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Viscerra clutched the crimson silk of her gown, the vibrant colour a cruel mockery of her mood. Each heavy step through the rain-soaked yard sent a fresh wave of mud creeping up the hem. She was to be married. Married. The word echoed in her skull, a relentless drumbeat. To Aemond. The mere thought of him, his arrogant smirk and cold lilac eye, sent a tremor of disgust through her. A loveless marriage, a gilded cage. But duty, that ever-present serpent, coiled tight around her throat. Family. They needed this alliance, this political pawn she was forced to be.
The familiar scent of damp earth and moss filled her senses as she reached the training yard. The place of her childhood memories, once a haven of laughter and scraped knees, now seemed shrouded in a melancholic fog.
"Smaller," she murmured, the rain blurring the edges of the yard. Was it truly this cramped? Or was it her own heart that felt constricted?
Jace, ever the optimist, bounded ahead, a carefree smile plastered across his face. "Exactly the same!" he exclaimed, pointing towards the weathered stone wall. A long, jagged scratch marred the surface, a testament to Luke's youthful folly. Five years old, attempting to wield Ser Criston's morningstar – a weapon meant for a man twice his size. Viserra couldn't help but smile at the memory, a bittersweet pang in her chest.
"See, Luke? I told you it would still be here! Thought you were some kind of hero, huh? Almost lopped your own head off!" Jace chuckled, ruffling his brother's hair.
But Luke's gaze remained fixed on the ground, a shadow creeping across his brow. Viserra's smile faltered.
"What's wrong?" she knelt beside him, concern lacing her voice.
He shuffled his boots in the mud, avoiding her eyes. "Everyone's staring," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken anxieties. Finally, Luke blurted out, "They wouldn't... wouldn't whisper if... if we looked more like Ser Laenor. More Velaryon and less Strong."
Jace scoffed, a flash of defiance in his eyes. "Doesn't matter what they think."
Viserra squeezed his shoulder, her touch grounding him. "You are a Targaryen, Luke," she said, her voice firm yet gentle. "That's all that matters. Blood of the dragon. Never forget that."
A flicker of pride ignited in Luke's eyes, chasing away the doubt. A small, hesitant smile touched his lips. The rain continued to fall, but for a moment, a semblance of peace settled over the siblings, a fragile shield against the storm brewing around them.
The thunderous roar of the crowd and the clang of clashing steel ripped through the training yard, pulling the three Velaryon siblings around. Jace, ever the impulsive one, bolted towards the source of the commotion first, his cloak billowing behind him. Viserra and Luke followed more cautiously hand in hand, a mix of curiosity and apprehension etched on their faces.
