The midday sun filtered through the high windows of the Red Keep’s dining hall, casting patterns of light and shadow across the polished stone floors. The royal table, long enough to seat dozens, seemed almost desolate with only two figures occupying it—King Viserys and Queen Alicent. Despite the array of dishes laid out before them—roasted capons glazed with honey, golden loaves of bread, and bowls of ripe summer fruits—the atmosphere was heavy and strained.

Viserys sat at the head of the table, his posture slack as he toyed with the stem of his goblet, the wine inside untouched. His eyes, distant and unfocused, were fixed on some point far beyond the room. Alicent, seated to his right, observed him quietly for a moment, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She could tell he was preoccupied—had been ever since their strange guest, Vensalia Vakriyoma, arrived and caused a stir in Aemond's nameday.

“Are you not hungry, husband?” Alicent asked, her voice gentle but edged with concern.

Viserys blinked, dragging his gaze back to the present. “What?”

“You’ve hardly touched your meal,” she said, gesturing to the untouched plate before him. “I asked if something is troubling you.”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. “It’s nothing.”

But Alicent could see through his deflection. She knew her husband well enough to recognize when he was burdened by something he didn’t wish to share. His recent preoccupation was clear: the girl, Vensalia, and her cryptic warnings of what was to come. Alicent had found the entire affair maddening—another layer of chaos added to their already turbulent court.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Alicent said, her tone sharpening. “This… Vensalia.”

Viserys frowned but didn’t answer.

“I told you,” Alicent continued, her voice firm. “You shouldn’t give weight to the ramblings of a child with fanciful stories. These prophecies—these visions—they are nothing more than illusions meant to deceive.”

“They are not illusions,” Viserys snapped, his voice low but with a dangerous edge. “You weren’t there, Alicent. You didn’t hear her. She spoke of things… things she could not possibly know.”

“Things you believe because you want to believe,” she retorted, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “You’ve always been susceptible to these… dreams, these tales of destiny and prophecy. But they are nothing more than false hope. You should focus on the realm, on your children—on what is real.”

Viserys’s hand tightened around the goblet. “And what would you have me do? Ignore it? Dismiss it entirely? If there is even a chance that what she says is true, can I afford to look the other way?”

Alicent rose from her chair, her movements sharp and deliberate. “Yes! That is exactly what you should do. She is no prophet, Viserys. She is a child—a strange, unsettling child with dangerous ideas. Do you not see the risk she poses? The court already whispers about her. If you continue to entertain her, it will only sow more discord. The lords will question your judgment; they will think you’ve lost yourself to these dreams again.”

Viserys stood as well, his chair scraping against the stone floor. “And what would you know of dreams, Alicent? Of what I have seen? You speak as if you understand, but you do not. You cannot.”

“Because I choose to live in the present, not in the fantasies of what might be,” she shot back. Her cheeks flushed with anger, her composure unraveling. “You are the King, Viserys. Your duty is to the realm, to our family, not to the fleeting whispers of prophecy.”

For a moment, the room fell into tense silence, the air between them thick with unspoken grievances.

Viserys turned away, walking toward the windows. He looked out over the city, his hands clasped behind his back. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost weary.

“Do you know why I entertain these dreams, Alicent? Why I cannot simply dismiss them as you do?”

She didn’t respond, her jaw tightening as she waited for him to continue.

“Because I have seen things… terrible things,” he said. “Visions of fire and blood, of dragons and death. Some of them I understand, others I do not. But they haunt me, Alicent. They are not mere dreams; they are warnings. And if Vensalia can shed light on them—if she can help me understand—how can I turn her away?”

“Because it will destroy you,” Alicent said softly, her anger giving way to something more vulnerable. “These visions, these prophecies—they are a weight you do not need to bear. They will consume you, Viserys, as they have consumed so many before you.”

Viserys turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “And what would you have me do, Alicent? Ignore the warnings? Leave the realm unprepared for what may come?”

“I would have you be a husband,” she said, her voice trembling. “A father. A king who looks to the present, not the uncertain future. I would have you choose the living over the ghosts of what might be.”

The vulnerability in her words struck him, and for a moment, the tension between them seemed to ease. But the weight of his visions—of Vensalia’s prophecy—remained.

“I cannot ignore it,” he said finally, his tone resolute. “I owe it to the realm to understand what lies ahead.”

Alicent looked at him, her expression a mixture of frustration and sadness. She could see that his mind was set, that no amount of reasoning would sway him. And yet, she couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of unease.

“Then I pray you do not lose yourself in the process,” she said quietly.

Viserys didn’t respond, his gaze drifting back to the window. Alicent sat back down, her appetite gone, and the dining hall fell into silence once more.

As the minutes passed, the tension lingered, unspoken but palpable. Both of them were lost in their own thoughts, their own fears—one focused on the uncertain future, the other on the fragile present.

And somewhere in the shadows of the Red Keep, Vensalia Vakriyoma’s words hung heavy in the air, their meaning yet to be fully understood.

---

The training yard was alive with the sound of metal striking metal, the rhythm of practice swords clanging together, and the strained grunts of exertion. Vensalia stood at the edge of the courtyard, her figure hidden from the sunlight by the deep shadows that stretched across the stone. She had learned long ago to blend into the darkness — to become one with it. The shadows didn’t just conceal her; they were her domain.

Her eyes, however, were fixed on the one person who didn’t know she was watching. Aemond. Her future husband. Or perhaps, her partner in this tangled game of power and pride. The dragon-rider stood in the center of the yard, his face drawn with intensity as he faced the ever-persistent Criston Cole.

Criston’s harsh voice rang out through the air, his words cutting through the otherwise quiet morning like a blade. “Aemond, you’re not listening! Focus! Your stance is sloppy, your movements are sluggish!”

Aemond’s expression was a mask of frustration. His silver hair, now tied back in a loose knot, caught the light of the rising sun, but it did nothing to soften the tension in his features. His hand gripped the sword firmly, but there was a fire behind his eye, one that Vensalia recognized all too well. He wasn’t just angry at Criston; Aemond was angry at the world, at his family, at the expectations he couldn’t seem to escape.

Vensalia tilted her head, her lips curving slightly as she observed him. She’d seen this side of him before, the one that resisted anyone who tried to force him into something he didn’t want to be. Criston Cole’s method of discipline — blunt, unyielding — was only making things worse. She couldn’t help but feel a touch of sympathy for Aemond, and yet, part of her couldn't help but be entertained by Criston's inability to control the situation.

Aemond took another step back, adjusting his stance, but his movements were stiff. He was holding back something, an edge that he wasn’t quite ready to unleash. It didn’t take a genius to see that Aemond was being pushed beyond his limits — and that was exactly what Criston was trying to do.

“Focus, Aemond! You’re a dragon-rider, not a knight,” Criston barked, taking a step toward him. “You should have the discipline to back up the power you carry. How are you ever going to face battle if you can’t even hold your own against a training partner?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched, the words clearly stinging. He wanted to retort, to shout back, to let loose the anger that had been building inside him since childhood. But he remained silent, his eyes flashing with the promise of something more dangerous, something darker.

Vensalia couldn’t resist a small, knowing smile. She had seen this anger in him before, the way it festered beneath his calm exterior, the way it churned until it was too much to contain. But Criston wasn’t giving him space to breathe. It was only a matter of time before Aemond snapped.

She stood there in the shadows, watching, her mind already working. There was something about the way Criston moved, how he stood with such pride, such certainty, that made her itch to do something. To tweak the situation just enough to make him realize that not everything could be controlled by sheer force.

Vensalia’s fingers curled slightly, her connection to the shadows thickening as she reached out. The shadows around Criston’s feet responded, stretching and curling like tendrils, ready to do her bidding. She didn’t need to do much — a subtle shift of the shadows under Criston’s boots, just enough to make him lose his footing.

With a gentle flick of her wrist, Vensalia sent the shadows to work.

Criston moved forward again, his boots striking the ground with a heavy sound. But as his left foot came down, the shadows beneath it stretched, pulling on his leg just enough to unbalance him. Criston’s stride faltered, his foot slipping slightly on the stone.

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of his armor clanking as his momentum carried him forward. And then, with a loud, ungraceful thud, Criston Cole hit the ground with a force that sent the dust swirling around him.

Aemond froze, his eyes widening in surprise as he watched his instructor crash to the ground in a heap.

Criston groaned, muttering a curse as he scrambled to push himself up. He glanced around, confusion flickering across his face. Had someone tripped him? No one else was in the yard, at least no one he could see. His brow furrowed in irritation, but there was something deeper — a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. The prideful knight hated looking foolish, especially in front of his student.

Vensalia, still hidden in the shadows, let out a quiet chuckle, her shoulders shaking with barely contained amusement. She had always enjoyed the subtlety of her magic, the way it allowed her to remain invisible, a mere whisper in the darkness. But this? This was fun.

Aemond, though clearly taken aback, couldn’t help but allow the smallest of smiles to tug at his lips. His gaze shifted to Criston, who was now standing, brushing the dirt off his armor with exaggerated care.

“Ser Criston,” Aemond said, his voice a perfect mixture of mockery and feigned concern, “you seem to be losing your footing today.”

Criston, glaring at him now, wiped dirt from his gloves and adjusted his posture. “Enough of your sarcasm, Aemond,” he snapped, his voice low and thick with irritation. “You’re not getting out of your training that easily.”

Vensalia felt a flicker of amusement in her chest as she watched Criston try to regain his dignity. She could practically feel his pride bruising, and it made her feel a little lighter. But she wasn’t done yet. No, she wasn’t quite finished with Criston.

As he squared himself again, preparing to resume the lesson, Vensalia reached out once more. With a gentle wave of her hand, she sent the shadows to coil tighter around his legs.

Criston took another step forward, determined to prove that he was unaffected by his earlier misstep, but the shadows had other plans. This time, his foot snagged on the uneven ground with more force, and his entire body pitched forward.

He yelped, his arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch himself, but it was too late. With a loud, resounding clank, Criston Cole hit the ground again, this time with an almost comical lack of grace. His sword slipped from his grip and skittered across the stone.

Aemond, who had been watching intently, let out a small, surprised laugh, a genuine burst of amusement escaping him this time. It was almost impossible to contain the laughter, especially after watching the knight’s repeated failures.

Criston, now kneeling on the ground, scowled deeply, his face flushed with embarrassment. He muttered something under his breath, clearly trying to hide the frustration and confusion that had taken root. “What in the Seven Hells…” he muttered, glancing around as if searching for some unseen enemy. “This is impossible…”

Aemond leaned against his sword, still trying to hide his grin. “It seems,” he said with a touch of amusement in his voice, “that someone is having a bit of trouble today.”

Criston, now standing more cautiously, shot him a venomous look. “You’re testing my patience, Aemond. Keep this up, and I’ll make you regret it.”

But Aemond didn’t take the threat seriously. His gaze softened, but his lips were still curling into a slight smile. “I didn’t do anything,” he said innocently, though his tone clearly suggested otherwise.

Criston didn’t look convinced, but he couldn’t shake the growing unease. He took a few more steps forward, but this time he was careful, his movements slower. He looked around, his eyes narrowed. If someone had been behind this, he would find them — but Aemond? He had no idea.

And with that, Vensalia took her leave.

She slipped back into the shadows, her body vanishing from view as she moved silently away from the training ground. Her work was done. Criston had been humbled, Aemond had been entertained, and she had remained an unseen presence. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

And as she faded into the darkness, a soft laugh escaped her lips. She had to admit, sometimes a little mischief was the best way to teach a lesson.

---

The wind whistled through the open expanse as Vensalia sat comfortably upon Silva’s back. The large white dragon soared gracefully through the sky, her wings cutting through the air with an ease that came from years of familiarity. The horizon stretched out before them, vast and endless, a sea of clouds below and the open sky above. Vensalia leaned forward slightly, her fingers resting lightly on the dragon’s smooth scales, lost in her thoughts.

They had been flying for hours now, crossing the Narrow Sea. The bustling city of King's Landing had long since disappeared behind them, leaving nothing but the emptiness of the sky. Despite the thrill of flying — the sensation of freedom, of flight — Vensalia felt a heavy weight in her chest, a longing that had only grown with each passing minute.

She glanced down at Silva, who flew with perfect precision. The dragon’s silver eyes flickered toward her for a moment, as though sensing her unease, but then returned to scanning the vast expanse ahead. Silva’s wingbeats were steady and strong, yet there was an underlying tension in her movements, a subtle restlessness that echoed Vensalia’s own feelings.

“I miss him too,” Vensalia murmured, the words drifting away on the wind. Silva’s eyes flicked to her again, and for a moment, the two shared a silent understanding. Luvius, the older, wiser dragon, had been Silva’s mate — and Vensalia’s companion since childhood. The thought of him, wherever he might be, stirred a deep ache in her chest.

She reached out to smooth the scales along Silva’s neck, the familiar touch grounding her. “I know you’ve been waiting, Silva,” she whispered softly. “It won’t be long now. We’re almost home.”

The dragon gave a low rumble, a sound that vibrated through the air, almost like a sigh. It wasn’t an easy thing, the separation from a mate. Vensalia could feel Silva’s desire to be reunited with Luvius, the bond between them so strong that even the distance could not weaken it. But the journey to Old Valyria wasn’t one to be rushed. They had left the warmth and security of King's Landing behind, and the long flight stretched on, with only the endless sea between them and their destination.

As they flew on, Vensalia’s mind wandered to the dragon hatchlings she had left behind in Old Valyria — the eleven young dragons that were now a part of her legacy. She had raised them, nurtured them, and watched them grow from eggs to the powerful creatures they were now. But how much had they changed since she left? The uncertainty gnawed at her.

Are they bigger now? she wondered, her thoughts drifting to them, to her home, and to the grand dragon palace where they had all lived. She couldn’t deny the anxious knot in her stomach. It had been only few days yet both her and Silva miss them. He had been the anchor for her powers, her guide. She missed him more than she had let herself realize.

“I wonder how much has changed since I left,” she mused aloud. The thought of returning to her castle filled her with both excitement and dread. While her sanctuary in Old Valyria had always been a place of peace, she couldn’t shake the worry that it might have fallen into disrepair. Even though she had taken great care to ensure everything was in order, her departure had left a void. Silva, of course, had remained by her side, but the dragons — the hatchlings — had to fend for themselves in her absence.

Vensalia smiled wryly at the thought. If the palace wasn’t as pristine as she had left it, she had no choice but to get her hands dirty and clean it herself. She could already imagine the dust on the furniture, the cobwebs in the corners. It’ll be fine, she reassured herself. I’ll manage.

But beneath that reassurance, there was a small twinge of guilt. Silva had stayed with her through thick and thin, and Vensalia knew how much her dragon missed Luvius and their hatchlings. Silva had been strong for Vensalia, but even the most independent of dragons had their moments of vulnerability. The time away from their mate was no less painful for Silva than it was for her. She had always known Silva’s fierce, unyielding spirit, but seeing her dragon now, with the quiet restlessness in her movements, made Vensalia realize just how much the separation had weighed on her.

“I’m sorry, Silva,” Vensalia whispered. “I know you miss him.”

The dragon responded with a low, rumbling growl, the sound resonating through the air as they flew. It was as if Silva understood Vensalia’s words, understood the weight of the journey they were undertaking. The bond they shared went beyond simple companionship. It was a connection of heart and soul, one that had only grown stronger over time.

In the distance, the faint outline of the Valyrian peninsula appeared on the horizon, the jagged peaks of the mountains rising above the sea. The ancient land of Old Valyria was in sight. Vensalia felt a stir of anticipation deep within her, but with it came a shadow of unease. She knew this land well — too well, perhaps. It had been her home, her birthright, but it was also a place of fire and ruin. The Valyrian Freehold had fallen long ago, but the scars of that destruction lingered in the very stones beneath their feet.

“I wonder if it’s still clean,” Vensalia muttered to herself. The thought of returning to her dragon palace — a place she had worked so hard to restore — stirred a mix of pride and trepidation. What if something had happened to it in her absence? What if the walls had crumbled further, or worse, what if the hatchlings had grown reckless without her guidance?

She shook her head, pushing away the negative thoughts. I’ll handle whatever comes. The determination settled in her chest, grounding her. She had done the hard work of reclaiming her family’s legacy. It wasn’t going to fall apart now. She refused to let it.

Silva’s wings beat steadily, the rhythm a constant as they neared the coast. The wind picked up slightly, the chill from the sea biting at the air, and Vensalia wrapped her cloak tighter around herself, glancing down at the land below. They were getting closer now, the jagged peaks of Old Valyria becoming more distinct. The mountains loomed like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of the land. The ruins of the ancient city were still a haunting sight from the air — an eerie reminder of the fire that had once consumed everything in its path.

But for Vensalia, it was home. It was her legacy, her place of rebirth.

“Soon,” she whispered to herself. “We’re almost there.”

Her hand tightened around the ridge, and she urged Silva to fly faster. The dragon responded, her wings flaring with renewed strength as they surged forward, cutting through the sky. The land of Old Valyria was no longer a distant dream but a reality they were about to re-enter.

The journey wasn’t over yet, but it would soon be. And when they finally landed, when she stepped once more into the heart of her family’s domain, she would face whatever came with the resolve she had always carried.

She just hoped that the hatchlings, the dragons, and the castle were still as she remembered them.

And with that thought, she leaned forward, eager to return to her dragons, to her home.

---

The skies above Old Valyria were as foreboding as ever, filled with thick clouds of ash and mist that seemed to stretch endlessly. Vensalia guided Silva through the haze, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The ruins of her homeland were a haunting sight, the remnants of a once-mighty empire. Yet despite the desolation, her heart swelled with anticipation. She was close now—close to her dragons, her sanctuary, her home.

Silva’s massive wings cut through the air with powerful strokes, her white scales glinting faintly in the dim light filtering through the clouds. Vensalia tightened her grip on the ridge of her dragon's neck, leaning forward slightly as the fog grew denser. She could feel Silva’s unease, the dragon’s movements growing sharper, more alert. Something was stirring in the air.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, Vensalia saw it: a shadow moving swiftly through the fog. Before she could process what it was, the figure broke through the mist—a dragon, shimmering gold scales glinting like molten fire in the dim light. Its wings spread wide, nearly as large as Syrax’s, and its eyes burned with a familiar orange glow.

Silva let out a sharp growl, her body tensing beneath Vensalia. The sight left Vensalia momentarily breathless. Her mind raced. Another dragon? she thought, her heart skipping a beat. For a moment, she was overcome with shock and hope. Could it be possible? Has another dragon survived, hidden in the depths of Old Valyria?

The golden dragon let out a deep roar, circling them in the air. Vensalia’s eyes narrowed, her shock giving way to sharp focus. There was something familiar about the creature—the way its scales shimmered in the light, the elegant curve of its horns, the intensity in its orange gaze.

Then it hit her.

“Vaemirax?” she whispered, disbelief coloring her voice.

Silva let out a loud, almost joyful cry, as if to confirm what Vensalia was seeing. The dragon before them wasn't an unknown survivor of Valyria’s doom—it was Vaemirax, the eighth youngest of Silva’s eleven hatchlings. But that realization only brought more questions.

“Vaemirax,” she repeated, louder this time. The dragon roared again, its powerful wings carrying it closer to them. Vensalia’s heart swelled with relief and joy. Vaemirax was alive—and healthy, judging by the sheer size and strength the dragon displayed. But that relief was quickly followed by confusion.

“How are you this big?” Vensalia murmured, her brows furrowing. She had only been gone for what felt like a few days. When she’d left, Vaemirax had still been a growing hatchling, barely large enough to take short flights. Now, the dragon was the size of Syrax, its body sleek and powerful, its movements of a fully matured dragon.

Vaemirax circled them once more before letting out a rumbling growl and flying ahead, its golden form cutting through the fog toward Vensalia’s territory. Silva, ever eager to follow her hatchling, let out a deep, affectionate croon before surging forward, her wings propelling them after Vaemirax. Vensalia clung tightly to her dragon, her thoughts a whirlwind of emotions.

When they finally broke through the last of the fog, Vensalia’s territory came into view. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight. The towering spires of her castle stood tall and proud, untouched by the decay that had claimed much of Valyria. The dragon palace, nestled against the cliffs, loomed in the distance, its massive arches and domes gleaming faintly.

But it wasn’t the sight of the palace that left Vensalia breathless. It was the dragons.

They were everywhere.

As Silva descended into the courtyard, Vensalia saw them—her hatchlings. Eleven dragons of varying colors and patterns filled the space, each one now as large as Vaemirax. They roared and chirped, their voices echoing through the ruins as they turned their attention to Silva and Vensalia.

“By the gods,” Vensalia breathed, her eyes wide as she took in the sight. “They’ve all grown.”

She slid off Silva’s back as soon as they landed, her boots hitting the stone courtyard with a soft thud. Silva let out a triumphant roar, announcing her return to her family. The hatchlings responded in kind, their voices a cacophony of joy and excitement as they rushed toward their mother.

Vensalia stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the sight. Each of the dragons was magnificent, their scales gleaming with vibrant colors. Vaemirax, with her golden scales and fiery orange eyes, was the first to nuzzle against Silva, crooning softly. The others followed, crowding around their mother in a display of affection that brought a lump to Vensalia’s throat.

“You’ve all grown so much,” she whispered, her voice filled with wonder. She reached out hesitantly, her hand brushing against Vaemirax’s warm scales. The dragon turned its head toward her, its orange eyes meeting hers with a familiarity that made her heart swell.

“I don’t understand,” Vensalia said aloud, her gaze shifting from one dragon to the next. “I’ve only been gone a few days. How is this possible?”

As if in response, a deep, resonant roar echoed through the courtyard. Vensalia’s breath caught as she turned toward the sound. From the shadows of the dragon palace, a massive figure emerged—Luvius.

The elder dragon was as imposing as ever, his dark scales gleaming like obsidian, his purple eyes burning with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. He moved with the confidence and grace of a king, his massive wings folding against his body as he approached.

“Luvius,” Vensalia said softly, her voice trembling with emotion. She took a step forward, her hand outstretched.

The dragon’s gaze softened as it fell on her, and with a low rumble, he lowered his head, allowing her to press her hand against his snout. The familiar warmth of his scales sent a wave of relief washing over her, and she smiled.

“I missed you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Luvius let out a deep, contented growl, his tail flicking lazily behind him. He then turned his attention to Silva, his mate, and let out a low, affectionate croon. Silva responded in kind, nuzzling against him as the two dragons reunited.

Vensalia stepped back, giving them space as she watched the tender moment unfold. The hatchlings crowded around their parents, their joyful cries filling the air. It was a scene of pure happiness, a reminder of the bond that tied them all together.

But even as she watched, questions lingered in her mind. How had the hatchlings grown so quickly? What had caused such a rapid transformation in their size and strength? Vensalia knew that Old Valyria was a place of magic and mystery, its very air charged with the remnants of the spells that had once shaped the world. Perhaps the land itself had accelerated their growth, imbuing them with the strength and power of their ancestors.

Whatever the reason, Vensalia couldn’t deny the pride and joy that filled her as she looked at her dragons. They were her family, her legacy. And now, more than ever, she was determined to protect them, to guide them as they took their place in the world.

As the sun began to set over the ruins of Old Valyria, Vensalia stood among her dragons, her heart full. She was home.