Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Viserra groaned, a dull ache throbbing behind her eyes. The previous night was a blur – flashes of Targaryen gold and a suffocating sense of sorrow clinging to her like a shroud. To her growing dread, a summons had arrived, demanding her presence at the high council for "wedding discussions." Discussion. Right. More like dictation.
She entered the room, exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin. Various lords and councilmen occupied the high chairs, their voices a droning murmur. The room, once vibrant with Targaryen colors, now felt cold and sterile. The familiar tapestries had been replaced by stark banners emblazoned with the seven-pointed star, each glint a mocking reminder of her new reality.
Alicent Hightower, the queen, sat at the head of the table, the seven-pointed star pendant at her throat catching the light. It seemed to mock Viserra with its brilliance, a constant reminder of the woman who orchestrated all this. Viserra felt a surge of anger, hot and unwelcome, but quickly pushed it down.
"One moon," Alicent declared, her voice dripping with forced sweetness. "That's what the king desires. Viserra and my son to be wed with all haste."
Viserra scanned the room, a desperate hope flickering in her chest. Aemond was absent. They hadn't spoken since that night after dinner in his chambers, a night she couldn't quite grasp. A sliver of fear snaked through her. Shouldn't her betrothed be present at such discussions?
"Where is Prince Aemond?" she forced out, her voice tight. The room fell silent, all eyes turning towards her. The councilmen exchanged uneasy glances. A sudden, horrifying realization dawned on Viserra. She was alone in this viper's nest.
Alicent's smile faltered for a brief moment, a flicker of something akin to annoyance crossing her face. "The prince is at the sept, I believe."
Viserra clenched her fists, the urge to scream a primal defiance rising within her. "Convenient," she muttered under her breath.
The rest of the meeting was a blur. Dates were tossed around, arrangements dictated, all without a single word directed towards her. She felt like a pawn on a giant chessboard, her future being moved by unseen hands.
When the meeting finally concluded, Viserra practically stumbled out of the room, a wave of nausea washing over her. Ser Gregor, her sworn protector, stood waiting by the door, his massive form a comforting presence in the midst of chaos.
"How was the meeting, princess?" he inquired, his voice a low rumble. Viserra forced a smile, the effort leaving her feeling hollow.
"A monumental waste of time," she sighed, her voice heavy with despair. "Next time, I think I'll take refuge in the dragonpit. At least the dragons don't play politics."
