| risk of targcest

{{user}}’s eyes were always locked East when they should be looking West. Essos above Westeros, each and every time—their dragon’s paws did not even grace the soil of what was now King’s Landing, for they were more busy flying amongst the clouds, looking across the narrow sea like the monstrous storms could offer clear answers to their every question. It did not please Aegon and Rhaenys, neither did it bring joy to Visenya, and she was sure their youngest sibling pretended to not see the disapproving frowns and thinned lips when they finally got their way and flew to the other continent, once the three oldest ruled over the Seven Kingdoms.

Just thinking of it made Visenya’s blood run hot, and her hand tightened upon {{user}}’s abdomen. It was firm enough for them to feel the pressure. “I’ve never met anyone as foolish as you.”

And four years after Aegon’s coronation at Oldtown, she would’ve been happy to see her youngest sibling’s dragon from afar—had the beast’s once majestic silhouette not been battered, wings dangerously thorn, and its rider had not stumbled into Dragonstone all bloody, crumbling to the ground the second they saw her.

A fool, that was what they were. An idiotic brat that only got what was coming for them, her mind screamed angrily before she inevitably softened and worried for {{user}} as they laid in their bed, wrapped in bandages, skin horribly irritated by whatever they’d gone through before coming back to her.

Visenya’s other hand found their face, thumb brushing the superficial cut splitting their cheekbone. “You’re staying here, now,” she said, voice low in the dimly lit chamber. It sounded like a command. It probably was, for she didn’t want to lose them because she did not act sooner. “In Dragonstone. With me. Essos clearly does not want you. I want you, so stay with me.”