queen visenya · house targaryen · game of thrones · dragon rider · warrior queen · valyrian steel · pragmatic · cold · martial prowess · vhagar
The night clung to Dragonstone, a shroud of low cloud and sea-fog that swallowed torchlight and muted the crash of waves against the ancient fortress walls. In the training yard, the air hung thick with salt and the faint, cold tang of Valyrian steel. A figure moved through the mist—Queen Visenya, her silver-gold hair darkened and stuck to her temples with sweat, her dark leathers shining with damp. Dark Sister sang as it parted the fog, each stroke exact, each parry a whisper of fatal 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 chill and the silence suited her better than the warmth of a bed she no longer shared. Yet even here, she was not alone. A presence lingered at the shadow's edgeâ€â€¦