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24: Dragonborn Conqueror, The Last of the Dragonlords
🕑 Added 2025-04-16 21:06:43 +0000 UTCSteel clanged in the courtyard, the sound ringing through the air beneath Dragonstone’s crimson skies.
Visenya Targaryen moved like a predator, her long silver braid whipping behind her as she circled the training yard. In her hands, Dark Sister shimmered—the dark blade of Valyrian steel, slender and sharp, nearly weightless in her grip.
Across from her stood Orys Baratheon, taller by a head and broader in the shoulders. He wore only a sleeveless tunic, soaked with sweat, and a grimace of concentration. His great‑sword was a brute of a weapon—heavy, broad, and dangerous—but against Visenya it might as well have been a club.
Orys made the first move, stepping in with a low sweep meant to force her back. Visenya parried lightly, turning her wrist so the impact slid off with a shriek of metal.
Another swing from Orys—this one overhead and powerful.
She stepped aside with a dancer’s ease, letting the blade strike the ground with a thud.
“Slower than yesterday,” Visenya said with a smirk, her voice low and amused. “What’s the matter, half‑breed? Your bastard blood weighing you down?”
Orys snarled. His next strike came harder, faster, anger flaring in his dark eyes. He swung again and again, great arcs of force meant to batter her down.
“You really ought to think of a better insult,” he growled, breath ragged. “That one’s getting tired.”
“Oh? And here I thought it still stung,” she teased, easily sidestepping another blow. “Poor Orys. Does it hurt your little feelings?”
With a roar, Orys lunged, putting all his fury behind the strike.
But fury was not enough.
Visenya’s blade flashed once—twice. She twisted inside his reach, ducked low beneath his arm, and struck the back of his knee with the flat of her sword. Orys stumbled.
She moved behind him before he hit the ground, one foot sweeping his legs while she shoved him forward.
He landed hard, face‑first in the dust.
“Ow,” he muttered, groaning.
Visenya laughed—a rare, sharp sound. She planted one foot on his back and leveled Dark Sister at the base of his neck.
“You anger too easily,” she said, her tone half‑mocking, half‑genuine.
Visenya offered her hand to Orys, but just as his fingers brushed hers, she yanked him halfway up—then planted her foot against his chest and shoved.
He went sprawling again with a grunt of surprise, landing hard on his back.
Visenya loomed over him, expression flat. “Lesson not learned, it seems.”
Orys coughed, brushing dust from his face. “Was that necessary?” he muttered.
“Yes,” she said, wiping the edge of Dark Sister on her sleeve. “Because you’re still letting anger rule your blade. In battle, rage will get you killed—and get others killed with you. You can’t be Aegon’s shield if you can’t even protect yourself from your temper.”
“I’m dealing with it, Vis,” Orys grumbled, still flat on his back.
“Not enough,” she snapped, stepping away from him. “And I’m sure you plan to go with him when those envoys finally beg him and convince him.”
“Of course,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow. “I’m to be his blade, his sword, his shield.”
Visenya gave a short, cold laugh. “Then Aegon’s already dead if this is the best his shield can manage.”
Orys winced. Her words bit deeper than he let on, and he looked down at the ground.
But Visenya’s voice softened as she turned back to him. “You will work on this,” she said more quietly. “And tonight, you’ll meet me again. We spar at dusk. No excuses.”
She offered her hand a second time.
Orys hesitated—just long enough for her to raise an eyebrow—then clasped it, allowing her to pull him up.
He was about to speak when he paused, his eyes narrowing past her.
“She’s back,” he said with a slow smile.
Visenya turned sharply, following his gaze toward the horizon.
Meraxes soared above the sea cliffs, silver wings cutting through the grey clouds. The sun shimmered along her scales as she descended toward Dragonstone.
Rhaenys had returned.
Visenya smiled.
“Continue your drills,” she said over her shoulder as she strode away, the wind catching her braid. “And remember—dusk.”
She left Orys behind, making her way down to greet her little sister.
======
As Visenya walked down the sloping path from the training yard, the wind caught her cloak and tugged it toward the sea. Below, the dark waters of Blackwater Bay churned under grey skies, and the scent of salt and storm clung to the air. The docks of Dragonstone stretched like grasping fingers into the bay, and moored along them were sleek foreign ships with bright sails—purple and teal, green and crimson—out of Pentos and Tyrosh.
Envoys from Essos.
They had arrived with urgent pleas and gold‑filled chests, begging the dragonlords to intervene in their war against Volantis. The so‑called First Daughter still tried to claw her way back to power, even a century after the Doom of Valyria. The dream of a new Freehold, reborn from the ashes, was a fantasy. Essos had become a graveyard of broken ambitions and ruined cities—especially now, after a century of blood.
Aegon had agreed to hear them; Visenya had counselled that something useful might be gained. As Lord Regent of Dragonstone he ruled in their father’s place. Their father had not left his bed in a year, laid low by a wasting fever—the Lover’s Pox. It had stolen his strength, leaving only Aegon, Visenya, and Rhaenys to lead. And lead they did.
High above the cliffs, the great she‑dragon loomed, her silver‑cream scales gleaming faintly despite the overcast sky. Her large, intelligent eyes were half‑lidded in pleasure as Rhaenys stroked the bridge of her snout.
Visenya halted at the field’s edge, watching them from a distance. A sharp pang twisted in her chest. Jealousy. It was an old wound, deepened over the years.
The first wound had been her own dragon. A hatchling had emerged for her at birth—a creature of obsidian hide and emerald eyes—but it proved too wild, too vicious. After it mauled two keepers and devoured a fellow hatchling, her father forbade the bond. Now the beast dwelled in the volcano’s black heart, feared and named only in whispers. A monster, they called it.
That left her a single choice: Vhagar, her father’s temperamental dragon. She visited Vhagar often, bringing meat, preparing to bond once her father’s time was done. Yet she had never flown alone—not truly. Not like Aegon astride Balerion, or Rhaenys soaring above the waves on Meraxes.
The second wound of jealousy cut deeper still.
She had married Aegon last year, on his seventeenth nameday. Duty demanded it. She loved Aegon—of course she did—but as a sister loves a brother, the same way she loved Rhaenys. She did not love him as Rhaenys did, and he did not love her as he loved Rhaenys. That was what burned. She knew he meant to wed Rhaenys as well—and she did not mind; such was the way of dragonlords—but the knowledge left her feeling that something essential was missing from her own life.
“Vis!” Rhaenys called, her voice bright as sun breaking through storm clouds.
“You’re late,” Visenya replied—sharp, but laced with affection.
Her violet eyes flicked to the shivering man crouched behind Rhaenys, clutching a bundle of parchments as though it were his only warmth. Acolyte Aenar. The poor fool had accompanied Rhaenys to chart the Stormlands—from the sky.
Rhaenys laughed softly, brushing windswept curls from her face. “Poor Aenar. It was his first flight.”
“I think you should find something hot to drink before you turn blue, Aenar,” she added.
The young man stood, limbs trembling. “Y‑yes, my lady,” he stammered.
Visenya arched a brow. “Don’t forget to give your findings to the maester. He’ll be with the masons at the table.”
Aenar bowed hastily, parchments clutched to his chest. “A‑at once, my lady,” he muttered, then fled toward the castle.
“Pathetic,” Visenya murmured.
“Oh, come now, Vis. That was the poor man’s first flight,” Rhaenys teased, nudging her sister with a grin.
Visenya shrugged, though her smirk betrayed amusement. “He still looked as though he’d rather soil himself than see the sky again.”
They fell into step together.
“You were late. Why?” Visenya asked.
“I stopped by Driftmark,” Rhaenys replied, her expression sobering. “There’s news—important news. Especially about those rumors from the Riverlands.”
Visenya’s eyes sharpened, her stride faltering for a heartbeat. Ever since traders from Saltpans had brought word of a rebellion against Harren the Black, they had paid attention.
She did not speak at once, but her mind raced. Could they use this rising? Should they accelerate their plans—begin with a foothold in the Riverlands, as she had urged Aegon to do?
From childhood, the three of them had dreamed of conquest—of forging something greater from the fractured kingdoms of Westeros. Dragonlords were not meant to cower on one rocky isle. Their ancestors had fled the Doom with fire in their blood and wings beneath their heels—and then done nothing, cowed by an old Valyrian prophecy that Westeros would spell doom for the blood of the dragon.
But not them. Not Aegon. Not Visenya. Not Rhaenys.
They believed it was their destiny to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, to bring order to the quarrelling realms.
“Come,” Visenya said at last, her voice a quiet command. “Let’s find Aegon. If this rebellion has weight … we may have just been handed the opening we’ve waited for.”
Rhaenys nodded once and followed.
=====
Visenya and Rhaenys found Aegon striding down the corridor that led from the throne room, jaw clenched and brows furrowed in annoyance. Yet the moment he saw Rhaenys, the tension melted from his face like frost beneath the morning sun.
“Rhae,” he exhaled, his voice softening.
Rhaenys was already running toward him, golden skirts sweeping behind her as she threw herself into his arms. Aegon caught her easily, holding her close with a low chuckle and burying his face in her hair as she laughed.
“You’re late,” he murmured. “I was about to come looking for you.”
“I stopped at Driftmark,” she said, pulling back just enough to smile up at him. “You know how Uncle Gaemon loves to talk.”
“You can declare your undying love later,” Visenya said dryly, arms crossed as she stepped beside them, her braid swaying. “Sister, now that Aegon is here, tell us about the rebellion.”
Aegon’s expression sharpened at once. “Uncle Gaemon?” he asked.
“Yes—Uncle Gaemon,” Rhaenys confirmed. “They thought it some small unrest at first—”
“Well,” Aegon said, already walking and gesturing for them to follow, “let’s hear it. How long until Harren crushes it?”
Rhaenys fell into step beside him, her voice serious now. “They say it isn’t a simple revolt. They say it’s being led by a sorcerer.”
That made Visenya pause mid‑step. Her eyes narrowed. “A sorcerer?” In a realm where most feared magic—if they didn’t actively despise it—that was no small claim.
“Aye,” Rhaenys said. “Lords Frey, Blackwood, and Mallister have declared for him. Greyholt has fallen—yes, that Greyholt.”
This is serious, Visenya thought; she and Aegon had only yesterday discussed ways to take that castle without a dragon.
“Lord Haldon Greyjoy and both his sons are dead,” Rhaenys went on, “and Harren’s second son—Prince Aeron—is this sorcerer’s prisoner.”
Aegon frowned.
“And the most interesting part?” Rhaenys asked, a spark of excitement in her tone.
“What?” Aegon said, brow arched.
“He calls himself Dragonborn.”
“Dragonborn?” Aegon and Visenya echoed, disbelief on their faces.
“Yes,” Rhaenys said, watching them both. “What if he’s from Valyria? What if he’s like us?”
“I doubt it,” Aegon replied quickly, his voice tight.
“As do I,” Visenya agreed.
Rhaenys shrugged. “Well, I believe it. I’ve heard tales—castles torn apart by his voice alone. They say he flies without wings, that he’s the gods made flesh—Seven and Old.”
Visenya scoffed, lips curling in sarcasm. “Perhaps he’s a dragon in disguise as well?”
Aegon, ever composed, did not smile. “Regardless, we should watch this closely. Perhaps he’s just a clever fraud—a charlatan Harren will crush in a moon. But if he’s not…” He let the thought trail away.
Visenya finished it silently: Then everything changes. Another notion flickered—if he truly was a sorcerer, perhaps she should meet him, for she dabbled in the arcane herself.
She opened her mouth to speak again just as the door at the corridor’s far end banged open.
“My lord! My ladies!” Ser Heagon’s voice cracked with panic as he hurried toward them, breathless. “Your father—”
All three turned at once.
They ran.
======
Visenya stood with a schooled, unreadable expression while Aegon dropped to his knees beside the bed. The chamber was dimly lit, heavy curtains choking off the sun, and the air reeked of damp cloth, old sweat, and the cloying sweetness of sickness.
Their father lay on silken sheets now stained by his affliction. The Lover’s Pox had ravaged his once‑regal face, blistering and scarring it until little of the proud Targaryen visage remained. One eye was nearly swollen shut, the skin beneath it a sickly purple. His mouth trembled as he tried to speak, the words barely escaping cracked, bleeding lips.
Visenya’s gaze was cold, distant. A dark corner of her heart whispered that this was justice—punishment for the man who had dishonoured their mother time and again, for every maid he had dragged to his bed, for every moment her mother suffered in silence, and for Orys, whose very existence was a daily reminder of their father’s lust. She clenched her jaw but kept her face a mask.
Rhaenys knelt beside Aegon, tears flowing freely as she clutched their father’s hand. Aegon said nothing, only bowed his head and pressed his lips to the dying man’s palm.
Their father’s voice came as a ragged whisper.
“Don’t… the prophecy… your plans… they will doom us.”
Visenya almost rolled her eyes.
Aegon leaned closer, calm but firm. “Father, I have dreamt a prophecy of my own. I cannot ignore it.”
For a long moment Aerion Targaryen stared at each child—Aegon, dutiful son; Rhaenys, golden joy; Visenya, firstborn; even Orys, standing by the door with lowered eyes.
“I love you… my children,” he breathed at last. His chest rose once, then fell. And did not rise again.
Aegon’s knuckles whitened around his father’s lifeless hand. Rhaenys sobbed and turned into Orys’s embrace.
Visenya stood motionless, eyes burning though her face remained stone. Without a word she turned and left.
She moved through the hushed corridors like a shadow. No servants, no guards, no voices—just the echo of her steps. Outside, she kept her pace unbroken as she crossed the courtyards and strode toward the Dragonmont, smoke curling faintly from its peak.
And there she saw Vhagar.
The great dragon waited near the mountain’s base, wings folded, immense amber‑grey eyes tracking her approach. In the beast’s stillness she sensed understanding; dragons always knew.
Woman and dragon regarded one another, grief mirrored in both sets of eyes. Visenya stepped closer, heart hammering. She took the leather reins, and— for the first time—Vhagar did not pull away.
She climbed, boots finding the old notches in scale and saddle, until she sat at the giant neck’s ridge.
“Soves,” she whispered.
Wings unfurled, and the wind screamed as Vhagar leapt skyward. Air tore at Visenya’s face, stinging her skin. Stars pricked through the high clouds, and there, amid the heavens, Visenya Targaryen finally let herself break.
Tears streamed back into the night as the wind swallowed her cries. High above the world, cloaked in the darkening sky, Visenya was no Lady of Dragonstone—only a daughter, mourning her father, alone among the clouds.
.
.
So what do you think of the Targs.
Visenya will be a major charecter in the story.
Comments
Dr.Flembo
Great story so far. Looking forward to how things develop. It would be nice if Harald marries Visenya when he becomes king. But I think Ageon won’t allow it. Unless Harald summons dragons with shouts, then maybe.
Tasjuan Hampton
Hmm Dragonborn is untouchable I see the Targ trying to have him join they family I do hope he doesn’t kneel tho , they really have nothing to offer him but Viseyna would be a catch tho as long if he his own King 🤔
John
Awesome! Chapter can’t wait for the Targaryens to meet the Dovahkiin. But I feel like Rhaenys and Visenya would try to meet him individually before the “conquest”. I also wonder if because of the rebellion if Aegon would move his planned conquest sooner since it sounds like all the kingdoms are about to enter into a war with each other.
Brandon
Interesting, I just hope the Dragonborn doesn’t kneel to the targ. He can obviously kill their dragon and if some of the spell work like in the game he can summon a dragon himself with that one spell
