𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓 [𝗥𝗼𝗯𝗯.𝗦]

8

THE POINTY END

ALYSANNE, Visenya, had given up quite quickly at throwing her sword around as if it could cut through the air with no trouble in sight. Perhaps it was foolish of her to do so, but her anger got the best of her. It didn't last forever, and in the end of all things, she could only be grateful that her uncle had taken her in. Hiding her away from a man that would've only intended to kill her. She could be glad that such a thing as that had been done. She didn't even want to think on the possibility of what could've happened if he hadn't. Visenya couldn't help but doubt she would even be alive. King Robert's hatred was great and well known, nobody would've saved her.

Her rage had slowly dwindled into what she knew could only be acceptance. Visenya collapsed on one of the soft plush seats that decorated parts of the room. They certainly looked Targaryen, with carvings of dragons and red cushions decorating them thoroughly. They were comfy to sit on, Visenya would give them that. She honestly didn't know what to think of her father's family. The Targaryens had quite the brutal family history. She honestly didn't know whether to applaud or run for the nonexistent hills. Perhaps the latter would be more preferable.

The room was silent, and perhaps, in a sense, Visenya despised it more than she thought possible. Her mind was a mess, as was her identity.

She leaned back, her pale white silvery curls caressed the soft chair in which she had relaxed upon. Visenya looked every bit of a Targaryen, on a chair of red and black. She didn't stay there for long, restlessness was a trait that had been hard to remove , even as a young girl. She couldn't truly sit still for hours. It had always made her rather uncomfortable, as a bastard she had gotten away with it. For nobody truly paid attention to the natural born daughter of Eddard Stark. Although, with her obliviousness, Visenya had yet to realise that was a personal lie. She was admired by many of the northerners. Beauty was a tragic thing indeed.

Visenya smiled slightly as she walked towards the numerous shelves of items, and they were all beautiful in their own right. Truly, they were. It was a shame they had to be hidden down in this cold room, away from the treacherous greedy hands of King Robert. A man who knew nothing of kindness, and had little generosity within his heart. This couldn't have been anymore obvious.

The glinting blue gems that decorated some of the old books were not to be admired. In most cases, they would. But Visenya had found herself despising the mere thought of blue. It was the colour of Lady Catelyn's eyes. And Visenya hated the mere thought that the woman was her aunt. She'd never look upon her in the same manner again, should she feel sorry her uncle had deceived his wife? Perhaps. But even then, it was Catelyn who had taken it upon herself to verbally abuse her stepdaughter. There was cruelness in the world, and Visenya learnt that from a young age when she carried the mere name Snow.

The only other woman that had hated her as much as Catelyn was Lady Arryn. They both seemed to have a strong belief in the matter of bastards. Even though she now knew that this wasn't the case with her, for she was Princess Visenya Targaryen. But that did little to change the truth, bastards were mocked and scorned for something they had little control over. She desired above all to make sure nothing like that should ever occur. You were only ever a daughter or son of a Lord. No matter who you parents where, such young children didn't deserve scorn for the matter of their birth. Something of which they had no control over.

Lysa Arryn was a horrible hag, and unlike her sister, Lady Catelyn. She held little beauty and the son in which she had conceived was no matter. She had only met the boy once, and he had been too sickly to do anything but talk. And he hadn't said much, as the words that had been spoken were taught from the lips of his mother. He was a child, she couldn't put the blame upon his own shoulders. Not yet. It was simply the way he was raised.

But past all the books and their scattered crystals and gems, was a dagger. Visenya clutched it tightly in the palm of her hand. Examining the symbols and golden carvings that decorated the handle.

It is rather beautiful, she thought.

There was something to the blade that she couldn't quite remember, as if she'd seen it before. A very long time ago. The memory was faint, but it was there all the same. And even the mere touch of it was powerful, there was something that lingered within the silver of the blade. A force that couldn't be described or talked off. She knew nothing of magic, but she felt, more than anything else, that this dagger held great mystical properties. What they were, she couldn't say. For Visenya hadn't be trained to recognise magic at its strongest point.

She clutched at it tightly, praying to the gods that it would keep her safe. And she didn't doubt it in the slightest, for there was something coming for her. She could feel it in the air.

Somebody wants me dead, she thought.

Alysanne, or Visenya, she still had yet to get around the new names that had been so kindly presented before her. Although, they truly weren't new, considering her mother had graced them upon her. It felt wrong, in a sense, to use the name Alysanne for that would be going against her mother's wishes. But she certainly wasn't used to Visenya by any means. She wondered if it was her Targaryen bloodline that allowed her to feel the magic of things, or what she suspected to be magic. She knew it existed, the dragons from the past were an example of that. She hoped, one day, to see magic in the flesh. But she doubted such a thing would be so. But as any young girl dreamed, she could hope.

And hope had always been a rather beautiful thing.

Magic was something she had always dreamed off, whether it was the beauty of fire or the elegance of ice. It had been dreamt of more often than not, fire had always been a form of magic and Visenya believed that truly. But ice and snow, it was something else. A form of coldness that came upon the winters and all of which it could be.

Visenya hoped to never see a winter, and coming from the North many could understand that. In the South, winter was cold, but they didn't always get snow and ice. But merely the cold winter breeze.

But it wasn't simply the winter that held magic, it was also the summer, autumn and spring. They were all as powerful as the other. Or, this is what Visenya liked to believe. For how could they not be? Winter was death, Spring brought life, Summer was the fruits of life and joy, and Autumn spoke of new beginnings and the end of many stories to come. All around, Magic was everywhere. Visenya knew it was so.