The sound of cheering is like nails against a chalkboard in Visenya's ears, ringing at a frequency that should be unnatural, the sound crescendoing with each passing second. Her heart pounds furiously in her chest, face red with anger and eyes damp with unshed tears. The shakiness in her hand makes pouring drinks difficult, however, no one in the room seems bothered by it. They were happy for some reason, drunkenly celebrating one thing or another. Normally irate and coarse people join in on the merriments, happily drinking from full mugs and bantering back and forth. Isadora flounces around the drunks, gracefully managing to avoid crashing into any of the staggering people. Aldred converses with a few patrons as he passes them, his scraggly beard jiggling as he lets out yet another bellowing laugh. Someone in a far corner of the room took it upon themselves to be the entertainment, singing bawdy tavern songs. He's horrible at it, Visenya can't help but notice, growing more irate with each off key note that contended with the sounds of a dying cat.
But even with the horrible entertainment and the cheap ale everyone is happy.
Everyone except for Visenya.
Her mouth is in a tight thin line, eyes unmoving as she stares straight ahead, not really seeing anything in front of her. It's pathetic and weak - she is pathetic and weak, with her shoulders slouched and devastation bleeding from her eyes. The atmosphere is suffocating, filling her throat with ash until she can't breathe. The storm brewing in her mind picks up in ferocity as she clenches her fist tightly. A chill runs up her spine that leaves behind a tingling sensation as the room's ambiance dims until only the faint ringing is left.
"Hey wench! Another drink!" a man staggers over to the counter. He aggressively pushes his mug to Visenya, ripping her out of her thoughts. His pudgy face is caked in dirt and something...fouler, the smell assaulting Visenya's nostrils. His beady brown eyes are glazed over, blood shot from the copious amount of alcohol he'd consumed. His body is lazily leaned up against the counter, not able to hold up his own weight due to his intoxicated state. He's dangerously tipping onto the bar stool, the same one Renfri should be perched on. Visenya's gaze flickers to him, eyes hardening as she acknowledges the man.
And suddenly, something snaps.
"Get it yourself." Visenya snarls, throwing a rag she was holding on the counter. She grabs the pitcher of ale and pushes it toward him with more force than necessary. The pitcher slides across the wood, falling over the edge and spilling its contents onto the man. He jumps back with the dexterity drunks usually don't have, a shout stuck in the back of his throat.
With one last piercing glare, Visenya storms away. Unlike Isadora who is masterfully weaving through people, Visenya roughly shoves anyone in her way. Shouts of protest str to surround her, but upon seeing the fire in her eyes, they quickly back down.
Her mind has been made up.
The loud thudding of her feet on the wooden floor beats as loudly as her heart. The floorboards below her moan as they threaten to break with each step. Luckily, the upper level is clear of any patrons. The echoes of people yelling and cheering is faint, giving her a respite from the noise. She moves towards a room. She flings her door open, the wood slamming against the wall from the force. Like a bull, she charges into the room, immediately moving towards the chest that holds her belongings.
"The fuck do you think you're doing girl?" Aldred's voice booms from the doorway. It momentarily causes Visenya to pause, but not for long.
"Leaving." Visenya simply says, not bothering to look at him as she pulls out a pair of traveling pants.
"Like fuck you are! Ben says you poured an entire pitcher of ale on him, that's definitely coming out of your wages." He rages, taking a step into the room. His loud steps act as the thunder booming during the storm in her mind.
"You don't pay me at all!" Visenya says, her tone is as sharp as her blade. She turns towards Aldred, glaring at him with a ferocity no one in the town has seen on Visenya.
"Then I guess you'll have to figure out somewhere else to get food, cause it ain't coming from me. You've been nothing but trouble since you got here." Alred continues to rant, taking a step with each word until his toes are touching Visenya's hand. She pulls out a tunic, tossing it with her pants.
"Then it's a good thing I'm leaving." Visenya cooly replies, her tone as frosty as the northern winds. She pulls out her cloak, tossing it with the other clothes, her fingers ghosting over the embroidered dragon. She slams the chest shut and stands up. Her gaze now level with Aldred's. She continues to glare at the man, daring him to make a move. He straightens his back to try and stand taller than Visenya. His adam's apple is wavering slightly, exposing his nerves. A predatory grin paints itself on Visenya, a feral side taking over.
"Fuck that, you owe me you stupid bitch!" He grapples her, trying to pull her out of the room. Heat begins to build up in Visenya, flaring with her temper. Her temperature grows to an uncomfortable warmth until her skin is as hot as a wildfire. Alred quickly pulls his hands back, releasing her from his grip. Her stares at her with his mouth agape in shock.
"How - how - how did…" he stutters, taking a few steps away.
"I am Visenya Lightbringer of House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. I am the dragon's daughter. The next time you raise a hand to me...will be the last time. You. Have. Hands." Visenya spits, her face twisting into a snarl. Aldred exudes fear and it continues to feed the fury inside her.
"You're a monster like that damned Witcher!" he yells. The initial shock he felt wears off and is replaced with the malicious behavior she saw him treat Geralt with.
"You're a fucking mutant." he spits, moving towards her once again. Instead of going for her arms, he grabs the neckline of her dress, dragging her around like a rag-doll.
"Let me go you fucking bastard!" Visenya wails at him, the pitch rivaling a banshee's cry. She continues to attempt to pry him away from her, but his grip is iron. He manages to drag her down to the first floor, her screams silencing the previously merry patrons. They watch on as Visenya is thrown to the ground, Alred viciously grinning at her as she scowls back, not allowing herself to show weakness.
"This bitch is a mutant like that fucking Witcher. Burnt me with her bare hands she did!" Aldred exclaims to the patrons, all silently watching the situation unfold. He raises his hands to show the minor burns he retained. A series of gasps erupts from the people. A few of the people cover their mouths in shock, while others look on with a straight face. The room is plunged into silence, everyone watching with bated breath. Visenya, still on the ground, stares ahead unsure of what else to do.
"Burn her!" a patron screams. And that's all it took to break the dam that kept their hateful words away.
"Throw her in a cell!" a woman screams, hysterics clawing at her voice.
"Fuck that, we need to kill the thing before it kills us!" a man replies, Leon, that's his name. He came to the tavern every morning for breakfast and wherever Visenya served him, he would slip her a few spare coins. But now here he is, condemning her to die.
Something sticky and cold smacks Visenya, soaking the top of her dress. As the amber liquid drips down her exposed skin, an empty tankard hits her left shoulder. The force of it catching her by surprise as her arm gives out beneath her. She hits the ground with a soft thud, but no one stops. Their screams crescendo louder and louder until Visenya can't hear her own thoughts. The vicious words blend together, creating a discordant melody that grates against her eardrums. Some of the more ballsy patrons follow suit and start throwing anything they can within their grasp: cups - both empty and filled to the brim with ale; leftover food; and eating utensils.
Humiliation burns on her face with each word and object thrown at her. How does she always end up here, completely helpless like a weak little girl? Her thoughts wonder back to that night, when Walder Frey stabbed the North in the back. They wander back to that moment when she'd been so close to her freedom, moments away from being out of Walder Frey's grasp as his ratty soldiers hunted her. Only be shot down like a dog and gutted like a pig. The fear that coursed through her in that moment, the hopelessness that clawed at her when all she could do was cry as she faced her executioners.
And for a moment she almost did that same thing, nearly sobbing when two of the larger men in Blaviken push back their chairs. Her whole body shakes as the sound of their heavy footsteps cuts through the screams of everyone else. Her heart hammers against her chest when she could see their feet only three paces away from her. Their shadows loom over her form like dark clouds obscuring the sun and plunging everything into darkness. And Visenya couldn't help it when a cry escaped her mouth, so quietly the noise in the room swallowed it.
But then it hit her.
Like an abrupt slap in the face, fire courses through her veins as the blood beneath her skin boils. The sticky substance coating her body evaporates away with quiet sizzle, the vapor dissipating into the air. The fire grows hotter and hotter with each passing second, to the point that Visenya is convinced her skin is beginning to melt off. The two men quickly step back, feeling the intense heat emanating around her. She shuts her eyes, praying to any god that may be listening, the words in her mind jumped and nonsensical - like the ramblings of a mad man. Crescent shaped scars are imprinted onto the wooden floor, courtesy of her fingers digging into it. The heat inside her swells, but no else in the room seems to have noticed. They don't see the flames dancing in her golden eyes behind her eyelids; the smoke billowing from the wood beneath her form.
A piercing scream escapes her mouth, cutting through the room like a knife. The pitch and intensity make the tavern windows crack in patterns that somewhat resemble spiderwebs, and any other less stable glass elements in the room burst instantly. Blood is dripping from Visenya fingertips, evaporating upon coming into contact with the heated wood. Beside her scream, the room is plunged into silence as everyone in the room covers their ears. Their faces scrunched in pain as the pitch of the scream grates against their eardrums. And suddenly it grows cold. People begin shivering, enclosing their arms around themselves in an attempt to conserve any remaining body heat. Each breath they take is visible in a puff of cold air.
But not for Visenya.
Instead, the fire inside her skyrockets, the temperature reaching alarming rates as the chill overcomes the room. Sweat pours from her body, sizzling and dissipating as soon as it makes contact with her skin. And yet again, Visenya nearly cries, but not out of fear of anyone in the room, but in fear of boiling herself alive. She repositions her aching body, putting her weight on her knees as she attempts to sit up, slowly forcing herself into a standing position. She's unsteady and nearly falls more times than she could keep track off. Her eyes snap open, wildly glancing about the room, looking for something - anything to help her. But she finds nothing.
Until it stops. For a brief second Visenya feels relief as cold air smacks against her body, but the sensation doesn't last.
With a flash, bright golden fire bursts from her, filling the entire room in one second. The force of the blast pushes everything back, people and objects alike being blown away. Visenya is thrown onto the ground, her body smacking against the wood like a ragdoll. The patrons scream as they're engulfed in the flames, the smell of charred flesh filling the air. She watches as the flames dance around the room, the people flailing around, attempting to put out the fire that burned their skin. Screams of horror and crackling fire create a sick symphony in Visenya's head. A sadistic joy worms its way inside of her. Moments ago they were spitting on her, treating her as the dirt beneath their feet, and now they're paying for it.
She slowly stands from her kneeling position, her amber eyes are alight with dark wonder, watching the flames dance through the room. The chaos she created from her pain and sorrow renewing her damaged pride. The charred floor beneath her creaks from the weight as she mindlessly moves around the room.
And she's drunk. Not on any ale or wine, but on power; pure unbridled power formed from her rage. It's intoxicating, unexplainable, but she drowns in it. She loses herself in the satisfaction brimming inside her, imagining every person - every face - in this room as the people of Westeros who hurt her most. She closes her eyes, picturing each person perfectly: Robert Baratheon; Tywin Lannister; Walder Frey; Cersei Lannister; Joffrey Baratheon; the Mountain; all of them. And when she opens her eyes, she no longer sees the people of Blaviken, no, they are no longer the stupid citizens who are afriad of their own shadows. In the hysteria she fully believes that all those people are in this room right now, paying for all the pain and hurt they've caused.
She's pulled from her dark fantasies by a quiet whimper. Her head snaps towards the source of the noise, the corner farthest from her. Aldred is cowering in a corner, violently screaming as he attempts to put out any fire that touches him. A smile filled with sinister intentions and malicious deeds forms on Visenya's face. In a daze, she moves towards him, and notices a pitcher of rum that managed to not be tipped over or destroyed in the chaos. She grabs it, unbothered by the heat of the metal. It singes upon contact, but her hand remains unburnt. She approaches Aldred at a leisurely pace, a cruel smile appearing on her face. Upon standing before him, Aldred looks up at her, fear in his eyes. His fear feeds something inside of her. A fiendish joy from the power she possesses.
"What the fuck on you doing!" he screams, salty tears pouring from his eyes. Visenya simply lowers herself so she's at the same level as him.
"Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. (A dragon is not a slave)" Visenya says in Old Valyrian, enjoying the confusion that dances on his features, mingling with the fear. And with that she pours the alcohol over Aldred, watching as the flames engulf him with a new vigor. The alcohol enhances the ferocity of the flames. She steps back from his body slowly, eyes not moving as he burns. A small laugh bubbled from her throat, watching him wither in pain. His screams bellow louder than before, until there's nothing. Visenya stands in the burning building, dancing through the flames. She watches as they burn, refusing to leave until the last scream is silenced. She sips from the pitcher still in her hand holding it until the bitter drink is drained, along with any life in the room.
It takes hours for the flames to begin to die out. The patrons previously inside the tavern long dead, their screams no longer echoing on the walls. Visenya stays in the room until all that's left is ruins and ashes. Burnt human flesh lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of scorched wood and burning rage. At one point the second story collapsed onto itself, mingling with the rubble of the ground level. Visenya managed to avoid being crushed, moving around in a trance-like state. Her eyes dance across the debris, looking for anything of use.
A glint immediately captures her attention. A steel sword is partially visible. She moves towards it, grasping the longsword in her hands. The sword is dirty, covered in soot and debris, but the roaring dragon on the hilt is still intact. The sword Robb had commissioned for her when they went to war. "A sword fit for a fierce warrior," he had told her.
Near the sword were the remnants of her travelling clothes, leaving nothing but scraps of burnt leather. Her cloak was charred in various spots, but somehow it's relatively untouched. A small mercy Visenya is grateful for. With a clasp of a dragon and wolf intertwined, she attached the cloak to her body. And with these two key pieces, Visenya felt one step closer towards who she'd been, what she is meant to be.
A dragon. A dragon breathing fire.
The entrance to the tavern is nothing but crumbled stone and melted metal that litters the exit. She moves over some of the rubble lying around on the ground, pointedly not looking at the dead bodies surrounding her. Stepping out of the ruined building, the cold air hitting her body immediately. It's a welcomed change from the heat emanating from Visenya, cooling her warm skin. Taking a look around, most of the buildings are in a similar state as the tavern. Buildings collapsed on themselves with dead bodies littering the ground. Terror is eternally etched on their faces, the sudden burst of fire taking everyone by surprise.
Visenya's gaze lands on the tower belonging to the wizard, completely untouched by the fire. She moves to step towards the tower, but stops herself. Stregobor had no qualm letting the entirety of the town get butchered by Renfri, as long as it saved his own skin. Why would he come out for Visenya? And what would she do if he did?
Instead she shakes her head, exiting the town in the same direction as Geralt. Visenya's mind is a void of nothingness, not able to focus on any one thought. Everything is hazy, she walks like it's not real. None of this is real, it's a dream, it has to be. Reality seems so far away from her, the ruined town of Blaviken getting foggier with each step taken.
Until it dawns on her.
It starts with the bile that stirs in her stomach, creeping up her throat like a slithering snake stalking its next meal. Then her mind begins to clear, the cold wind smacking against her face and cooling the fire beneath her skin. Suddenly the scent of burning flesh overcomes her senses, despite Blaviken being miles away by this point, so far she couldn't see the smoke billowing from the fires that died out.
And it's overwhelming. The scent; the screams; but worst of all, the indifference to the deaths- no the suffering she caused. Visenya falls to the ground, vomiting the entirety of her stomach's contents. The harsh scent of burning flesh nauseating her further as tears stained with crimson fall delicately down her cheeks, a stark contrast to the fierce monster she was mere hours ago.
While ignorant and cruel, the people of Blaviken didn't deserve a slaughter. Not all of them. Especially in not such a horrific manner.
Maybe she truly is the monster they said she was.