Chapter Text
In a storm of thunder and rain, Visenya’s eyes flashed in response to Vhagar’s rumbling groan. The appearance of the veteran dragon could only mean one thing.
Shit. That had not been taken into consideration.
This mission had been given to her so that her younger brothers could go North together. There's safety in numbers, she’d told her mother. She hadn’t expected her mother to insist that Visenya go in place of Luke.
“You are my eldest, I trust this matter with you. Perhaps your scathing tongue will remind Lord Borros that keeping his father’s oath is in his best interest."
Not bloody likely. But she had still mounted Maelar and flown south to this wretched place, to a place that was already tainted by the Greens.
A warm welcome indeed, she thought as she shivered.
Appearing as unphased as she could, she marched forward to the sentries and made her intentions known. They escorted her in without hassle, and with every step she took, Visenya wondered how much damage her uncle had already managed to accomplish. Aemond Targaryen, after all, enjoyed destroying everything in his path.
As the doors to the great hall opened, Visenya's eyes sought him straight away.
Involuntarily, her breath hitched at the sight of him. He stood tall in his leathers, proud in his manner, and domineering in his glare. As her name and station were announced, the two sized one another up, neither wanting to be the first to break eye contact. To think, as a little lovestruck lady, she’d wanted to marry this cold dragon.
A memory came to her, as unwanted as it was vivid, of the two of them toddling side-by-side every day of their young lives. Their hands were bound together in a grip that would never break, no matter how hard their mothers pulled to separate them. From the cradle to their crypt, the two of them should - would - be. No matter how small they were, they'd known this to the very core of their being. She was his, he was hers, and they were each others. Visenya remembered when she’d cried at her Name Day celebration, knowing that her other half would not be invited, and how he’d sneaked into her room later that night with smuggled sweets and a promise to never ever let her go.
She blinked at the memory, breaking their eye contact, and her uncle smirked at his victory.
A lull occurred in the hall, and Visenya approached her true mission, Lord Borros.
“Lord Borros," she said flatly, expressing her displeasure, "I've brought you a message from my mother, Queen Rhaenyra."
Let no one call her mother a princess in her presence again.
Lord Borros was proving to be a tactless man. “Yet earlier today I received an envoy from the king. Which is it? King? Or queen?”
His question was clearly rhetorical, but Visenya answered anyway, “The queen, my lord. Long may she reign.”
A disbelieving ‘hmm’ could be heard somewhere from her left, but Visenya would not deign to look at her treacherous uncle.
From his seat, the fat oaf snorted inelegantly, “The house of the dragon does not seem to know who rules it.”
The lord laughed, as though this were all a game, and he was a mere spectator. Visenya wanted to drag him outside by his wretched beard and give him a show of Fire and Blood. If the man thought barbed comments and mocking laughter would daunt her, he was mistaken.
“What’s your mother’s message?” Lord Borros pointedly neglected to call her or her mother by any title.
She held aloft the sealed parchment, and it was quickly taken to Lord Borros.
Almost immediately, the lord demanded his Maester, and Visenya rolled her eyes at the useless man. An illiterate lord? A Southron illiterate lord? What was this? The bloody North and all its savagery? And he dared to look down on her?
Unbidden, her eyes flicked to her uncle’s amused gaze, and his head bobbed the slightest inch to show he’d heard her silent thoughts and agreed. In a moment of solidarity, both came to the quiet understanding that they were suffering this fool by no choice of their own.
They all waited in silence, and Visenya had to resist the urge to rock on her heels, or worse still, move over and converse with her uncle. What a conflict of interest that would be.
As the Maester whispered in his lord’s ear, Visenya watched his face redden and knew that Lord Borros was no ally of the Blacks.
Cunt.
“'Remind me of my father’s oath.'” His words were laced with barely contained vitriol; “King Aegon at least came with an offer: my swords and banners for a marriage pact!”
During his little spiel, the lord’s eyes lingered on Aemond, and Visenya gave a half-amused grin as she realised who the groom was.
With a deliberate side-eye, Visenya stared at her uncle. You want this man to be your good father?
His eye narrowed in response, absolutely not.
“Some marriage,” she uttered, and she saw her uncle huff in amusement.
“A marriage to the king’s brother,” the oaf boasted.
Pfft, marriage to Aemond, the disabled second son and brother of a would-be king. Riveting. Very few houses had genuinely considered Aemond as a marriage prospect for such debased reasons. This boar of a man must be truly desperate to marry off every single daughter he had if he would deign to marry one to the 'undesirable' Aemond.
“If I do as your mother bids, which of her sons will wed my daughter?” Lord Borros’ tone was unkind and pointed.
The prick clearly knew all of Rhaenyra’s sons were betrothed, and Lord Borros had no sons to succeed him to offer Rhaenyra’s only daughter, so no marriage pact was possible between their families. The man was being difficult just to showcase the power he wielded over his own dominion. A flex that any true lord needn't have bothered with.
Regardless, she humoured him with the driest explanation she could manage.
“My brothers, the princes, are unavailable for such a match as they are already betrothed.” And then, because she was unable to help herself, “Only suitable partners were considered, I’m afraid.”
The comment was a double-sided sword, said with a smirk and a side-eye to her bachelor uncle, whose fingers crept to his dagger as he held back his tongue. Her uncle had never been considered as an option for her hand, a slight Aemond had likely never forgotten. His fingers toyed with the pommel of his blade as he glowered at her.
Go on, uncle. Shed first blood. I dare you.
“Girl---” Lord Borros began before stopping, not speaking.
Clearly, the fat man wanted all her attention.
Turning back to the mission at hand, Visenya raised a jeering brow, “My lord?”
“--- So, you come with empty hands?”
“As empty as your word, it would seem.”
Lord Borros stood in outrage, spittle flicking from his mouth as he raged at her, “You dare insult me in my own hall?!”
Visenya tried incredibly hard not to roll her eyes. “Merely an observation, my lord. If you’ve taken offence, that’s of your own prerogative.”
His eyes narrowed at her.
"I meant no offence, Lord Boar----" she held the first syllable longer than needed, "---Ros."
A familiar, strangled sound could be heard on the sidelines. Her lips twitched; he really was the only one who appreciated her witty tongue.
Lord Borros slunk back into his chair, visibly restraining himself from screaming at her further.
It was a pathetic scene - a man trying to quell his anger after baiting a young woman and huffing at her biting back. Her mother was Rhaenyra Targaryen, and she’d inherited her blood and her fire. What did this fat, slow, stag think he could do to her? Bore her to death?
“Go home, pup,” Lord Borros drawled, as though he had maintained control this entire time. “And tell your mother that the Lord of Storm’s End is not some dog that she can whistle up at need to set against her foes.”
Oh, he will die for that one day. Visenya hoped to be there when it did.
“I shall take your answer to the queen, my lord.” With that, she began to depart.
Until---
“Wait,” a voice halted her, “My Lady Strong.”
Fuck absolutely everyone today.
Her gut curdled at his words, but she bit back a clipped, “For what, Lord One-Eye?”
The corner of his lip twitched at the name.
“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother’s throne at no cost?”
"Theft? Who exactly is the thief here, uncle?"
His tone was velvet-wrapped steel. "Your entire family are thieves. Your brother stole my eye, your mother tries to steal my brother's throne, and you---" he cut himself off as he stared at her darkly, "---the worst thief of them all. We expect reparations for the pains your family has caused."
Pains? Theives? What a joke.
Visenya inhaled deeply, trying to keep her wits about her. This bloody uncle of hers always knew how to antagonise her. It was a game they used to play, back when they were little and friendly. A barb for a bard, a giggle for a giggle, a win for a win. Only now it was an insult for an insult, a glare for a glare, and a loss for a loss. Two children, now grown, were to play as pieces in a game that was unwillingly thrust upon them.
How times have changed.
“And what reparations would you ask of us, uncle?”
His eye brightened in a way she hadn’t thought possible.
Visenya felt she’d waltzed into a trap that he’d cleverly sprung.
“Of you, I ask that you come back to the Red Keep with me.” He urged in that taciturn manner of his. “Give up this foolish venture, return what is rightfully mine, and Aegon swears he will spare you.”
Why, in seven hells, would she do that?
She snorted at his suggestion, “An oath from Prince Aegon means nothing to me. Tell me, was he halfway to Essos before you dragged him back kicking and screaming to the throne, or was he dragged drunk from his bed?”
Her uncle rolled his remaining eye but his shoulders were hunched, stung by subtext. It told Visenya all she needed to know; Aegon hadn't wanted the Iron Throne, but Aemond still did.
If it were between Aegon and Aemond, Visenya knew who she would choose. But it wasn't between them. It was between Aegon and her mother, and she backed her mother, now and always.
Business was done, and Visenya saw no reason to linger in this godsforsaken hall. With more grace than she thought she possessed, she nodded to Lord Borros and strolled out of the keep.
The storm was even worse than when she'd arrived, and the weight of the rain made her skin swell. Visenya hoped a hot bath would be ready and drawn for her upon her arrival at Dragonstone; there was a chill in her bones that needed scalding.
As she mounted her beloved Maelar, she noticed that Vhagar was already gone. How? She'd left before he did. For a moment, she considered returning inside and demanding a room for the night, but the thought was dismissed just as quickly. What reason would her uncle have to give chase? Aemond was many things, but he was not her enemy. At least not yet.
While astride her dragon, Visenya wondered what to do. Despite her reservations, Lord Borros would not refuse her hospitality for the night if she had genuine concerns for her safety, but all she wanted was to go home. Did she stay at Storm’s End, or did she take the risk and hurry home?
“Fuck it,” she muttered, pulling the reins and demanding lift-off.
Maelar squawked and took off with a flurry of excitement. The storm raged around them as Maelar levelled out and headed home.
Visenya kept glancing over her shoulder, paranoid that the giant beast and his rider were following her.