Another snippet that I wrote because I couldn't stop laughing. Again, not long, nor does it add to the main story. Also, to one of my reviewers, she is not the chosen one or anything. It's just a combination of the rumored blood sorcery Visenya may or may not have used in the creation of Maegor and the emergence of the spirit world. As it is, Syrah being a reincarnated Targaryen was hinted at in the Tyrion chapter where Lorch reports back to Tywin talking about having seen Rhaenys, the little girl he stabbed in canon, looking at him. He was correct in that it was a Targaryen, just not that one. A more dangerous one. I tried to send a message via the app, but I don't see it in my outbox on my computer, so I don't know what happened with that particular reply.
Also, this is technically a side story that I'm having fun with that's stirring up my creativity, so that I can add more to the upcoming main chapter.
(Dragonstone: 1/19/284 AC) Syrah II
The cries echoed through the chamber, piercing and insistent, a stark contrast to the joyous laughter that had filled the room moments before. Visenya's new lungs worked tirelessly, her outrage pouring out in raw, unrestrained wails. The room, previously filled with awe and reverence, now buzzed with a mix of confusion and concern.
"Fire Lord, should we take her away? Perhaps she needs rest," a voice suggested tentatively, the undercurrent of fear unmistakable.
The Fire Lord, however, was unmoved. "No," she commanded, her voice cold and unyielding. "Let her cry. Let her voice be heard. Perhaps she has more strength than she appears."
Visenya, still crying, felt a strange mixture of anger and grudging respect for the woman who would not be cowed by a newborn's screams. "Strong, indeed," she thought, even as her tiny body continued to express her defiance.
Eventually, her cries began to weaken, exhaustion overtaking her newfound vigor. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, the initial fury giving way to a bone-deep weariness. She could feel herself being gently rocked, the motion soothing despite her reluctance to be comforted.
"Shh, little one," the softer voice of Jaslin cooed, filled with warmth and tenderness. "Rest now. You are safe."
Safe. The word felt alien, almost laughable. Safety was a fleeting illusion, one she had learned to scoff at long ago. But the exhaustion was overwhelming, and her newborn body demanded respite.
As the rocking continued, she could hear the Fire Lord's voice, now a distant murmur, speaking to someone. "This child," she said, "she has a spirit. A fire. If your visions prove true, she will be a force to reckon with. A weapon. My weapon. She must be trained," the Fire Lord commanded.
"R'hllor's light burns away the darkness of doubt, my Fire Lord," the man answered adamantly, his voice filled with unwavering faith.
"As long as they don't burn me, I will humor them," the woman warned, her tone carrying a hint of skepticism. Yet, despite her caution, a flare of warmth resonated in the room as she spoke, a testament to her power.
Visenya, nestled in her cradle, listened intently to the exchange. The mention of R'hllor piqued her curiosity. "R'hllor, the Lord of Light? Interesting," she mused.
"Visions, Azula? Really?" a new voice said, this one monotonous but obviously feminine.
"Yes, Mai, don't even start," the Fire Lord sighed. "I take whatever advantages I can. My position is not secure enough to have me discard opportunities. No matter how questionable they may appear. As to you? Those where very fine words, priest," the woman's steely voice had the telltale hint of doubt laced into it as she spoke.
Visenya's mind churned, the sleep beginning to pull her under. "Azula," she thought, relishing the knowledge of finally having put a name to the title of 'Fire Lord.' This Azula was no godly woman. That much was made clear to the temporarily blinded eavesdropping infant. She relied solely on her own strength and those of whom she could manipulate, and the former Targaryen queen could not help but begrudgingly respecting that.
"Sergeant?!" the woman bellowed, nearly dissipating the haze of exhaustion that was slowly overtaking her.
"Yes, my Fire Lord," the man replied, his voice quivering in fear, a voice that made Visenya's blood boil.
"From the moment she can walk, she will learn to fight. As her father, you will ensure she is prepared properly, Jiong-Yu. The Academy will be completed soon, and I expect my weapon forged to perfection!"
"You dare to dictate my path, woman!? I was riding dragons and wielding Dark Sister while you were still a thought in your bitch mother's mind," she mentally screeched, realizing that strong though the Fire Lord's voice was, it was yet young, and Visenya took no time in realizing the woman was much younger than she had been prior to her rebirth.
"She will not fail you, Fire Lord," the man whom she had previous believed name Sergeant replied. His voice losing none of the fear or respect that had tainted his earlier words.
The voices faded into silence, as the image of her son flashed suddenly into her mind. "Maegor, my beautiful son. What has happened to you," she asked at last, before sleep finally took her, a deep, dreamless slumber that felt both like a reprieve and a trap. When she awoke again, she was no longer in the birthing room. The sounds were different, softer, the air cooler. She could feel the gentle sway of a cradle, the soft murmur of voices nearby.
"She's awake," a voice said, and she felt herself being lifted, cradled in warm arms. She tried to open her eyes again, managing only a squint this time. The blurry outlines of faces loomed above her, but she could make out no details.
"Syrah," a woman's voice whispered, filled with a strange mix of affection and sadness. "You are a gift, my little one. A precious gift."
"Not Syrah," she wanted to scream, but her infant body could only manage a faint whimper. "Visenya. My name is Visenya. And I am no gift. I will be a nightmare to whomever chooses to make an enemy of me…"
As the days passed, she grew more accustomed to the limitations of her new form. Her cries became more controlled, her movements more deliberate. She listened intently to the voices around her, piecing together the fragments of her new reality.
Jaslin, her mother, was a woman of gentle strength, her voice a constant presence of warmth and care. Her birthplace? Dragonstone. Her parents? Peasants. Peasants!? Visenya's mind roared. How could she, a Targaryen, be reborn to such humble origins? The indignity of it burned within her, a fire stoked by her ancestral pride.
The man named Jiong-Yu was her father, a man broken by fear and subservience but with a deep well of love for his newfound family. Born in a place called the Fire Nation. A strange kingdom of which there had been no record during her time, and of which the Fire Lord and her people had discovered no evidence for. The closest comparison was Valyria, but it was not quite the same. The Fire Nation, she came to realize, had tamed as mounts and then eventually hunted down their own dragons to extinction, and relied instead on their powers of controlling fire and their siege engines and armored carriages they called tanks. A people who had once possessed dragons and cast them aside, now turned to mechanical might and elemental power.
How wasteful.
Visenya's thoughts churned with a mixture of curiosity and disdain as she pieced together the history of the Fire Nation from the fragments of overheard conversations and whispered tales. Dragons were not mere tools; they were symbols of power, embodiments of strength and fear. The Fire Nation had squandered such a priceless resource, choosing instead to rely on crude machines and their own limited abilities to manipulate fire.
"A foolish decision," she thought, her mind seething with contempt. "Dragons are more than mere weapons. They are the essence of dominance, the soul of conquest. To discard them is to discard the heart of true power."
She found it both ironic and infuriating that a people who once commanded dragons now relied on devices that clanked and groaned, that spewed smoke and fire in a poor imitation of the majestic beasts. Their armored carriages, these so-called tanks, were impressive in their own right, but they lacked the living, breathing terror of a dragon's roar, the fierce intelligence behind its eyes.
"Mechanical might and elemental power," she mused. "Useful, yes, but why settle for one when you can have both? Imagine the strength of combining dragons with such technology. The world would tremble before such a force."
Her disdain for the Fire Nation's shortsightedness fueled her determination. She would learn their secrets, master their technology, combine it with the ancient power of dragons, and the sorcery of Old Valyria. Even as she thought this, she prayed to the fourteen that her stash of glass candles and clutch of dragon eggs still remained secured within her secret vaults upon Dragonstone. This was her destiny: to reclaim the legacy of the Targaryens and reshape it with the knowledge of this new world. Visenya's rebirth was not just a second chance; it was an opportunity to forge something even greater than before.
And then there was the Fire Lord, a former Princess of the Fire Nation who had assumed the title of Fire Lord due to their apparent displacement. A position not unlike that of a King, a figure of authority and power, whose very presence commanded respect and fear in equal measure. The Fire Lord, whose sharp, unyielding presence reminded Visenya of herself in her prime, a warrior queen who brooked no dissent. It was ironic, that as she thought of the Fire Lord, a portrait of her hung just in front of her cradle. Silently challenging her with her golden eyes.
But what surprised her most was who the Fire Lord called husband. Stannis Baratheon. A Baratheon! So the noble families still lived? Or the Baratheons did at any rate, she reasoned. Though words about the Baratheons between her parents were sparse, as she lay virtually immobile and imprisoned within a small sparsely decorated room at Dragonstone, being gawked at by the painted image of the Fire Lord, she eventually learned of Robert's Rebellion. The whispers between Jaslin and Jiong-Yu were enough to piece together the grim reality. Robert Baratheon had led a rebellion against her family, had overthrown the Targaryens, and claimed the Iron Throne. Though she knew not the players—Aerys or Rhaegar Targaryen—they had still been kin. The held the name Targaryen. It was still a tale of betrayal and bloodshed, one that filled her with a cold, burning rage. Especially if they had claimed descent from her beautiful and strong son, Maegor.
The mere thought of Maegor, her fierce and determined son, being overthrown by a usurper filled her with an almost uncontrollable fury. Her son, who had been molded in her image, who had embodied the strength and ruthlessness needed to rule. The idea that his lineage had been cast aside by the likes of Robert Baratheon was an affront to everything she had fought for.
"Robert's Rebellion," she thought bitterly, her tiny limbs flailing in anger. "I did not expect your bloodline to be composed of usurpers, Orys. You bastard."
As she lay in her cradle, her tiny body still constrained by the limitations of infancy, her mind blazed with plans and ambitions. "I will find my strength again," she vowed silently. "I will rise." The determination burned within her, a flicker of the indomitable spirit that had once ruled kingdoms.
"Patience," she reminded herself. "I must bide my time, gather my strength, and learn all that I can. Only when the moment is right, will I rise and conquer."
But just as she thought the last, a sudden sensation interrupted her lofty views. Her infant stomach rumbled, a reminder of her current mortal confines. Then, without warning, a stinky mushiness filled the backside of her linen diapers.
Visenya froze, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. She had lived a life of command, of power, of fearlessness. Now, reduced to a diaper-shitting infant in this unfamiliar world, she felt a pang of humiliation. Yet, in a strange twist of fate, she found a peculiar solace in this momentary vulnerability. It shielded her from suspicion, offering her the guise of innocence in a world that she knew was both ruthless and unforgiving.
"Visenya Targaryen," she muttered inwardly, her voice laced with irony. "Trapped in the indignities of infancy. Perhaps there is wisdom in patience after all."