The Last Dragon | The Witcher

Chapter 1 | Reborn from the Flames

Purple eyes dart around the landscape, settling on the rolling fields that the cliff overlooks. The lush emerald blades of grass languidly sway with the wind, unbothered by the brewing war around them. The sky is a beautiful hue of blue with clouds aimlessly dotting it. The sun is placed high in the sky, illuminating everything in its path. Rays of sunlight hit Visenya's eyes, causing her eyes to glimmer like a well-polished amethyst gem. The light dances off her hair, creating a halo of sunlight. Her pale skin practically glows under the light, giving the appearance of something otherworldly.

If Jon was here, he might make a quiet comment about it, unheard and unseen by the prying eyes and ears that always seemed to surround her. His words would come out mumbled and stuttered, the awkwardness he carried when it came to conversations of romance making itself well known. Instead of berating him like Robb and Theon, their jabs lowering his already abysmal self-confidence, Visenya would simply smile at him. The twinkle in her soft eyes telling Jon she already knew what he was trying to say.

But he isn't here.

No, Jon is miles away serving at the Night's Watch while Visenya is in the Riverlands fighting a losing war. With Ned Stark executed for false charges of treason, the fragile string Visenya's sanity rested on is quickly snapping. The rug got pulled out beneath her, shattering the reality she'd built around herself. Bran and Rickon were believed to be dead, killed by Theon no less. Sansa and Arya were captive in Kings Landing and Robb was making stupid decisions at every corner.

The camp is stifling. The uneasiness the remaining soldiers are feeling crawls under Visenya's skin and fills her with a sense of dread. Morale swiftly dropped after the execution of Lord Kaarsark, and discouraged soldiers tend to not fight as fiercely for their king. So instead of allowing her brain to envision a million scenarios in which they lose and die horrible deaths, she left. Not far enough to miss anything of import, but with enough distance to just breathe. Something Visenya hasn't been allowed in a long time.

So she stands on a cliff that overlooks green fields that go on for miles. The soft chirping of birds and rustling of long grass and trees allows her to forget the brewing storm. Despite being far warmer than the North, Visenya feels a sense of peace she hadn't felt since before the King arrived. And if she closed her eyes for a moment as the breeze caresses her skin, she could almost convince herself she was home.

Home.

The word comes with a wave of emotions, mainly grief. Sometimes, if she tries hard enough, Visenya would manage to convince herself that the events of the past months weren't real. That Ned Stark never died, nor Rickon and Bran. Arya and Sansa were still home, bickering as usual, and Robb and Visenya weren't children masquerading as soldiers during a war. Subconsciously, her hand touches her cloak, gripping the navy blue fabric tightly in her hands. The fabric is soft to the touch, unlike the scratchy fabric of most traveling cloaks and vastly inappropriate during wartime, but Visenya couldn't bear to part with it. A smart decision since Winterfell is now rubble in the dirt. It had been a gift for her five and ten name day from Sansa. She'd spent months on the cloak, meticulously embroidering a dire wolf on one side of the shoulder and a dragon on the other, both in vivid shades of red. Delicate flowers and vines weaving around the two animals, adding a feminine touch to it. Visenya's eyes prick with wetness - the tell-tale sign of incoming tears - but she manages to suppress them.

'No, you are a dragon. Dragons do not cry.'

The mantra repeats itself in her mind, the words a constant reminder that she needs to be made of stone.

"Visenya," she hears a familiar voice call from behind. Slowly turning to face the person, she notices Robb briskly walking towards her.

'Remember what you are,' she repeats in her head as Robb approaches.