Deze afbeelding leeft onze inhoudsrichtlijnen niet na. Verwijder de afbeelding of upload een andere om verder te gaan met publiceren.
"The siren will swim towards the storm."
__
Viserra could feel her loneliness surrounding her, consuming her within its esoteric embrace.
That is the issue, for it always has been there.
She felt ever so painfully empty inside. It's almost as if something that's meant to be there is missing. Yet, she does not know herself anymore. She cannot remember who she is or who she used to be.
She is a mere ghost. Simply existing within a collapsing world that had already began to gnaw at her since she screamed her way into this world.
She can't remember what lights her up inside or what puts a sweet smile on her face. All she knows is that there is an emptiness within her that she can't seem to fill. She can no longer recognise the withering girl in the mirror, she has become a stranger to herself.
She keeps on asking who she is, but she never answers back.
(She could not stand herself anymore.)
Pathetic girl
Rhaenyra gripped the ivory hairbrush tighter, its smooth surface a stark contrast to the tangled mess she was trying to tame. Viserra's platinum blonde hair, usually a cascade of silky waves, resembled a battlefield after a dragon's fury. Each knot was a testament to the journey, a silent scream trapped in the golden strands. The girl flinched with every stroke, her usually bright lilac eyes dull with exhaustion, or was it something deeper – fear?
"Did the Maester see to your hands, my sweet dove?" Rhaenyra's voice trembled slightly, betraying the storm brewing within her. A deep frown etched lines on her forehead as she saw the raw, split knuckles peeking out from beneath Viserra's sleep-tousled sleeves. Her heart ached – a physical pang that stole her breath. This wasn't her Viserra. Her eldest daughter, usually brimming with life and spirit, now resembled a fragile porcelain doll, chipped and broken. This wasn't how a princess, her heir, was supposed to look.
Viserra winced again as her mother's touch grazed her scalp. "Yes, Mother," she mumbled, voice barely a whisper.
Her gaze drifted down to her trembling hands, the stark contrast between the pale, unblemished skin and the angry red gashes a constant reminder of her ordeal. The exhaustion that clung to her like a shroud wasn't just physical; it seeped deep into her soul, a weight from the endless tears she'd cried the night before. Tears that wouldn't erase the phantom handprint, a cruel purple stain marring the delicate skin of her neck.
Rhaenyra clenched her jaw, a surge of fury twisting her features. "He will answer for this," she hissed quietly, a low growl escaping her lips. The image of the handprint, a brutal mark of possession, ignited a fire in her belly. He would pay dearly for daring to lay a hand on her daughter.
