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POV: Visenya Targaryen
Location: Dragonstone – The Training Yard & Secret Caverns
Date: Tenth Day, Third Month, 14 BC
Steel sang.
The clashing of blades echoed off the volcanic stone walls of the training yard, sharp and rhythmic like a smith's hammer striking hot iron. Visenya Targaryen sat on a low bench along the perimeter, her violet eyes fixed intently on the two boys sparring in the ring.
Aegon moved with patient precision—measured steps, purposeful strikes, and a quiet confidence that made every movement seem inevitable. He rarely wasted energy, only striking when it would count. There was something regal in the way he fought: he studied his opponent, weathered the storm, and waited for his moment.
Orys Baratheon, on the other hand, was the storm.
He charged with relentless energy, his feet pounding the earth as he drove forward, blade flashing. Where Aegon flowed like a stream of molten steel, Orys was a storm untamed—brash, powerful, and unyielding. He made up for what he lacked in refinement with heart and fury.
They were opposites—and perfectly matched.
Visenya's fingers clenched on the bench. She knew their every move, had watched these drills for years, memorized every opening and feint. In her mind, she moved with them. She parried Orys' heavy strikes. She pivoted like Aegon, cut low, rolled clear. But none of it mattered.
She was not allowed to train.
Beside her, little Rhaenys sat swinging her legs, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
"Go Aegon! Get him!" the younger girl squealed, clapping with innocent delight. "Orys, don't let him win!"
The moment broke, and Visenya blinked, dragging her attention back to reality.
"They're not even listening to you," she muttered with a slight smirk, but Rhaenys just giggled and kept cheering.
The bout ended when Aegon sidestepped a wide arc from Orys and tapped him on the side with the flat of his training blade. Ser Qorlan Velaryon, the captain of the guard, called the match with a curt nod.
Orys dropped his sword with a groan. "You've gotten faster."
"You've gotten predictable," Aegon replied with a small smile.
"Boys," Visenya called from her bench, rising to her feet. "You almost looked like real warriors. Almost."
Orys barked a laugh while Aegon only met her gaze—steady, calm. There was something unspoken in that look. A flicker of knowing. She returned it with a raised brow.
Before she could press, a voice called out behind her.
"Lady Visenya," came the stern tone of her mother's handmaiden. "Your mother expects you and Princess Rhaenys in the solar for your studies."
Visenya turned slightly, jaw tightening. "Of course."
She looked back one last time. Aegon was still watching her. So was Orys.
"What was that?" she asked.
"Nothing," Aegon said.
"Definitely nothing," Orys added too quickly.
Visenya rolled her eyes. "I have no time for liars. Come, Rhaenys."
The corridors of Dragonstone were cool and shadowed, carved from black volcanic rock and veined with streaks of red that pulsed faintly in torchlight. The castle was a monument to Valyria: its arches shaped like dragon wings, its pillars carved with serpents and scaled beasts. Fire and shadow lived in every hallway.
As they walked, Visenya's thoughts swirled.
She hated this.
Lessons. Embroidery. Poetry. History told from behind the veil of men's names and men's wars. Her mother said a Targaryen woman's strength lay in grace. That her duty was to marry well, to unite houses, to keep bloodlines pure and Valyrian traditions strong.
But Visenya didn't want to be given to anyone.
She wanted to fight. She wanted to fly. She wanted to claim a dragon—not ride one as a prize, but bond with one, to be chosen, to burn her own path into the world.
Why should Aegon get that future? Just because he was born first and male? She loved him, yes—but the gods gave her fire too.
"Visenya, are you mad?" Rhaenys asked, skipping beside her.
She blinked. "No. Why?"
"You're making your 'I hate everything' face again."
Visenya snorted despite herself. "I suppose I am."
They reached the stairwell leading to the solar. As they climbed, Visenya glanced toward the distant windows where the Dragonmount smoked quietly in the distance.
One day, she promised herself. One day, I'll stand above it—not beside a husband, but as a rider. A true Targaryen. Fire made flesh.
And in the depths of her heart, something stirred.
---
Later that night...
The halls of Dragonstone were quiet—eerily so. Moonlight bled in through narrow windows, turning the black stone silver. Visenya crept barefoot down the corridor, her breath light, her heart loud.
She moved like a shadow, slipping past guards and sleepy-eyed servants. She'd done this before. Enough times to know the safe paths, the ones with creaking boards or ill-placed torches.
Just as she reached the archway that led to the old spiral stairs—the ones that wound toward the forgotten halls beneath the keep a hand shot from the shadows and pulled her roughly aside.
She bit back a scream.
"Quiet," a voice hissed.
Then a whistle. Then a soft click—a training sword pointed directly at her chest.
Aegon Targaryen smiled in the dim light.
"Seven hells!" Visenya whisper-yelled. "Are you trying to scare me to death?!"
"You're lucky it was me," he whispered back. "You're not as quiet as you think."
She shoved the wooden blade aside, glaring. "What are you doing here?"
"Stopping you from getting caught," he said simply.
She narrowed her eyes. "You were waiting for me."
He didn't deny it.
"I told you. You're not the only one who notices things," he said, stepping back and motioning behind him.
A figure stepped from the darkness near the stairwell. Orys.
"They?" she echoed, spinning toward Aegon. "They know?"
"We do now," Orys said, shrugging. "Not exactly hard to figure out. You've been sneaking off at night. Ser Qorlan thought you were just taking walks. But with how you watch us tarin we figured out what you were doing."
Visenya crossed her arms. "So what? Going to tell Father?"
"Not unless you want us to join you," Aegon said calmly.
She hesitated. "Join me?"
"Show us the place," he said. "Where you train."
She stared at them. Her heart raced—not from fear, but from something else. Something like hope.
"…Fine. Follow me."
They wound down through the depths of the keep. Past crumbling halls, old statues of dragons with ruby eyes long since plundered. They walked in silence until they came to an archway carved to resemble open wings.
"Here," she whispered.
Just inside, tucked behind stone pillars and scattered rubble, lay the skull.
A massive dragon's skull—half-buried in dust and cobwebs. Its hollow eye sockets stared into nothing.
"I've seen this before," Aegon murmured. "On the path to the Dragonmount."
"No one comes here," Visenya said. "Not unless they're going to the mountain. And no one's stupid enough to do that at night."
She walked to a worn practice dummy and retrieved a wooden sword that where hiddenbehind the dragons skull, passing another to Aegon.
Orys cracked his knuckles. "You made this whole place your own."
Visenya looked between them. These boys. Her brothers. Her rivals. Her allies.
If they can fight, so can I.
Aegon raised his blade in salute. "Then let's train, sister."
Visenya smiled.
Finally.
Sweat rolled down her temple, stinging her eyes. Visenya lunged forward with a yell, the wooden sword whistling through the air. Aegon caught her strike, twisting with a parry, and they danced again.
Her heart thundered in her chest, her lungs burned—but she reveled in it. The sting of exertion, the tang of iron on her tongue. Her muscles ached, but she moved.
Aegon's silver hair clung to his brow, damp with sweat, his violet eyes aglow in the torchlight—focused, unwavering. They circled one another like wolves.
From the dragon's skull, Orys leaned back with a grunt. He was caked in sweat and dust.
"Enough dancing! This isn't a feast hall!" he called, smirking.
The two combatants froze, mid-strike, and turned to glare at him.
"Jealous we've more grace than you?" Visenya shot back.
Orys barked a laugh. "I'll be in bed. Let's do this again—after real training, not in the dead of night."
He stumbled to his feet, yawning as he disappeared down the corridor.
Which left just Aegon and Visenya.
They stared at one another. Her next strike came fast and low—but Aegon matched her. They clashed, broke, circled.
Then—she saw it. An opening. She darted forward, struck.
Aegon staggered—she'd hit him.
She grinned—until she felt the dull press of wood against her gut.
She looked down.
He held a training dagger, low, but true.
"…Draw?" she asked.
"Draw," he confirmed.
They stood there, catching their breath, the dragon's skull looming behind them.
And for a moment, it felt like they weren't heirs or siblings or rivals.
Just two Hatchlings learning to fly.
---
Targaryen Histories: writen by historitor Harry Sevenstar.
Documents recovered from the private notes of Maester Thomlin of Dragonstone.
"Lord Aerion, last male of Old Valyria's bloodline upon Dragonstone, has approached the Dragonmount time and again. Each of the three great beasts—Vhagar, Meraxes, and mighty Balerion—have turned from him in disinterest. He does not lack courage, nor blood, but the bond... the bond eludes him.
Some among the dragonkeepers whisper that the dragons sense doubt in his soul. Others say that the gods have not deemed him worthy. Whatever the truth, his frustration deepens.
And yet... I have seen the way he watches young Aegon.
A strange hope lingers in his eyes. As if, somehow, the child from the stars might succeed where even dragons have said no."