Chapter Text
Visenya Targaryen was nine years old and entirely alone.
The only daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce, she existed in a strange place between two worlds.
Her mother had died when she was little more than a babe. Her father rarely spoke of her. Most of Dragonstone seemed content to pretend House Royce had never existed at all.
Yet Visenya remembered.
Or tried to.
She wore her mother's colors even when nobody else thought to dress her in them.
Dark blue silk embroidered with bronze thread wrapped around her slight frame, the ancient runes of House Royce stitched carefully into the sleeves. Against the black stone of Dragonstone, the colors looked almost out of place.
Much like she did.
At first glance, she appeared every inch a Targaryen. Long silver-gold hair fell to the middle of her back, bright as moonlight against her dark dress. Violet eyes watched the world from beneath pale lashes, sharp and observant in a way that often made adults uncomfortable.
She had inherited her father's face.
Unfortunately, she had inherited his temper as well.
At the moment, however, she was perfectly content.
Cross-legged beneath a narrow gallery window overlooking the sea, Visenya carefully carved a small wooden dragon.
The knife moved with practiced precision.
One scale.
Then another.
Then another.
Weeks of work were finally coming together.
The dragon's wings were nearly finished.
For once, nobody was bothering her.
For once, the courtyard was quiet.
It lasted exactly thirty seconds.
Laughter echoed across the stone.
Visenya didn't need to look up.
She already knew who it was.
Jacaerys Velaryon.
Lucerys Velaryon.
And Baela Targaryen.
Trouble.
Trouble.
The laughter grew louder.
Visenya continued carving.
If she ignored them, perhaps they would find someone else to torment.
She knew better, of course.
"What's that?"
Jacaerys stopped in front of her.
Visenya didn't look up.
"A dragon."
Lucerys leaned over her shoulder.
"It looks odd."
"It looks broken," Baela added.
"It isn't finished."
"Maybe that's the problem," Luke said. "Maybe you're simply bad at it."
The three laughed.
Visenya resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Children.
Idiots.
The knife scraped softly against the wood.
One more scale.
Then another.
Baela folded her arms.
"You spend too much time alone."
Visenya shrugged.
"You spend too much time talking."
Luke barked out a laugh.
Baela glared.
Jace smirked.
For a moment she thought they might leave.
Then Luke noticed the bronze embroidery on her sleeve.
His grin widened.
"There it is again."
Visenya's hand stilled.
"What?"
"The ugly Royce dress."
Baela glanced at the embroidery.
"Honestly, why do you always wear those colors?"
"They're my mother's colors."
Luke snorted.
"The Bronze Bitch's colors."
The courtyard fell silent.
The knife stopped moving.
Visenya stared at the dragon in her lap.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
She raised her head.
"What did you call her?"
Luke seemed pleased with himself.
"The Bronze Bitch."
Baela laughed.
Jace smirked.
Visenya felt something twist in her chest.
Not grief.
Not anymore.
She remembered almost nothing about Lady Rhea Royce.
A face.
A scent.
A lullaby she could barely recall.
Yet somehow hearing them speak of her like that still hurt.
Perhaps because Rhea Royce was one of the few things that belonged solely to Visenya.
And they were trying to take that too.
Jace saw the look on her face.
"There she is."
Visenya stood.
She was tall for her age, nearly eye level with Baela despite being younger.
"My mother is dead."
Luke shrugged.
"So?"
The word hit harder than any blade.
"So?" Visenya repeated quietly.
"You barely knew her anyway."
Baela's smile faded slightly.
Jace crossed his arms.
"Why do you care?"
Because nobody else did.
Because nobody ever spoke her name.
Because Dragonstone belonged to everyone except her.
But Visenya would sooner bite off her tongue than admit that.
Instead she smiled.
A small smile.
The sort that made people nervous.
"And you're the son of Harwin Strong."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Luke's eyes widened.
Baela inhaled sharply.
Jace's face turned crimson.
"What did you say?"
Visenya tilted her head.
"I thought we were discussing parents."
Jace took a step forward.
"Take it back."
"No."
"Take it back."
"No."
The next movement happened so quickly even Jace seemed surprised by it.
His boot lashed out.
The wooden dragon flew from Visenya's hands.
It struck the wall.
Crack.
Then shattered across the stone floor.
For a second nobody moved.
Visenya stared.
Weeks.
Weeks of carving.
Gone.
Luke grabbed a nearby goblet.
Before anyone could stop him, he hurled its contents at her.
Red wine splashed across her dress.
Across the bronze runes.
Across her hands.
The stain spread through the silk like blood.
Baela's eyes widened.
"Luke—"
But it was too late.
Silence returned.
The sea crashed against Dragonstone's cliffs below.
Far away.
Distant.
Visenya looked down at herself.
The ruined dress.
The broken dragon.
The scattered pieces lying across the courtyard.
Something inside her became very still.
No tears came.
No shouting.
No anger.
That seemed to unsettle them more than anything else.
Slowly, she bent down.
Picked up one of the dragon's broken wings.
Ran her thumb over the carved scales.
Then looked at the three of them.
Jace's anger was already fading.
Luke looked uncertain.
Even Baela seemed uncomfortable now.
Good.
Visenya straightened.
"You know," she said softly, "one day I'll leave this place."
Nobody answered.
"And when I do..."
Her violet eyes moved between each of them.
"...I won't miss any of you."
The words were quiet.
Calm.
Far too calm for a nine-year-old.
For the first time, none of them laughed.
Visenya dropped the broken piece of wood.
Turned.
And walked away.
The wine-stained hem of her dress dragged across the stone behind her.
She did not look back.
Years later, none of them would remember exactly what had been said that afternoon.
But they would remember the feeling.
The feeling that something important had broken in the courtyard that day.
And it had not been the dragon.