SEE HOW IT SHINES

iii

Grief lingered long after Viserra grew tired of it. As did anger. In the first years after Kepa's death, anger came quickly and left slowly, burrowing in her bone marrow and making a home for itself in her veins. She'd only ever been a seahorse, once (before the incident, before Kepa died, before before before), but a new aching bitterness staked a claim to her after, intent on making her a dragon.

And she knew then, after, that she'd been a dragon all along. Because–

Well, it was a terrible thing to admit, but when she thought back to the night of her aunt's funeral, her palms shoving hard against Aemond's arrogant little chest, her slippered heel pinning his arm down, her protective fury finally raging freely–she no longer felt guilt for what happened to him. She felt justified. He'd insulted her cousins (sisters, Vis, they're your sisters now) and laid a hand on her brother, and she'd do anything for Luke, anything; and what had she done, really, but defend her family? No, she would not be made to feel remorse for her actions, or for Luke's, not even by herself. It was her duty, after all, to protect her brothers and sisters. She would suffer a hundred more blows to the head and watch her uncle lose his eye a thousand more times if it meant he couldn't hurt them anymore.

The poets were wrong. Grandsire was wrong. She was wrong. There was no beautiful, fated bond between Viserra Velaryon and Aemond Targaryen. They were not destined for any joint greatness, or any goodness at all. They simply shared a nameday and a few drops of blood. Grief lingered, and anger did, too, turning her harsher and sharper and prouder, a far cry from the sweet, gentle thing she'd been before. But what use did she have for softness after? Softness was mornings with Kepa, the rhythmic lapping of waves against his skiff as she recounted too-real dreams and too-salty bacon, the patient plucking of harp strings as she practiced a new dance for his approval, the murmur of qeldlie against her curls as she asked for another story before bed. Softness was at the bottom of the sea with Laenor Velaryon.

Until Raya.

Viserra had been listening to Daemon drone on about fighting maneuvers when the raven came. Almost as soon as he arrived on Dragonstone, Daemon sought to turn her into a warrior, insisting that she attend his lessons with Lucerys and the twins. ("My girls have had swords in their hands since they could walk. If you're to be a queen, Viserra, you need to be able to defend yourself," he'd scoff, tapping the flat of his sword to her leather-clad back and ignoring her protestations in the training yard.) It didn't matter that she had no desire to learn how to handle a weapon–or that Rhaena was also a miserable and reluctant student, and both girls were much happier with instruments or needlepoint in their hands instead of wooden blades. The Rogue Prince was determined to make little Visenyas out of his daughters and step-daughter, and would simply not take no for an answer.

"Forgive me, my prince," a servant interrupted hesitantly, shuffling his feet on the edges of the training yard to avoid the lethal tip of Dark Sister as Daemon swung it around menacingly. "Princess Rhaenyra has requested everyone's presence in the great hall."

Lucerys looked up with a bright curiosity in his dark eyes, glancing excitedly between the serving boy, Daemon, and his sisters. Rhaena and Viserra, who had been listlessly clacking their practice swords against one another to appease the Rogue Prince, each raised a brow in mirrored silent questions. Baela hurriedly threw her sparring blade down and all but ran to the hall, always the most adventurous of the children, more eager than her siblings in learning of the world beyond their island. The rest trailed after her, Viserra at the head of the pack, unwilling and unable to keep her mother waiting. They found Rhaenyra standing next to the hearth behind the Painted Table, young Aegon against her hip and a scroll in her free hand, her lip worried between her teeth.