Title: "The Drums"

Summary: Visenya Targaryen smiled.

Pairings/Characters: Visenya Targaryen mostly, it's set during the taking over of Westeros.

Warning(s): It does get pretty dark, so be prepared. If incest, and blood isn't your thing, then maybe you shouldn't read this.

Author's note/Disclaimer: I do not own any of the book series A song of ice and fire, or the characters. Just wanted to write some fic for Visenya. So here you go.

The taste of rust was a familiarity that she had grown accustom to, whether it was upon her tongue or her blade, it did not matter which. She could glide the tip of her steel into the belly of a beast and still smile upon the carnage that was the arena. The Warrior Maiden lived for it, though those words would by no means be whispered to his grace. And as she smiled, blood smeared her chest when a man groped and choked on his own blood, trying to cling onto life desperately as his brother might have. She continued to kneel as if in prayer, knee down into his marked chest, though the Gods were deaf there in her arena. As the last gasp and whimper fell out of the creature that was known as man, fingers shoved that already loose hand away without a succeeding glance.

The whispers seemed to thrash away like the drums of war in this battle. Bada, bada, bada boom. Her heart raced, thrilled as ever. She listened to the echoes, each thunderous beat that screamed. King Aegon and his blood sisters, whispered throughout the very same lands. It tickled her if truth be told, deep in her own belly, it tickled. Like a quip from a court fool, or the noise of ribs breaking when she stepped on a fallen man in battle.

Her hair was lengthy, with most of it stuck to her unblemished mug, through all that blood, it was no blow. A smile remained on her lips all the while, as her sword gutted a Stark. She smiled, like the Maiden of stories, of legend. Also Visenya thought it fair enough, he'd die slowly, with the image of the Maiden who slayed him in his memory. Was that not merciful?

She lifted her head, seeing the shadow that flew overhead. Her brother's dragon wail echoed, it made her weak in the knees, full of anticipation. The smile that had been once fair and full of something graceful, turned into something far more sinful, those darken eyes depraved with how they stared at the beast. She had a dangerous grin. She let her grin fall, and her eyes were not a girl's, but a Targaryen's.

A warrior charged at her, his intent obvious.

Her scream was not in fear, but like a dragon's.

Rage.

The sort of scream that would chill even the Doom in Valyria.

Visenya moved fast, arm hitting the man's nose. It snapped violently to the left, just as she rammed her sword through him, under his ribs, and out his back. Her body pressed against his, warmth spread through them both. Blood for him, excitement for her. She tells herself this man would have cut down Aegon without a second thought. Blood for blood, no?

Still embraced with the enemy, Visenya felt her heart continue to race. She was panting heavily, eyes wide and dark; those eyes stared at the battleground, at the smoke from the fires. Her eyes could have been described as fairly vacant as she tilted her head back some, to look into the man's widened eyes.

She gradually stirred, her hand upon the man's back, akin to her brother might a fellow ally, to support him—though Visenya was doing more than congratulating this man. Save for if she was congratulating him on falling to a Targaryen, on him dying. She began to move her hand around the handle of her sword. Visenya slid her sword out of him, further than leisurely, to make him feel each distinct second of it.

The Targaryen stared. She blinked once or twice, "Am I not merciful?"

The man managed to spit blood in her face.

She did not flinch. Her expression was blank, void of emotion then, and she saw the man's lips move. She could barely make out what he said to her.

"I…I have honored…my Gods, woman. Where are…your Gods…Aegon's…whore…"

"Aegon's whore." She tilted her chin up some, as one who was proud would. She would have been called arrogant. But her expression stayed the same, "Is that what they will whisper at your pyre?" Visenya chuckled.

"Oh, you shan't have one. An error, forgive me"

She leaned in, her eyes nearly shutting, her hand upon the back of his neck, even as he fell. Her fingers stroked the back of his neck, some of his hair, like a mother, or a lover might. She knelt with him, his body began to relax. She stroked his neck, "Where are your Gods now, man?" She whispered into his ear, her voice like a kiss.

And the ground shook fiercely beneath her; she opened her eyes more so. She stood and let go of the fallen warrior, her eyes upon Vhagar who had landed. The dragon watched her carefully, her hand upon his nose. It felt cool. She looked down at the man she had nearly forgotten, and all but beamed.

"This is a war of conquest, Vhagar." She nodded; her smile could be mistaken for warmth. Her dragon roared, her eyes lifted, "And Targaryens take what is theirs." The fires grew throughout the night, and still she smiled.

Visenya smiled, oh, how she smiled.