Inside the time nexus, Jon had discovered he could reshape the space with nothing but thought.
He had turned it into Dragonstone—the ancient seat every Targaryen heir received before taking the Iron Throne.
Visenya looked up at the black stone castle rising from the jagged cliffs and allowed herself a rare moment of nostalgia.
“Home is home, no matter how grand the cage,” she murmured.
The fortress carried the heavy imprint of old Valyria.
Every wall and tower seemed shaped like sleeping dragons.
Stone beasts snarled from the battlements.
The whole place radiated power and threat—the kind of strength that made lesser men lower their eyes.
Six months had passed since Visenya began training Jon in earnest.
In that time she had watched the quiet, stubborn bastard boy become something far more.
He carried himself like a prince now.
He had the makings of a king—better than either of her own bloodline’s extremes.
Maegor had been too brutal.
Aenys had been too weak.
Jon balanced both sides in a way that satisfied her.
She glanced sideways at the boy walking beside her.
“I never asked,” she said as they climbed the steep stone steps.
“Who holds Dragonstone now?”
“Stannis Baratheon. Robert’s younger brother.”
Visenya’s eyes sharpened with interest.
“Tell me about him.”
Jon answered without hesitation.
“He’s a hard man. Brilliant tactician. Iron sense of duty and justice. During the rebellion he held Storm’s End for a full year against Mace Tyrell’s siege. No help, no food. They ate rats and worse. If the northern army hadn’t broken the siege when it did, Stannis would have started on the dead.”
There was real respect in Jon’s voice.
Stannis was the kind of enemy who never broke.
“And what does that matter? In the face of true power, even the proudest king will kneel. Or he will kneel to you, in time.”
She reached over and roughly ruffled his white-gold hair.
Jon made a face but didn’t pull away.
They reached the open gates of the castle and stopped.
A woman stood waiting for them.
She had long silver-gold hair and wore an elegant, knowing smile.
“You’ve gotten old, Visenya,” she said lightly.
“And you still look like a girl playing dress-up, little sister.”
Rhaenys Targaryen’s smile widened.
Visenya’s hard expression softened despite herself.
“It’s good to see you again, Rhaenys.”
Rhaenys stepped forward and walked with them.
“I suppose you already know why I’m here.”
Visenya gave a short, almost amused sound.
“It’s a long story.”
Rhaenys’s eyes lit up.
“If there’s good wine and music, I’ll listen to it all day.”
Both women turned to look at Jon.
He spread his hands helplessly.
“I can’t make wine. I’ve never tasted it. The best I can do is water or juice.”
Rhaenys accepted that with good grace.
“Water is fine.”
Her gaze stayed on Jon as they walked.
Everything about him screamed pure Valyrian blood and the quiet authority of a future king, yet his posture and movements still carried the habits of a commoner.
She found it strangely endearing and deeply frustrating at the same time.
Jon ignored her scrutiny and simply followed the two queens through Dragonstone’s winding halls.
“By the Black Dread’s name, how did we manage to lose the one thing that actually mattered? Dragons gone, and the dynasty still lasted nearly two hundred years? That’s not luck. That’s a miracle.”
She had accepted her own death easily enough—crushed by her own dragon in battle was a warrior’s end.
But hearing that the Targaryen legacy had ultimately collapsed left her genuinely shaken.
Visenya had already made peace with the news.
Rhaenys was still processing it.
Then Rhaenys turned on her sister with real irritation.
“And you, Visenya! Look what you’ve done. You’ve turned our last legitimate heir into some crude, sword-swinging brute!”
Visenya’s jaw tightened.
“Jon doesn’t need me teaching him courtly nonsense. The boy is sharper than Aegon was at forty.”
Rhaenys gave Jon a long, critical look from head to toe.
“He stands like a peasant. Walks like a peasant. Holds a cup like he’s in some dockside tavern. There’s no presence, no grace, no sense of command. His hair looks like a bird’s nest and his clothes look like he crawled out of a ditch.”
Jon felt heat rise in his face.
He hadn’t realized how many small tells he still carried from his previous life.
Eighteen years bedridden had left marks that went deeper than he thought.
Visenya studied him again and had to admit her sister had a point.
For six months she had taught him only what mattered for survival and conquest—sword work, blood magic, dragon riding, and battlefield command.
Nothing else.
Rhaenys folded her arms.
“Don’t worry, my dear boy. I’ll teach you how to be a real king. Politics. Intrigue. How to move through a court without looking like you belong in the stables. If we leave you to Visenya alone, you’ll end up solving every problem with dragonfire and steel like some brainless warlord.”
Visenya made a low, displeased sound but didn’t argue.
She knew Rhaenys was right.
The boy needed both sides of their legacy if he was going to rule.
Jon walked between the two legendary queens and said nothing.
For the first time since he had entered the nexus, he felt the weight of what he was truly being shaped into.
Not just a warrior.
Not just a dragonlord.
A king.