the world and judging it. And Daenys, well, she would be what they shaped her into. That was the entire point. Her line would not leave anything to chance.
This reminded Visenya of an important task she had taken upon herself, securing her grandson Daeron’s reign. Her son had wisely chosen to betroth his heir to Aenys’s youngest daughter, Alysanne, a girl with a worthy measure of Valyrian blood, even if her coloring was displeasing. It was a sound match but not a simple one.
They could not afford to leave anything to chance, not when Daeron’s future depended on his queen being an asset, not a hindrance. Loyalty, discipline, intelligence, and ambition would be demanded of Alysanne. She could not be allowed to be anything less than perfect, and Visenya had already begun drafting the path that would shape the girl into the wife Daeron would need.
She knew Queen Alyssa would pout and cry, just as she had done when Visenya had tried to betroth Maegor to Rhaena all those years ago. But Visenya would not be so easily cowed now. Alysanne was to marry her grandson one day, she would not allow her to end up an indignant, spoiled brat like her siblings appeared to be.
At least she needn’t concern herself with the other of Aenys’s brood, as her son had already seen to that. Viserys was to be Maegor’s squire once he grew a little older, and from there, Maegor would be able to mold the boy into a prince befitting her namesake’s hand in marriage. It allowed her to focus solely on her plans for her grandchildren and Alysanne, as she could ignore any other distractions from Aenys and his ilk.
Her thoughts drifted to lessons in etiquette, command, law, dragon lore, and the arcane, the tools Alysanne would need to properly support Daeron’s rule. A queen in name was not enough; she must be a pillar of his reign, as Visenya and Rhaenys had both once been for Aegon. It wasn’t until the gentle pressure of a hand on her shoulder broke through her reverie that she returned to the present.
Visenya was pulled from her thoughts by her son. It seemed that the pleasantries had finally all been said, and they were making their way toward her brother’s solar.
Maegor had come to stand beside her, towering and stern as ever, though there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes, amusement, she determined. “Deep in thought?” he asked, voice lowered but with a dash of mirth.
They had begun walking, their boots echoing faintly in the hall as they made their way toward Aegon’s solar. The pleasantries had finally been exchanged with the Stormlanders, the lords appeased, the bannermen acknowledged. Now came the part of the visit that mattered.
“Simply reminiscing on old memories,” she replied, tone noncommittal. She could have said more, about Aenys, about Dragonstone, about the sharp contrast between her bloodline’s strength and the rot of her nephew’s children, but she spared her son the indulgence. Maegor had little patience for such things. His focus remained on the task at hand, not the ghosts of the past.
It was a positive trait of her son’s, one of many. His focus on the present and the future rather than the bygone errors and failures of the past was prudent given the sheer amount of work he had taken on. His plans for his coronation back in Essos and the formal unification of his holdings had been an agonizing process.
For nearly a year now, the planning of Maegor’s coronation and the laborious integration of Pentos, Lorath, Norvos, and Braavos had consumed much of his attention. The Freehold had done little to unify the disparate cities, and now they had over one hundred years of formal independence to undo.
Laws had to be harmonized, infrastructure built, nobles appeased, populations placated, and not to mention the trouble it would stir up with the neighbors. None would act of course, lest they face the same power that laid Braavos low. But their troublesome inquiries about their inevitable conquest would be irritating for some time.
That was why Visenya was happy to foist most of that work onto her son. Maegor was in near-constant communication with his many liaisons from the four free cities under his command. Skillfully taking each of their concerns and wants into account, all the while ensuring his dominance.
Trade concessions to Lorath, supporting loyalists in Braavos, security guarantees and compensation to Norvos. There was a web of actions and promises that Maegor had cultivated throughout his holdings in Essos; it was little wonder why he had mobilized a small army of scribes to help him keep track of it all.
Meanwhile, Visenya busied herself with more interesting pursuits. The vast majority of her time was consumed by her grandchildren, of course. Whether it be in formal lessons or just lazing about, but she did have other duties and interests.
Her second duty that she had been fulfilling was preparing the glass candle network that Maegor had envisioned. Her son had spent a small fortune scooping up the remaining glass candles that he could. Most were of appalling quality, but they would have to make do given their own dwindling supply.
Finding those with the requisite ability required to operate the candles was troublesome and time-consuming. So far, Visenya had only found half a dozen qualified individuals who might be able to operate a candle. She suspected that she would have more success poaching the Dragonseeds and Velaryon bastards on Dragonstone and Driftmark, given their closer relationship to her house.
She had not done much scouting thus far, but she had designated some guards to start sweeping Dragonstone. They were to catalog all the different Dragonseeds on the island. They were of course quite diluted even compared to Orys, but they could still potentially be useful. Even if it would take time to sort through them all.
It seemed they had finally reached Orys’s solar as the six of them and their guards filtered into the room and moved to surround the long oak table. Visenya’s eyes skimmed the dozens of charts and maps strewn across its surface, heavily edited territorial outlines, troop deployments, supply lines. A maester sat dutifully in the corner, quill in hand, likely the one who had dragged this clutter from the castle’s archive.
“My scouts have informed me that the damned Dornish have gotten past the defenses placed near the Boneway. I have no idea how they managed to get around them, but Blackhaven is currently under siege. We’ll need to break them there before sweeping the rest of them from the Marches,” Orys began, but Visenya barely heard him.
She had stopped listening after “Blackhaven,” in all honesty. Not from disinterest, though there was certainly that, but from something deeper, heavier. The campaign would be brief. She already knew how it would go when she volunteered to accompany them.
She, Maegor, and Aenys would mount their dragons at first light, scour the land from above, and burn the Dornish host wherever it dared gather. Vhagar, Terrax, and Quicksilver in the skies would break the back of the resistance before it even began. The so-called Vulture King would scurry back to the desert or burn with the rest.
She already knew that they weren’t here to conquer Dorne, they were here to sweep some raiders back into their sandy hovels. This wasn’t war, this was barely theater.
The truth was, Visenya hadn’t come for the fighting. She told herself that she had done just that, that she wanted to stretch her legs and get Vhagar some action, but that was a lie, or at least not the whole truth. She had come to see her brother. Four years of parchment and polite messages had passed between them, but, no voice, no presence, no company.
And now she was here, and he was there, sitting across from her, speaking of tactics and maps and blood, and she found she could barely look at him. She didn’t want to see the tiredness in his eyes, the touch of silver that had crept into his beard. She didn’t want to see time marching on.
She welcomed the distraction when her bored, wandering eyes landed on her grand-nephew, Rogar Baratheon, standing tall and proud at Orys’s side. He held himself with the confidence of a young man who had yet to be properly tested.
Still, he had promise. She studied him for a moment, the strong build, his harsh look, and a composure fit for a Targaryen. All of it spoke to his Baratheon blood, Orys’s blood, but also there were the parts of him that weren’t related to her. His storm-dark hair and vivid blue eyes. These are features that made him look more Durrandon than Targaryen. The parts she could never quite ignore.
She sifted through the memories of her brother’s letters, recalling each word Orys had written about the boy with far too much pride. Too eager, she thought, lips tightening. Orys saw potential. Visenya saw waste.
Davos, Rogar’s father, should never have married his Swann wife.
A Velaryon, Celtigar, or even an Essosi bride would’ve been ideal, given hers and Rhaenys’s lack of daughters. At least then, the bloodlines would have kept some semblance of strength. But no, thanks to Orys’s self-imposed exile, severing ties with both Aegon and herself after that damned Dornish affair, the path had been altered.
The marriage to House Swann was a politically convenient match, yes. The Swanns were strong in the Stormlands and helped stabilize a new dynasty built on shaky grounds. But strength was not the same as worth.
Had Davos married properly, House Baratheon might’ve stood ready as a true secondary house. Fit for union, fit to marry, fit to matter. Instead, they were tethered to the muddy politics of Westeros, just another house among many.
Visenya’s frown deepened.
‘Perhaps this new war will be a chance to fix all of it.’ Visenya thought as her gaze shifted toward Maegor.
They had discussed the matter already, over many long nights in the halls of his Pentoshi manse. The nobility of Essos, those families descended from Valyrian citizens of the Freehold, were an asset too valuable to waste. Visenya had been persuaded against purging them outright, though it had been tempting. Their pride made them difficult to work with. But their blood... their blood could prove to be useful.
Marriage politics were set to become a nightmare in a few generations, it was a good problem to have, but it was still a problem. Already, the consequences of her failures, the lack of daughters from herself and her sister, were echoing. Her son and nephew had to marry outside of the family, and now there was a chance that there would be more marriages outside once more.
Aenys’s son, Jaehaerys, had no bride as of yet. Alyssa would likely give birth again soon, but whether it would help or worsen the imbalance remained to be seen. Not to mention the problem of her brother’s namesake tarnishing his reputation and fighting with his betrothed. Should that fall through, there would be two Targaryens that needed marriages when the rest were already tied down in proper matches.
They needed more options in the event there were not enough Targaryens. Not just any options, however. They needed Valyrian options.
There was always House Velaryon, but to rely on one house alone would be dangerous. Not only would it be putting all of their hopes into a single family, potentially empowering them too much, but who was to say that they would not ruin their own purity in the future?
House Qoherys was no longer an option, given it was all but extinct now. Shiera being the last of that useful house was a tragedy. However, even if Shiera’s disgusting brother had survived his idiotic reign, he had married an Andal, so his blood would have been tainted heavily, and given that Shiera’s was already not ideal, who is to say if that house would have even been useful had the peasant pretender not slaughtered the Qoherys children in their sleep.
There were other options, of course. Celtigar stock could be used in place of Velaryon with a few well-placed marriages. Or the Valyrian-blooded noble families of Lys. They were essentially all Dragonseeds, but they were likely even purer than her younger brother Orys.
However, the best option would be if they could peel a few of the Old Blood from behind the Black Walls of Volantis, those families who could trace their descent from dragonlords. That would be the ultimate prize.
But even if that failed, there were still... tools to be shaped. Rogar and his younger brothers might serve. Certainly not now, given they were little better than Andals. But with time, patience, and careful focus, one or more could be brought east, settled among the Valyrian nobility in Pentos. Their blood was weak, but not irredeemable. With proper matches and the right guidance, they could become something more than proud little lords of the Stormlands.
“Vhagar, Quicksilver, and Terrax should be more than enough to rout the forces besieging Blackhaven,” she heard her son say, and Visenya was snapped back to attention at the mention of her dragon.
“Indeed,” Orys responded simply, but then it was an unexpected voice that entered the fray.
“Grandfather, are we going to invade Dorne?” Rogar asked from his position next to his father, and Orys gave a stern look toward his grandson. Visenya did not really know why, it was a valid question that needed to be answered. Even if she already knew, the Stormlanders present needed to know the truth.
All eyes turned to Aenys after Rogar finished speaking. It was his call to make, after all. He would decide if it was time for a true second Dornish war to begin or not. He had, of course, already decided before leaving Dragonstone, but Visenya kept her ears ready regardless.
“Not yet. Our goal right now is to rout them from the Stormlands and send them back into their mountains. We have other concerns that take priority as of now,” Aenys decided after a moment’s thought and Visenya could not help but notice his wording.
‘Perhaps Maegor is having more of an effect on him than I thought,’ Visenya thought with amusement. She doubted that Aenys truly wished to invade Dorne, but it was a smart play to not take the option of the table. Even if he was correct that they had more pressing matters, dangling the carrot would keep the Stormlands enticed.
Visenya’s amusement quickly faded however, as memories were brought back of their last pathetic flight from Dorne. The Kingdom kept being saved by fate itself, and it irked Visenya greatly.
“Not yet?” Orys queried.
“After a deal is reached with the faith, and my two eldest children are married. Then it will be time to finish what my father started,” Aenys said noncommittally, and Visenya could tell that Davos and Rogar were not satisfied with that answer.
‘A deal,’ Visenya thought while barely repressing a scoff. Even now, Aenys was hell bent on trying to find a peaceful solution. Had the Faith objected to Aegon’s marriages during the conquest, they would have reduced the Starry Sept to rubble and destroyed every sept in the Seven Kingdoms. Yet Aenys still intended to try and find a peaceful solution to the problem of the Faith hating him and his children, it was pathetic.
“With all due respect, Your Grace. The Dornish cannot go unpunished or we will simply invite another attack like this. The raiding of the Marches cannot be allowed to become commonplace again,” Rogar said, and Visenya swore she could see the veins bulging on her little brother’s face at his insolence.
Before Orys could smack his grandson upside the head with his one good hand, her son intervened. “He brings up a good point, Brother. This vicious attack cannot go unpunished. Not only would it make the crown look weak, but it will also leave the people of the Stormlands unsatisfied,” Maegor spoke calmly and clearly for Aenys.
“We do not have time for a campaign,” Aenys said through grit teeth, and the table then turned to silence. The Stormlanders all wanted blood, and Visenya could not blame them. But House Targaryen had far more pressing matters.
“Then we do not do one. We have three dragons under our command. We will rout the Dornishmen back into their mountains and launch a punitive expedition. We will pass through the Boneway, burning all of the fortresses and manned positions we can see. Then we shall hit Yronwood and all the castles along the Sea of Dorne before flying back to Storm’s End over Cape Wrath. We will be done in less than a day, and the Dornish will be punished,” Maegor reasons, and the entire room seemed to be in agreement, aside from Aenys, that is.
“Your Grace, should I prepare the Stormlands for a future war with Dorne?” Orys then turned to Aenys after Maegor finished speaking. All the while, Aenys continued to pale.
“Y-yes… after the disagreement with the Faith is sorted and my position secured. We shall return to Dorne. But this punitive expedition… Why hit the whole Dornish coast? Should we not just hit the Red Mountains and then return to King’s Landing?” Aenys asked, his tone dripping with uncertainty, bringing out more of his true personality instead of the false kingly one he had been crafting with Maegor’s aid.
“The goal is to punish Dorne for their insolence. They have broken the peace deal our father made with them. Burning many of their castles again will remind them why they sued for peace in the first place,” Maegor said with fire behind his eyes. Visenya wondered if this was his plan for when the rest of the Free Cities inevitably stirred up trouble.
“Very well,” Aenys said, resignation weighing down his shoulders. “After we crush the Dornish force at Blackhaven, we shall burn a swath through Dorne.” Aenys confirmed the plan, and that meant that it was time for the meeting to end.
…
The destruction wrought by the Vulture King and his ilk was impressive for such a small host. From her position high in the sky atop Vhagar, she could see the smoke and burnt towns stretching for miles. The clear sky offered no cover for their heinous actions, and the numerous black splotches of burnt fields and destroyed villages dotted the landscape.
She could already imagine that her little brother was furious at the sight. He had taken his position as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands in stride and had truly become a lord worth serving. It was natural, of course, no sibling of hers could be a failure.
The columns of soldiers beneath them stretched for miles. The rather rudimentary roads created by previous Storm Kings had long since deteriorated, but even still. They provided enough of a clear route for Orys’s army of close to 15,000 men to march quickly toward Blackhaven.
‘We don’t even need the soldiers,’ Visenya thought as she looked down at her colossal dragon.
Vhagar, Quicksilver, and Terrax were already more than enough for this mission. Had Aenys indulged his rebellious son and brought Balerion as well, it would have been overkill. Her son had already shown that a dragon of Terrax’s size could easily bring down an empire if it was commanded well.
Conquest, on the other hand, was more complicated. A single dragon could bring a kingdom to ruin, but ruling required soldiers to enforce that rule. That had been their mistake with Dorne. After the failed forays into the Red Mountains, they had chosen to burn instead of occupy, to punish instead of conquer.
‘We ought to have marched the combined army we brought to face Torrhen Stark into Dorne and simply killed the lot of them,’ Visenya thought, her gaze sweeping over the destruction laid out before her and her dragon’s eyes.
It would have been costly and bloody, but Visenya would have gladly traded that gold and blood for her sister’s life.
Her fingers tightened around the reins, knuckles pale in the warm Dornish sun. She had not meant to remember, but the smoke below pulled her backward, to those days, those horrid, painful days.
Ash, endless ash. Not from one castle, or two, but dozens. Villages, fields, men, women, children. They had burned it all. Not as a strategy. Not for conquest. But as nothing more than righteous fury. When they had learned from their scouts that Rhaenys had died at Hellholt, they resolved to kill every last person in Dorne, and they certainly tried.
Visenya shook her head hard, pushing the memory back into its pit. She had been thinking of Rhaenys more and more since her brother’s funeral. Thinking of both of them. The dragon had three heads, and now only one remained.
Visenya was thankful when she saw her son and nephew begin to line their dragons up for a dive. Blackhaven was now right under them, and they needed to attack properly before the army routing beneath them fled too far. Attacking soldiers on dragonback was so much more simple when they were bunched together.
The wind whistled in Visenya’s ears as Vhagar’s colossal body tipped downward. Her wings angled just right, preparing to flatten out and transform their dive into a glide just above the ground. They had practiced this maneuver countless times, so Visenya did not even need to give the order.
Her bond with Vhagar was so strong that she did not need to say or do anything as they plummeted toward the ground. Her son and nephew peeled away a little to give her space as the ground grew nearer and nearer.
‘Dracarys,’ Visenya thought as she tugged on the bond with her dragon. Her thoughts went idle as the bronze flames poured from Vhagar’s mouth and onto the fleeing Dornish soldiers below them.
She had done this so many times in her life. From castles in the Crownlands, Riverlands, Vale, Dorne, and even great Braavos. Countless had died under her dragon’s fire and wrath. So much so that Visenya was largely desensitized to it, so her mind wandered freely as she let her dragon indulge in her bloodlust.
‘Daeron will do this one day,’ Visenya thought as Vhagar swiveled her head around, bathing more helpless soldiers in her hellish fire.
It still felt strange to think about. She had ridden Vhagar for over fifty years now. The idea of another riding her beloved bronze dragon tugged at something deep in her chest. But if it had to be someone, it would be her grandson. Daeron had the right spirit. She could already tell that he would love Vhagar the same way she did.
It pained her to see him so obviously jealous of his siblings and cousin, however. Just like she knew it pained her son Maegor to see the same. Visenya understood that he was just a boy and he would one day come to appreciate his patience, but she could also see where he was coming from.
Her namesake had hatched a bronze dragon egg in her cradle. ‘Literally bonded from birth… lucky,’ Visenya thought with a small smile as more screams filled the air with the smell of burning flesh. Visenya remembered not being bonded with Vhagar, and needless to say, it was horrid. Not to mention Daeron’s other siblings, both had eggs, even if neither had yet hatched.
Then of course there was Viserys. Daeron and his cousin had begun sparring in the yard after Aegon’s funeral, and rivalry bloomed between them like dragon fire on dry grass. Naturally, it spread to the dragons. Or rather, to Daeron’s lack of one. Visenya doubted the teasing would grow cruel, on account of their watchful eyes to ensure their family remained close. But she had teased Rhaenys once, when they were young, for her lack of a dragon. So she knew it was coming.
‘At least he has a good dragon to look forward to,’ Visenya thought as she reached down to touch Vhagar’s scales. Her saddle had grown enormously since Visenya first claimed her beloved bronze dragon at the age of 12, just like her dragon had. It was now so big she had to reach to touch her dragon’s beautiful bronze scales.
The triumphant roar of Terrax and Vhagar woke Visenya from her blissful ignorance. It seemed that the army that once surrounded Blackhaven was now naught but fleeing men and ash. Visenya had to strain her eyes to see the ones who were fleeing, and even then, they could not have counted more than a hundred.
‘They will likely die in our punitive expedition,’ Visenya thought as she braced herself to land. She imagined that the Stormlander force would be disappointed in not being able to fight, but that was her brother’s and nephew’s problem.
Visenya banked Vhagar around after that, leading it back toward the castle. Her nephew and son had already begun bringing their dragons down for a landing, so Visenya thought to do the same. Orys would naturally build his camp around Blackhaven of course. There were still likely some smaller Dornish raiding parties in the Marches, and Blackhaven would be a good place to sortie out from.
With an unceremonious THUD, Vhagar landed not far from Terrax and Quicksilver, who had landed quite close to one another. She could see that her son had already begun dismounting, so she moved to follow. All the while, she could not stave off the boredom that she was feeling.
She came here to speak with her brother, not to kill Dornishmen. Yet it seemed that she could never find a proper time to speak with him alone. She did not even really know what she wanted to say, but she knew she wanted to speak with him. ‘Before we leave the Stormlands,’ Visenya vowed to herself as she spotted her son running to meet her halfway between their dragons.
…
She did not know if it was just her, but she could almost feel it become hotter and more miserable as they passed into Dorne. There were no official border markings or anything but the moment Vhagar, Quicksilver, and Terrax flew into the Red Mountains, it seemed like the heat picked up and a nauseous feeling settled in Visenya’s gut.
‘I hate this place,’ Visenya thought as Vhagar remained high in the sky. Her son and nephew had been swooping down to hit the numerous, hastily and poorly constructed forts that dotted the narrow Boneway. Meanwhile, Vhagar’s one real duty on this expedition was to level Yronwood.
Neither Terrax nor Quicksilver was large enough to properly bring down a true castle. Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar had all made passes at Yronwood during the Dornish War. The fact that there was anything there at all pointed to how well-constructed it was.
Visenya’s mind was filled with her previous expedition here. She had spent far too much time in this wretched Kingdom. Dozens of castles had already felt Vhagar’s wrath, yet here she was again.
Visenya spied the methodical strikes that her son and nephew were carrying out beneath her as they neared Yronwood, and even more memories were stirred.
When she and her siblings first entered Dorne. They had attacked the Kingdom in much the same way. Castles were their primary target, the goal was to force the nobility of Dorne into surrender. Extermination hadn’t been the goal, not at first. They only meant to frighten the Dornish nobility into kneeling.
They would have gotten the same deal the rest of the nobles they defeated had gotten. They would have been allowed to keep their fiefs and most of their titles with little fuss. The only real difference would be who they swore their oaths to and where their taxes went.
Yet the Dornish decided to be difficult. They stubbornly refused to just surrender like every other Kingdom had done. Instead, they all decided death would be better than kneeling. The three of them thought they would come to their senses, but as it turned out, she and her brother would lose theirs first.
When her sister Rhaenys died, that was, without a doubt,t the worst day of Visenya’s life. The pain, sorrow, rage, and anguish she felt that day still haunted her to the present day. The rest of the Seven Kingdoms were lucky that she and her brother had an outlet for their rage and pain, as otherwise, more of Westeros likely would have been caught up in their wrath.
After that damnable scorpion bolt hit Meraxes, hers and Aegon's expeditions here lost their planning. The only plans they did were the most efficient routes to burn everything they could. Farms, villages, towns, roads, castles, wells, ships, even the caravans moving through the desert. She and Aegon hit everything they could.
Tens of thousands died in their wrath. Yet that slaughter was simply proved meaningless when Aegon sued for peace. Her brother had simply given up when they were likely weeks from securing a total victory. Had Visenya not gotten a proper life and future for herself since that event, it would likely still consume her every waking thought.
Visenya’s anger stirred again thinking about it. Her time with her grandchildren and son in Essos was an excellent way to ignore the past, but she couldn’t do so here, not when she was alone atop her dragon. Old memories resurfaced in her mind, and Visenya’s rage continued to grow.
Yronwood was now on the horizon. The sloppily reconstructed castle grew larger and larger as House Targaryen’s dragons once more closed in for an attack. It had been decades since she last burned this castle, yet she could not wait to make the sad-looking, half-melted castle feel her wrath once more.
She brought her dragon in for another dive soon enough. Vhagar eagerly lapped up Visenya’s rage and anger through their bond. It only made Vhagar’s excitement burn all the hotter. They both wanted this, it had been far too long since Vhagar last got to destroy something.
It was then that a whizzing sound flew by her. Missing her by a few dozen feet. It was followed by a few more before a loud crash hit her ears as Vhagar bristled. She searched her bond with her dragon and quickly found the source of her concern. A scorpion bolt had just exploded on Vhagar’s armored underside.
A white hot rage consumed Visenya then. She brought Vhagar into a steeper dive, taking full command of her dragon then as they plummeted toward the castle like a bronze lightning bolt.
“Dracarys!” Visenya roared over the wind, and her dragon eagerly obliged. Greenish bronze flames soon engulfed the castle walls and the scorpions they housed as fresh screams of agony and pain filled the air. It was music to Visenya’s enraged ears.
She was so consumed with her rage that she did not notice her son and nephew strike the surrounding town and forest. She would later learn that there were more scorpions concealed within the houses and forest outside of Yronwood, but it did not matter. In just a few minutes, House Yronwood’s fiefdom was once more returned to its destitute and empty state.
It was only after Vhagar landed on the smoldering rubble of Yronwood castle that Visenya’s rage abated. She had lost her cool, and acted emotionally when she shouldn’t have.
‘I need to leave this cursed Kingdom,’ Visenya thought as she brought her dragon into the sky again.
…
Maegor and Aenys were quick to leave Storm’s End, as they had much to attend to back on Dragonstone and in King’s Landing, respectively. Maegor had his plans with the Free City envoys and Aenys had his active fire within his family. She was in no rush to leave, however.
She had come here to speak with her brother, her last living sibling, and she would not abandon that purpose. Even if her instincts told her to fly home, to return to the volcanic quiet of Dragonstone, to her grandchildren, her son, her life. Something held her here.
That something led her to Orys’s solar, as it had once before, many years ago. Before Pentos, before the war with the Faceless Men, before most of her grandchildren were even born. She came now as she had then, seeking something she could not quite name, from the one person left who might understand.
“Sister,” Orys greeted, not meeting her eyes. “Will you be staying long?”
“Why?” Visenya asked, with a raised brow and a hint of dry humor. “Eager to be rid of me?”
“Not at all. But, if the Queen remains in my castle, I must make plans to entertain her.”
There it was, the misstep. The faintest crack in the wall between them. She was not the Queen any longer, not in title nor in truth. Queen Dowager of Westeros. The words clung to her like cobwebs.
The room, once warm with the flicker of firelight, felt colder now.
“This is why you are here, yes?” Orys asked, his voice hushed. “I wouldn’t have begrudged you for staying on Dragonstone. I know how much your grandchildren mean to you.”
“Yes,” she said simply, “I came to see my brother.”
But those words felt hollow. This grief was not the same as Rhaenys’s death. That loss had been fire in her heart, sharp and all-consuming, a wound that bled endlessly no matter how many Dornish heads she took in return. This…this was different. There was no fire in her chest now. Just weight, an ache like a stone had settled on her back.
Was it age? Time? Or the long-simmering bitterness between her and Aegon that had never truly healed? Their marriage had crumbled to dust the day he had banished her son, and nothing had ever been the same. She had made peace with the fact she’d never again see him alive.
But that was before he was actually gone. Gone in an instant, with no warning, no sickness that left him weak and frail. One moment, he was fine, and the next, he was dead. She had thought she would feel justified, vindicated in some way. Instead, she felt regrets she hadn’t known were there.
Should she have reached out? Tried, with Aenys and Shiera’s help, to mend something? Would it have mattered? Or would it have ended, as it always did, with more ash and ruin?
She tried not to think about it. She went through the motions, her routines on Dragonstone, her flights with Daeron on Vhagar, the laughter of her grandchildren echoing through familiar halls. But the regrets lingered, biting and quiet.
“I’m glad to see you too, Sister,” Orys said after a prolonged silence. His black hair hung low, shadowing his face in the dim light of the solar.
“So,” he asked with a little forced lightness, “you really came all this way just to see me?”
“I suppose I did,” Visenya replied, arching an eyebrow.
“Is it because he’s gone?”
“I…” She faltered. Yes, that was part of it. Aegon was dead. Rhaenys had been gone for years. Her parents, long since dust. Her uncles, aunts, even her cousins, distant memories or shattered relationships. But Orys was still here.
“I never got to say goodbye,” she said at last. “Not to Rhaenys. Not to him.”
“Neither did I,” Orys admitted, his voice barely audible over the storm outside. He turned to the window, watching the rain lash against the panes.
“So, is that why you’re here? To say goodbye to me, too?” he asked with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I don’t know,” Visenya said quietly. “I just wanted to see you. Rhaenys was taken in an instant. And Aegon… I let that relationship burn until there was nothing left. I suppose I didn’t want that to happen again.”
“I wanted to see you too,” Orys said, turning to face her again, his hand resting heavily on the arm of his chair.
“I didn’t want to do this again,” she murmured. She didn’t clarify what this was, but Orys understood.
“Nobody does,” he said. “But I get it. You’re here because I’m the only one who understands what this feels like.”
“You’re my brother,” Visenya said, the words strange and fragile in her mouth. “My last remaining sibling.”
“You’re looking for a way to grieve,” he said gently, and she did not argue. She couldn’t.
“You haven’t told your son anything, have you?” Orys asked, and when she shook her head, he huffed a quiet breath through his nose.
“Of course not. You’ve ignored it. Very typical of you.”
Visenya offered the faintest glare, but it lacked real heat. She was not good at this, quite bad, actually. Hence, her whole reason for being here at all.
“You’re welcome to stay, Sister. But your peace is on Dragonstone. That’s where your future lies. Stay here too long, and the past will bury you.”
She wanted to protest, but she knew he was right. Her son was there, carving a future with blood, fire, and sheer effort. Her grandchildren filled the halls with laughter. She could not squander what time she had left.
“Thank you, Orys,” she said after a pause. “I’ll stay the night. But I’ll return to Dragonstone in the morning.”
“I think that’s wise. But write to me,” Orys said with a small smile. “Your letters are usually the best part of my day.”
She rolled her eyes in response, the familiar gesture warming something in her chest. She would carry these regrets, yes. She had earned them. But she would not let them steal more of her time. Not from her son. Not from her grandchildren. They were her legacy now, and she would see as much of them as she could.
Comments
Morel
Maegor is doing the coaching of the century right now lmfao. But yeah, Visenya has just lost so much and fought so long that she is tired. Once she is back around her family and Aegon's death gets further away she will mellow.
Zenokya
Worth the wait, quality work right here. A joy to read as always. Visenya is too hard on herself, a lot of regret yes but some of it she couldn’t do anything about that. Not like she was responsible for the death of her sister or estrangement of Orys. Rogar Baratheon, still young but already arrogant hope he doesn’t steer shit in the future. Lords will be surprised when they realize that Aenys is not as weak as they believe, Maegor is a good coach.
Morel
Visenya is the oldest Targ now. Her family is almost all dead. Just her half brother and her child, grandchildren, nephew, and grandnephews/nieces remain. She has a lot to think about. People are taking note of Aenys's weakness. Even if Visenya is seeing the opposite, given her previous interactions with him she can see him being a bit more kingly while others only see his weakness.
Mrsean22
Not surprising Visenya is thinking about the past. Is getting pretty old and not a lot of responsibilities now. So lots of time to think. Aenys basically forced to punish Dorne for these attacks. The Baratheons basically saw Maegor getting Aenys to do it. Curious if this will have a affect on Roger.
