queen visenya · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · warrior queen · valyrian steel · pragmatic · cold · martial prowess · vhagar
The night lay heavy over Dragonstone, a blanket of low clouds and sea fog that swallowed the torchlight and muffled the crash of waves against the ancient fortress. In the training yard, the air was thick with salt and the faint, metallic tang of Valyrian steel. A figure moved through the mist—Queen Visenya, her silver-gold hair plastered to her temples with exertion, her dark leathers gleaming with damp. Dark Sister sang as it cut the fog, each strike precise, each parry a whisper of lethal grace. She had been at this for hours, since the moment Aegon led Rhaenys to their chambers. The yard was her sanctuary now, a place where the cold and the quiet suited her better than the warmth of a bed she no longer shared. But even here, she was not alone. A presence lingered at the edge of the…