"Wake up," a voice pierced through the darkness.
"Who?" Visenya's voice trembled.
"Let's go."
It seemed like only a fleeting moment since Visenya had closed her eyes. Yet now, her uncle stood by her bed, wearing the same expression as when she left the dining room. In his hand, he held a cloak.
"Let's go," he urged, passing her the cloak as she rubbed her eyes. His demeanor was resolute.
"Where are we going?" The rising sun aided Visenya's vision. "Will Baela and Rhaena be joining us?"
"No."
They descended the castle stairs and made their way to the backdoor leading to the town. Visenya stopped abruptly.
"I don't want to return there."
Daemon continued walking, ignoring his niece's plea.
"Uncle—"
Daemon turned, placing a dagger in Visenya's trembling hand. Resuming his stride, he walked on, unconcerned by her unrest.
"When you convinced your mother to come and live here alone, you promised her you'd be safe," Daemon began as they traversed the still-slumbering town. "As the crown princess, the daughter of a future queen, and a Targaryen, any harm or slander against you is treason. Do you know the punishment for treason?"
Visenya's mouth dried. She was about to reply when Daemon abruptly halted. They had reached an abandoned stable, the door locked. Methodically, he unlocked it and gestured for Visenya to enter. She hesitated.
The three men from the previous day back before her eyes.
Two lay dead.
Beaten to death.
One survivor—the one she had spared yesterday—his body still bearing the mark of her blade. Visenya's eyes darted between him and Daemon, comprehension dawning.
"No."
"Yes."
"No—" Visenya turned to leave.
Daemon obstructed her path, his presence unwavering.
"Do you know what he did after you set him free yesterday?"
Visenya's eyes welled with tears, her face flushed.
No, please. No.
"She was 15."
Facing the scum, Visenya's fury ignited. His eyes pleaded, his mouth gagged.
I should have finished this yesterday.
That poor girl.
He deserves this.
The dagger seared her palm. Her hands steadied. With resolute determination, she approached him. His movements grew agitated, his cries futile, and then—
A clean cut through his neck.
Valyrian steel always sliced cleanly.
The cries ceased.
The bastard joined his friends in death.
Blood pooled on the ground.
A hand on her shoulder.
"Good."
Visenya turned to her uncle, her hands steady, her heart calm. Why?
"I want to go home."
He nodded, stepping aside. Visenya's hands were stained with blood. Again. On their way back, she paused by a well to cleanse her hands. Gazing at her reflection, she saw a stranger staring back.
A killer.
Blood on her cheeks.
A numb expression.
She kept staring, her hands painting the water red.
"What are the words of our house, child?" Daemon's voice broke through.
"Fire and blood."
"Fire and blood. How do you think our ancestors became kings? How they managed to stay kings for so long? Men fear one thing above all—death. The gods granted us the power to tame Dragons—the creatures that many associate with death. A dragon rider cannot fear death. A Targaryen cannot fear death. Blood is neccesery for the fire to survive"
Visenya shut her eyes, immersing her head in the cold water.
Daemon believed her demeanor changed because she didn't enjoy killing.
In truth, the opposite was true and it terrified her. She relished it too much. It made sense. It felt good.
It felt good knowing those men would never hurt anyone again.
It felt good to take a life that did not deserve to live.
But it shouldn't.
And she wouldn't do it again.
Never.