Chapter Text
How does one change fate? Visenya wondered, her gaze locked on her mother’s lilac eyes.
She could not provide an answer but she knew she’d do anything to protect Rhaella.
The birth of Visenya Targaryen was a moment of profound joy for Westeros, particularly for House Targaryen. After 17 long years of heartbreak, Queen Rhaella had finally given birth to a child who was neither stillborn nor lost to sickness within a moon’s turn.
Rhaella named her daughter Visenya, after the Conqueror’s fierce sister, the warrior queen. It felt right—fitting, even. This child had fought harder than any of her siblings to survive, to cling to life when so many before her had slipped away too soon. Naming her Visenya wasn’t just a tribute; it was a hope, a prayer, that this one would endure.
A few months ago, at the time of her birth, many had feared that Visenya would share the same tragic fate as her siblings. She was so small, so fragile-looking, that whispers of doubt filled the halls. But Visenya quickly silenced those fears. She proved to be a robust child, her cries loud and strong, her movements full of life. In fact, she was already more energetic than her older brother, Rhaegar, had ever been as an infant.
Queen Rhaella quickly grew deeply attached to her only daughter, her second child. Rarely did a moment pass without Visenya nestled in her arms, the queen gently rocking her back and forth. Despite her weakened body, worn down by years of miscarriages, Rhaella found the strength to devote herself entirely to her daughter, as if holding Visenya could mend the cracks in her spirit. But their time together was never truly private. By King Aerys’ command, the Kingsguard kept constant watch over Visenya, day and night. Even Rhaella wasn’t allowed to be alone with her child.
Aerys was a man ruled by paranoia, and his obsession extended even to his newborn daughter. He visited Visenya often, sweeping into her chambers and forcefully taking her from Rhaella’s arms. But to his growing frustration, the infant would cry the moment his hands touched her skin, her wails sharp and relentless, as if even her tiny soul recoiled from his presence.
Yet, Aerys was not a man known for his ability—or willingness—to take a hint. Despite Visenya’s protests, he continued his attempts to hold her, convinced he could bend her to his will as he did everyone else. The sound of her crying only seemed to heighten his determination, even as it pierced through the halls of the Red Keep.
Another frequent visitor to Visenya’s nursery was her older brother, Rhaegar. Seventeen years her senior, he was old enough to be her father by Westerosi standards. His early visits were hesitant and awkward. He wasn’t sure what to do with an infant sister so much younger than himself. But, as with many things in Rhaegar’s life, it didn’t take long for him to adapt.
Soon, he found his rhythm. He would bring his harp, its soft, haunting melodies filling the room and lulling Visenya to sleep. On restless nights when nothing else could calm her, the sound of Rhaegar’s harp always worked like a charm, soothing her into quiet dreams.
Sometimes, Rhaegar would take Visenya into his arms, gently rocking her as he spoke to her about his day. His voice, softer and warmer than the notes of his harp, seemed to captivate her. She would giggle after nearly every sentence, her small hands reaching for him as if to urge him to continue. But that was not always the case.
"You really look like our father, Visenya," he once remarked, his tone light. "Your eyes are the same shade of lilac as his, and you seem to have his nose."
To his astonishment, Visenya’s tiny face twisted into a scowl. For the first time, she seemed truly offended, her usual giggles replaced by a sharp glare that left Rhaegar momentarily speechless. From that day forward, he wisely refrained from comparing her to their father, opting instead for stories that kept her laughter alive.
"How dare he?!" Aerys’s voice thundered through the Red Keep, reverberating off the stone walls as he stormed through Visenya’s nursery. His hands trembled with rage, knocking over a small table as he paced back and forth.
"Throwing a tournament in honor of my daughter’s birth?!" he snarled, his face flushed with fury. "As if I cannot throw a tournament myself!"
The Kingsguard stationed at the door stood stoic, their expressions unreadable, though they exchanged the faintest of glances. Even the infant Visenya seemed startled, letting out a soft whimper in her mother’s arm.
“Aerys, please,” Rhaella implored, her voice trembling but measured, a tone born of years spent navigating her husband’s tempers. She kept her distance, standing near the far wall as if the space between them might shield her from his wrath. “I’m certain Lord Tywin meant no harm.” she added cautiously.
Aerys turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as if the mere mention of Tywin’s name was an affront. “No harm?” he spat, his tone dripping with venom. “The man undermines me at every turn, Rhaella! This tournament is just another attempt to make me appear weak!”
Rhaella said nothing, knowing better than to argue further. Instead, she cast a fleeting glance toward Visenya. Her silent prayer was the same as always: for the king’s rage to burn itself out before more harm was done.
“You and our wretched son should support me!” Aerys roared, his voice cracking with fury as he hurled a flower vase to the ground. The shattering porcelain sent fragments skittering across the floor, the sound sharp and jarring. Visenya stirred in Rhaella’s arm, her tiny face scrunching as though on the verge of tears. Rhaella’s hands trembled as she stroked Visenya’s soft hair, murmuring soothing words to calm her.
“You’re my family! Not his!” Aerys continued, his eyes blazing with betrayal as he pointed an accusatory finger at Rhaella. “It should be me you agree with! Not him! My son should joust in my tournament, not Tywin’s!”
Rhaella’s lips parted as if to respond, but she stopped herself. What could she say? Words only seemed to stoke his fire, and she couldn’t risk Visenya’s peace any further. So, she held her tongue, her focus entirely on the infant who now clung to her finger as if seeking comfort from her mother’s steady presence amidst the chaos.
Aerys’s eyes narrowed, darkening with an offense that needed no words. He had noticed—of course, he had—that Rhaella’s attention had shifted entirely to Visenya. As if her silent comfort of the infant was a personal slight.
Without warning, he lunged forward, his movements sharp and aggressive, yanking Visenya from Rhaella’s arms with no care for the gentleness a baby required. The abruptness of the act sent a jolt through Rhaella, her hands instinctively reaching to reclaim her daughter.
Visenya’s cries erupted immediately, shrill and piercing, echoing off the stone walls of the nursery. The sound was so raw, so agonizingly distressed, that it nearly rivaled Aerys’ own shouts. Yet he held her tightly, too tightly, his knuckles white as he cradled the squirming infant against his chest.
Rhaella stepped forward, desperation etched on her face. “Aerys, please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Give her back to me.”
But Aerys refused to relinquish his hold, his jaw clenched and his expression unyielding. “She’s my daughter,” he hissed, his voice low but brimming with venom. “She needs to learn, even now, that no one defies the king—not even her mother.”
“I’m not defying you,” Rhaella said, her voice calm but tinged with desperation. She kept her tone even, though her hands trembled at her sides. “I’m trying to talk some sense into you. Tywin is a good man—he would never dare to slight you.”
Aerys’s laughter was sharp, a sound that chilled the air. “Good man? Tywin?” he spat the name as though it tasted foul. “That serpent coils around my throne, waiting for a moment of weakness. You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know ?”
Visenya’s cries grew louder, her tiny fists flailing in protest against her father’s harsh grip. Rhaella’s heart ached at the sight, but she forced herself to stay composed. “Please, Aerys,” she pleaded softly. “You’re frightening her. She’s just a child, your child. She doesn’t need to hear this.”
For a fleeting moment, Aerys’s grip loosened, his eyes flickering to his daughter’s tear-streaked face. But just as quickly, his paranoia took hold again. “She is mine,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I will not let you and Tywin poison her mind like you did with Rhaegar.”
“How dare you?” Rhaella’s voice rose, sharper now, her composure cracking under the weight of Aerys’s accusations. Her lilac eyes blazed with an anger that had simmered beneath the surface for far too long. “To accuse me— me —of conspiring against you?”
She took a step forward, her hands clenching at her sides as she stared him down, no longer trying to placate him. “What’s next? Are you going to accuse your own son of plotting behind your back? Will you turn on Rhaegar too?”
Aerys’s jaw tightened, his face darkening, but Rhaella pressed on, her voice unwavering. “Not everyone is out to get you, Aerys. Tywin, your son, even me—we are not your enemies.”
Aerys hesitated, his hand twitching at his side. If Visenya hadn’t been cradled in his arms, Rhaella would surely have felt the sting of his rage. The thought crossed his mind—put the infant down, raise his hand, silence her defiance. But then his gaze fell upon Visenya’s tear-streaked face, her tiny body trembling in his grasp. For a fleeting moment, something in her cries pierced through the storm of his anger, dissolving his cruel intent like a wave eroding a fragile sandcastle.
He turned his head sharply toward the Kingsguard stationed at the door—Lewyn Martell and Arthur Dayne, both Dornishmen, though Aerys took little comfort in that. He distrusted the Dornish on principle, but even he couldn’t deny that these two were among the finest swords in the realm. Their expressions were subtle, but he caught the flicker of unease passing between them.
It angered him further, this silent judgment, though he dared not voice it. “What are you looking at?” he snapped, his voice dripping with venom as his eyes narrowed.
Arthur Dayne, ever the picture of composure, met Aerys’s gaze without flinching. “We’re only doing our duty, Your Grace.” he said, his tone neutral but measured.
Lewyn Martell inclined his head slightly, but his dark eyes betrayed a flicker of disapproval. “Your daughter’s safety, Your Grace.” he added.
Aerys sneered but said nothing, his grip tightening on Visenya. The weight of their words—of their silent disapproval—seemed to stoke the embers of his paranoia further. Yet, for reasons even he couldn’t articulate, he didn’t lash out. Instead, he turned back to Rhaella, his lips curling into a cruel, mocking smile.
“You think you’ve won,” he hissed, his voice low but cutting. “But don’t forget, Rhaella, the king always holds the power.”
With that, he shoved Visenya back into her mother’s arms with a force that nearly made her stumble. Visenya’s cries softened the moment she was safe in Rhaella’s embrace, though her small body still trembled.
Rhaella said nothing, holding her daughter close as if shielding her from Aerys’s venom. Her silence was louder than any words could have been, a defiance that didn’t need to be spoken. Aerys turned away sharply, his cloak billowing behind him as he stormed out, leaving behind only the echoes of his fury.
“I will miss you, Visenya,” Rhaegar whispered, his voice as soft as the lullabies he often played on his harp. He gently ran his fingers through the tufts of her silver-blond hair, a smile tugging at his lips as her tiny hand grasped at his thumb. “But don’t worry,” he continued, his gaze shifting to the figure standing nearby. “Old Ser Harlan will protect you while I’m gone.”
Ser Harlan stepped forward, his expression as unremarkable as his features. His face, weathered by years of service, bore no trace of warmth or sentiment as he looked at the little princess. The only thing that set him apart was his hair, now entirely grey.
Next to Rhaegar, who carried an almost ethereal presence with his princely demeanor and striking violet eyes, Ser Harlan appeared painfully plain. His armor, though polished, lacked the artistry of the Targaryen sigil emblazoned on Rhaegar’s tunic. Yet, there was a steadfastness in the way he stood, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
Visenya squirmed in Rhaegar’s arms, her wide pale lilac eyes flitting between her brother and the old knight. Her giggle broke the solemnity, and Rhaegar’s smile deepened. “She already knows she’s in good hands.” he said, though it was unclear whether he was reassuring himself or the infant in his arms.
“Your Grace,” Ser Harlan cleared his throat, his voice rough like gravel. “No harm will come to your sister or your mother under my watch. I may be old, but I’ve still got a few good years left in me.” His lips twitched in what might have been an attempt at a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Though,” he added, glancing at Visenya as she squirmed and giggled, “I’m not entirely sure the young princess shares your confidence in me.”
Rhaegar chuckled softly, his hands adjusting Visenya’s tiny form as she stared at Harlan with wide, curious eyes. “She’ll come around,” he said, his tone light but warm. “She’s just not used to plain faces. You’ll have to win her over.”
The old knight raised a brow, his weathered face breaking into a subtle smirk. “Plain faces, is it? I suppose I’ll have to groom myself harder, then.”
As if sensing the teasing tone in their exchange, Visenya suddenly reached out a tiny hand toward Harlan, her fingers flexing in the air. For a moment, the stern knight’s eyes softened, and he extended a calloused finger toward her. She grasped it tightly, her giggle bright and unexpected.
“There,” Rhaegar said with a grin. “You’ve already begun.”
Harlan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “It seems the princess is more forgiving than I thought.”
“That she is.” Rhaegar chuckled softly, his gaze fixed on Visenya. “She may look like Father, but I don’t believe she inherited his nature.”
“Your father would have your head if he heard this,” Harlan said, a trace of worry creeping into his voice. “Ser Arthur and Ser Lewyn were present for your parents’ latest argument. It seems he doesn’t trust you entirely.”
“He doesn’t trust anyone entirely.” Rhaegar’s smile faded, replaced by a grim seriousness. “I only hope this tourney will remind him that he has more friends than enemies.”
Harlan nodded, his expression thoughtful. “We all hope that, Your Grace,” he said, clearing his throat. “I trust Lannisport will suit your taste. Lord Tywin has a daughter—perhaps you’ll find your future queen in her.”
Rhaegar didn’t respond to Harlan. The old knight’s words weighed heavily on his mind, compounding the unease he already felt about the tournament. His father’s agreement to attend had been grudging at best, and Rhaegar found little comfort in it. He knew well enough that Aerys no longer regarded Lord Tywin as a trusted ally, and while Rhaegar hoped this tournament might serve as a bridge to mend what was broken, a gnawing worry lingered deep within him.
Perhaps it was the dreams.
They had started around the time of Visenya’s birth—strange, vivid dreams that felt like whispers from some faraway place. At first, they had seemed benign, almost comforting. But as the nights went on, they grew darker, more unsettling. There was something about them that felt like an omen, a warning he couldn’t decipher.
He found himself staring at Visenya, her small form nestled in her crib. Could these dreams be tied to her somehow? The thought made his chest tighten. Whatever the meaning, the unease clung to him like a shadow, and Rhaegar feared what the days ahead might hold.
With Aerys and Rhaegar gone from the Red Keep, Visenya felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She adored Rhaegar—his gentle presence and the soft tunes of his harp always calmed her—but Aerys was another story entirely. His mere existence unsettled her. From the moment she opened her eyes in this strange yet familiar world, his presence loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon.
Batshit crazy didn’t even begin to cover it. Back in her first life, she hadn’t been a die-hard ASOIAF fan, but she knew enough of the lore to recognize the Mad King for what he was: a powder keg of paranoia and cruelty. Reading about him was one thing; living under the shadow of his wrath was another beast entirely. Experiencing the icy fear that followed him wherever he went was a feeling no book could capture.
Embarrassingly, it had taken her far too long to piece together who she was—or rather, who she was supposed to be. Viserys Targaryen. The Beggar King. The infamous older brother of Daenerys Targaryen, a character so detestable he made her skin crawl when she first read about him. Now, she was staring down the reality that she was somehow a gender-swapped version of that doomed figure.
How or why this had happened, she had no idea. One moment, she had closed her eyes in her first life, and the next, she had opened them as a crying newborn in a world she thought existed only in fiction. Was she here to rewrite the tragic story of House Targaryen? To guide and protect Dany during their inevitable exile? To stop the Rebellion altogether?
Her head spun with questions, but no answers came. For now, all she could do was observe and wait, though even that filled her with doubts. Was the Rebellion even guaranteed to happen? She had to admit, the Rhaegar she’d come to know didn’t strike her as the type to abduct a teenage girl, no matter how many prophetic dreams he might be having. If anything, he seemed far too burdened by duty to risk it all for something so reckless.
She didn’t want to dwell on these heavy thoughts just yet—there was no point in stressing over things that wouldn’t come to pass for at least seven years. Right now, her only real desire was to embrace the perks of being a newborn: sleep, comfort, and the warmth of Rhaella’s arms. With Aerys and Rhaegar gone, she had hoped to spend more time with her mother, basking in the quiet moments of affection that were rare in this life.
But, as fate would have it, things didn’t go her way. The very day after their departure, Rhaella came down with a nasty case of the flu. The maester, in all his wisdom, immediately forbade her from visiting Visenya, isolating her for her own health. Left with little to do, Rhaella spent most of her time resting in her chambers, while Visenya was relegated to the care of others.
Thus, Visenya’s days were reduced to either dozing off or staring up at Ser Harlan’s grizzled face. His bushy gray beard became an oddly comforting fixture, though she wished she could at least see someone younger—or, better yet, her mother. Still, she couldn’t complain too much. For now, her life wasn’t all that bad, and she intended to enjoy the peace while it lasted.
She just hoped she could cherish these fleeting moments before the real storm inevitably began.
“That fool truly believed his daughter was fit to marry my son,” Aerys sneered, his voice a mix of derision and manic amusement. The unsettling sound of his laughter echoed through the nursery, unsettling little Visenya. She squirmed in his arms, her tiny face scrunching with discomfort as he rocked her back and forth with erratic energy.
His beard, now unkempt and longer than before, brushed against her sensitive nose, causing her to sneeze. Each sneeze seemed to amuse him even more, as he erupted into louder fits of laughter, his mirth grating and disjointed.
“Oh, what’s next?” Aerys continued, his lilac eyes alight with madness. “Will he propose a betrothal between my daughter and that dwarven son of his?”
Visenya’s tiny fists curled, and she whimpered, her discomfort obvious even to the Kingsguard stationed nearby.
Rhaella, pale and visibly exhausted from her illness, stood by the door, her hands clenched into fists. “Aerys, please,” she implored, her voice firm but weary. “You’re frightening her.”
“Nonsense!” Aerys barked, holding Visenya up with a crazed grin. “She is my blood! She has nothing to fear from me. Isn’t that right, my little dragon?”
Visenya, however, had other ideas. Her face scrunched tighter, and a piercing wail erupted from her tiny lungs, drowning out Aerys’ laughter. For once, it seemed even he couldn’t ignore her distress, his smile faltering as he awkwardly tried to calm her.
“Bah, such a temper,” he muttered, handing her back to a relieved Rhaella. “She’ll grow out of it—or she’ll grow into it.”
Rhaella held Visenya close, whispering soothing words to quiet her cries. She gave Aerys a pointed look but said nothing further, knowing that reasoning with him was futile.
"Tywin would’ve made a splendid court jester in another life." Aerys cackled, his voice reverberating with self-satisfaction. He paced the room with Visenya’s nursery as his stage.
“You should’ve seen his face,” Aerys continued, addressing no one in particular. "He truly believed he could deceive me, thought he could manipulate the king. But no, I showed him, didn’t I? I reminded him that the dragon bows to no one, least of all to a cat masquerading as a lion."
The bitterness in his words was palpable, his laughter sharp and hollow. Aerys spun on his heel, his lilac eyes darting to the Kingsguard at the door. Ser Harlan Grandison stood rigid, his expression carefully neutral, while Ser Gerold Hightower’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. Neither knight dared to speak, but their unease was as clear as the tension in the air.
Aerys waved his hand dismissively. "He thought he was clever, didn’t he? Offering his daughter as if her golden hair could blind me to his schemes. But I saw through him, saw the rot beneath the polished exterior. Tywin Lannister,” he spat the name like venom, “is no friend to the crown. He is a snake in lion’s clothing, waiting to strike."
Rhaella remained silent, her face carefully composed. The soft coos of the baby in her arms were the only gentle sounds in the room, a stark contrast to her husband’s tirade. She stroked Visenya’s silver-gold hair, her touch light and protective, as though shielding her daughter from the vitriol filling the air.
Aerys’ laughter eventually faded, leaving an oppressive silence in its wake. He turned to Rhaella. "You understand, don’t you, my queen? I am surrounded by enemies, but I will not falter. The dragon must always stay vigilant."
“Aerys, I begged you not to make an enemy of Tywin.” Rhaella’s voice trembled with desperation, her hands tightening protectively around Visenya. The baby stirred slightly, as if sensing the tension in her mother’s tone. “He wants the good of the realm, just like you. He won’t forget this slight.”
Her words hung in the air like a fragile thread, daring to challenge the volatile storm that was her husband. Aerys turned slowly to face her, his lilac eyes narrowing as a sneer spread across his face.
“Good of the realm?” he repeated mockingly, his voice dripping with contempt. “You think that Lannister snake has the realm’s interests at heart? No, Rhaella, Tywin wants power— my power. And he will not have it.”
Rhaella stood her ground, though her heart raced. “Tywin has been nothing but loyal to you. He served you diligently for years, strengthened the crown’s coffers, and brought stability to the realm. Why would he betray you now?”
Aerys barked out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and grating. “Loyalty? Stability? Do you take me for a fool, Rhaella? Tywin’s loyalty is to himself and his ambitions. He dreams of ruling through his daughter, of bending the dragon to his will. I will not allow it!”
Rhaella’s grip on Visenya tightened, the baby letting out a soft whimper. She forced herself to speak calmly, though her voice wavered. “And what of the realm, Aerys? What of the people who look to you for guidance? Do you truly think making enemies of powerful lords will keep the peace?”
Aerys strode toward her, his presence looming. “The peace? The peace is kept by fear, Rhaella. By reminding the lords of Westeros that the dragon is not to be trifled with. Tywin Lannister thinks he can undermine me, but he will learn that fire consumes even the most golden of lions.”
Rhaella swallowed hard as she clung to her daughter. “You’re isolating yourself, Aerys. The realm needs allies, not enemies.”
Aerys leaned in closer, his breath hot and sharp. “The realm needs me . I am the king, Rhaella. And you would do well to remember that.”
He pushed Rhaella out of his way, his long cloak sweeping behind him as he stormed out of the room. The heavy door slammed shut, leaving Rhaella alone with Visenya and Ser Harlan and Ser Gerold. the baby’s soft cries breaking the suffocating silence.
Rhaella pressed her lips to Visenya’s forehead, her tears finally falling. “I’m so sorry, my sweet girl,” she whispered. “I’ll protect you, no matter what it takes.”