Viserra is graciously gifted two choices in the hours preceding her departure for Dragonstone — she is to accompany Jaenerys on his voyage on the Lady Valaena or Aemond is to fly Vhagar along with herself and Seashine, both on account of her night of ill rest. Her eyes are heavily lidded and even the merest task of dressing herself within her riding leathers is a chore — there's an understanding within her for the concern of the prince, though a touch of resentment may bristle within her.

"My mother would not mind if I am absent for a day or two." The simplicity of his explanation offered both before Viserra and Jaenerys with the last of her trunks stowed away in carriages in deliverance to the ship.

"It would not inconvenience me if my cousin were to accompany me aboard the Lady Valaena." Jaenerys counters, pallid eyebrow raised against his dark skin, for he knows very little of the king's younger children.

"Truly, I encourage her to sail rather than fly. She adores the sea the most."

"Seashine, her dragon, is exercised and flown regularly. I suspect that she would have more than a mere rude awakening to not fly for twenty days at the least." Aemond's insistence returns in repetition, a smile that speaks of danger plastering upon his lips though his hands may remain twisted behind his back in display of his control. "She would miss her mistress to say the least."

"Twenty days is quite short in the lifespan of a dragon, Targaryen." Jaenerys's words are not quite sneers, for there remains a somewhat resemblance of a sort of politeness. "I am certain that her dragon will do well without her for three weeks."

"You are not a dragonrider if I may remind you, Ser Jaenerys—"

"I am already dressed in my riding leathers. Prince Aemond may accompany me on Vhagar." She is more weary of the arguments than she is weary for lack of sleep and she has the preference of Aemond not drawing blood with his spiked words and attitude of dismissal. For all of her cousin's differences to his lord father, he possesses the same streak of pride as Vaemond. "The prince will demand no more of you."

Both Jaenerys and Aemond part their lips in continuance of their arguments but it is a glare from her expression that stiffens their backs and shushes them into a silence tinged with tension and the exchange of glares between the two temporarily rival men. Jaenerys takes her glare with far more ease and acceptance of her words with a dip of his head in respect to her wishes, his expression painted with tranquility and not at all reflective of the annoyance that openly flicks over the features of the young prince — for all of Prince Aemond's passionate fires, Viserra thinks of her cousin as the cool depths of the water, not a refreshing coolness but one that would chill bones into ice.

"Very well, cousin." His pallid brows part, the lines upon his dark features no longer prominent because of the annoyance drawn from the argument, rather a smile is soon to replace it and nod furthering his understanding. "I will respect your wishes. But should you require any one thing on the journey, please do not hesitate in asking."

"Thank you, Jaenerys." Though fleeting, Viserra returns his smile with one of her own even if it may seem that she's taken by exhaustion. "I pray that we have decent weather for a flight and voyage to Dragonstone." An addition just before his departure for the docks, for Seashine can be rather particular in flying through storms and lightning.

"Our three days of flight and voyage should make for a pleasant trip. There is no presence of storms or building storms in the bay that we are aware of. Besides, it is not in season for particularly violent storms or rains. I do not worry for our trip there."

"Thank you. You have been most helpful."

There is one final nod of his head and faint recognition of the prince that holds his place next to her before Jaenerys takes his departure in preparation for the upcoming journey. It had been an argument solved by her words and her determination of her own choice to fly or to sail — however there is the wondering curiosity within her of the possibility of Aemond drawing a sword on her cousin for his refusal in bending to his opinion.

It would not deliver her great shock if the prince had drawn his sword out of his hilt in the attempt of a duel — his passions and emotions are what guide him in his thinking, though her logical cousin would not have dared away from a challenge.

"I regret to tell you this, Aemond, but you would not have survived both rounds of wit and martial combat with my cousin." Her body turns to him now, her fingers now curling over her hips in display of her disapproval. "He is logical as you are passionate and he was trained to fight off the fiercest of corsairs — he would not have spared you mercy."

"Very proud of your cousin you are." Rather than a spark of anger within him, Viserra's words have drawn a curiosity from him — the potential of Jaenerys as an opponent of worthy sword fighting that is not present within the walls of the Red Keep. Even as one of ten and seven years, he had long surpassed the skills of Ser Criston Cole himself, the one to be known as the most skilled of the Kingsguard and the one who had personally trained him. "It sounds as if you would wish to see a duel."

"Oh?" This time the amusement plays colorfully upon her features with a tilt of her chin upwards in playful defiance and a nearly daring expression. "Jaenerys would not be opposed to a challenge by a worthy opponent."

"Perhaps I could prove my worth to House Velaryon by defeating their strongest sword fighter."

"You would have your hands full with Jaenerys as an opponent. Despite your argument, he would definitely respect you afterwards if you manage a good fight." There is a tone of bittersweetness to her laugh that follows.

In the case of Aemond proving his worth to her house, just how much would it matter if she is to be wed to a member of House Hightower?

Aemond wishes to fly from King's Landing to the beaches of Dragonstone and not a singular mile less than that — in his words, he has informed his mother of his escort of Viserra to the island ruled by her good sister, with the justification that Viserra should not be alone in the skies.

Though there could never be a person brave enough in daring to question the loyalty to Alcient, he perhaps displays a streak of defiance with his insistence that he accompanies her for the entirety of the trip to the island. Viserra knows very little of the queen's desires for her son but she possessed less than a heart to provide an argument against his own.

"If Vhagar grows grumpy while flying for three days then you have only yourself to blame." Viserra had made the comment with faux sarcasm as she was in the process of the finalization of Seashine's saddle of dark leather and metallic material, one last final assurance of security and the safety of the chains.

"It will do her muscles some good to do an extended exercise of flying I think." Warm murmurs of tease had been pressed into the plaits that she had braided atop of her head as she had not wished for her arrival to be marred by a mess of her hair.

"Seashine is youthful and she is fast. I hope that will not be difficult for Vhagar to manage." The warmth of his leather clad arms had been bound against her waist as had drawn her fingers over Seashine's turquoise and pale cream scales that are so beautiful beneath the gentle light of a cloudy day.

"Are you truly worried for my Vhagar or are you teasing me in truth?" A press of his lips closer to her ear, a teasing brush of his warm breath and in spite of the revelation of her impending wedding, Visera allows him the privilege of her ear. "Is it me that you wish to challenge?" Words that had been spoken in a tone of teasing danger, her back drawn to chills despite the warmth of her leathers wrapped about her body.

"Aemond . . . " A whisper of his name that had just been above her breath, nearly laced with a certain desperation that drew her breath to lightness. "Remember. . . What I told you last night."

"You must take me for a little lord if you believe that I care that our mothers have drawn up some silly little agreement over a marriage that may or may not take place." Cruelty had lined his words but certainly not directed at her, but it had been a display of his demonstration to go into aspects of rogue should the situation call for that.

"And remember what I told you as well. Until you walk out of a sept with vows made before the Seven — which may or may not come to pass — you'll be mine."

Then she had been drawn into his arms for one more touch of their lips that felt as if it was the searing of a fire — intimate and burning at her soul with passion.

And so the gigantic shadow of verdant and lithe wings the color of aged copper is in domination of the skies just above Seashine , the sight of the silver gold of his hair but a tiny blur in the skies of bright azure. Seashine has taken to liking the lower altitude of flight, there is not any danger to be sensed with flight over the open waters of the ocean and the coolness of the waters is a brief comfort against the warmth of the sun upon her scales.

Though Vhagar may remain dominant in size and in her combat ability, Seashine is the definition of swiftness and agility — she has made quite the show for Vhagar and Aemond with her flights just below Vhagar's belly and curling high into the sky as if constructing gigantic loops about the nearly ancient dragon.

Viserra cannot help herself with the joy of her demonstrations before the great and mighty Vhagar that had been the dragon of her elder sister. Seashine had once been a tiny, straggling little baby of a dragon that had merely clung to the reaches of life and now she has developed into a most skillful dragon, with the ability to change direction upon a singular command of Viserra's lips.

Vhagar appears to be little bothered by the displays of the far more youthful dragon though Viserra does attempt to spy the reactions of Aemond from her vantage point, though the tearing winds and the spray of the sea's water in her vision, it is nigh an impossibility. Though she allows laughs to fall from her lips in equal fashion, with little hesitation to express her happiness for being amongst the refreshing waters of the ocean and atop of her dear Seashine — two things that she holds closest to her heart.

The sea is an endless painting of deep azure waters speckled with foamy waves that are colored white and that lap at one another and should she hear the ocean above the rush of the wind within her ears, she would find comfort in the peacefulness that are the waves, quiet and gentle upon her hearing. She minds not the saltiness of the water that clings to the curves of her cheeks nor the way her hair will smell of salt — not at all, for she will smell like she is a true Velaryon whose heart belongs to the sea in truth.

"We're really flying over the sea again, Seashine." Another caress of Seashine's turquoise and white dappled scales, endlessly affectionate and devoted before Viserra pulls herself upright in the saddle, another mouthful of salted ocean air pulled in a breath and relief pouring right out.

Should she perish in the future, she would find it most peaceful amongst the waters of the ocean, to return to the sea as her ancestors did — not as her siblings did, drowning in the turquoise darkness until she is no more. Perhaps it is a thought tinged with morbidity, but it is a genuine wish of hers to return to the sea once she passes on.

Though she is no possession of plans in joining her siblings quite so soon following their own abrupt deaths — she cannot bear imagining wringing the tragedy over her parents once more.

The sands of Dragonstone's beaches are made of medium dark sands laced with rocks from its jagged coastline that resembles more the scales of a dragon than a coast. Viserra had thought it best to land upon the beaches with Seashine in allowance for Jaenerys to dock the Lady Valaena at the small harbor that is south of the castle itself — and in consideration of the fact that there would be a more than icy family reunion should her good sister lay her sights upon Aemond and the gigantic shadow that is Vhagar.

"Three days of flight and you are as pretty as ever." The teasing that is drawn from Aemond's lips is light and mischievous as Viserra comes to realize that one of her plaits sticks to her face, wettend by salty water and fringed with now loose curls.

"You are not so handsome yourself, Pretty Boy."

No hesitation in the return of her tease, brow raising as her gaze falls upon the half of his tresses that seem stuck to his front and half the tresses that appear stuck upon the back of his shoulder. He does not wear the salt as well as her, for his eyes quint at the taste of the salty water that catches between his lips by way of strands of his hair falling into his mouth.

"By the Seven." A curse of foulness departing his lips and she cannot help the amusement that touches her expression — Aemond Targaryen is no man of the sea. "I should have put my hair up."

"That is what three days of sea will earn you." Laughs Viserra, as if she is all knowing in her wisdom. "And it was your idea to accompany me if I must remind you."

"Yes, so you remind me." The bitterness that spews from his lips does not linger for long with Viserra's approach, amusement tied to her face but providing a willingness to help. Though she may be cloaked in the same salt and wetness as him, she dons the sea as a gown of pride — she is all the more beautiful for it, as if a lady of the sea. "Though it may be worth it in some regards."

"What do you mean by that?"

Before there is even a second to spare, Viserra is drawn into the warmth of his salt covered arms, dark lips meeting his pale ones in a kiss that tastes of the sea — salty and wet but it is refreshing and the merest thing she feels is joy. Fingers curving into the tight leather of his clothing, lavender hued eyes fluttering in closure and tilting her head in easier access for him to adorn her lips with the affections that she has so craved ever since the queen had presented to her the news of her potential marriage.

The sweetness of this kiss is all that Viserra has ever wished for — the one selfish deed that her heart has found longing for.

"I always had wished to know what the sea tasted of." The heat of his murmurs that do not part her lips, remaining moist against her lips as if it is feeling so unbearable to be part away from him. His thumbs arrive to caress ever so tenderly the softness of her chin with expression of his adoration almost with a tone of desperation — but most definitely a need that has long occupied his body.

"And. . . What do you think of the sea?" She dares not to pull away from her but inwardly she presses her head, lips against lips and whispers teasingly tickling him.

"It is pleasantly delicious. . ." Murmurs are now being pressed against her cheeks as she is adorned with butterfly light kisses. "Perhaps I should like to taste more."

"Fair warning. . . The salt of the sea water often deprives you of nutrition. It does not quench your thirst like freshwater."

"Well. . ." Laughter against the skin of her neck barren of clothing. "I may just have to ignore that warning, yes?To go against my best interests."

Viserra finds herself in great desire to indulge in these brief, little pleasures that never fail to draw up the excitement in her — to pursue the forbidden and selfish wants of her heart . . . But alas it is not so as her slender hand presses against his leather bound shoulder in display of her gentle rejection, she knows that she must wear an expression of tension laced concern.

"What is the matter?" The question is pressed to her temple, genuine and sweet — for all of the arrogance that is Aemond's brash nature, he never feigns his concern. "Are you not feeling well?"

"I cannot allow myself more of this devotion. . ." Words now turn into murmurs and in contrast to her words, her fingers curl into his sleeve as if to keep him close to her and cheek just brushing the corner of his shoulder. "I know what you said at King's Landing. . . But I am loyal to my family, I cannot risk being disgraced over a love I cannot pursue."

There is low confidence afflicting her words and in spite of the gathering tension from her admission, she has been gathered in the long lengths of Aemond's arms, serving as a protective cage against the world that would not see their love as love but as blasphemy against the wishes of their families. His body is taut with the rigidity that is reality even though there is his attempt in his provision of comfort and reassurance for the future they wish to be shared with one another.

"Perhaps you are even more devoted to your mother than I am to my mother."

"I cannot afford to disappoint her or my lord father. I am their only remaining child, I must bring pride to my house."

"A fatal flaw I must say." A calloused thumb runs about her lower lip, heartbreakingly tender, a devotion that she imagines herself that she cannot bear to be apart from. "It is foolish that they did not consider you us. . . It would truly unite our houses — true Targaryens born from true Velaryons."

Viserra is taken with such weariness that she does opt for an argument against his slight towards her good sister Rhaenyra, merely does she press her cheek against her shoulder, sigh light and tired as Aemond rests his chin atop of her head.

"Your mother wishes to unite Hightowers and Velaryons. Who am I to go against it?"

"I would not dare dream of forcing you, Viserra." Words lower to a tone of deepness that is indication of the severity of his statement, his arms possessive around her body, and another hand softly intertwined within her hair. "But perhaps if you allowed yourself the freedom. . . ." His voice drops into silence near immediately, as if a dismissal of his idea. "It is afternoon and you are exhausted, we should head to the harbor to meet your cousin."

"It's not that I don't wish to be with you. . ." An interruption provided by a gloved finger against her lips and tender expression on a face that is usually taken by something dark and dangerous — it nearly draws her to tears.

"I know, Viserra. I know."

Viserra possesses little remembrance of the time that passes between Aemond's deliverance of her to Jaenerys in the little harbor town that clutters the south shores of Dragonstone, and where her cousin had docked. It is a blur of gray and darkness, for there is little color to be found within the confines of this island itself — but most oddly to her, the kiss upon her forehead and his soft little nothings of goodbye to her are the merest things to signify that he had taken her to her cousin.

Her vision then becomes a myriad of darkness and the shadows of different shapes that play beyond her eyelids, body strangely damp with a wetness that does not quite belong to the sea.

The moment next most vivid in her memories is the time that she awakens from the darkness with a sudden urge to her heart — a bolt nearly violently drawing her up from the bed that now contains her body. The room is the furthest thing removed for luxurious — a construction of dark obsidian and pale stone that would have appeared pretty would have been properly carved and not left crude — it is more intimidating than it is comforting to her.

At the very least the wool blankets that cloak her body within warmth are a comfort and the pillows had been divine against her head that is strangely heavy as she had raised herself from a lying position.

"Daughter, you are awake." The sternness of her mother's voice has dissipated into one of deep concern, the shadows of the dragonlike room now revealing Rhaenys Velaryon in all of her glory, silver hair loose around her shoulders and dressed in simplicity, with but a blue green nightgown. Relief is most evident upon her wrinkle streaked features as she kneels against the bed, calloused fingers curling through the curls that lay loose against her pillows.

"What. . ." Confusion overtakes her perspective and in these temporary moments, the resentment towards Rhaenys drifts into the depths of another mind. "What happened?"

"You fell ill once you arrived on Dragonstone." The explanation provided is simple, though Rhaenys appears every year of her age, her hair now truly silver more than the silver gold of her youth. "Jaenerys brought you just in time for the maesters to care for you."

"Was . . . Was it bad?"

Her thoughts remain a swirl of blurs within her mind, though the concern that presses at her is for Aemond — had he been accompanying her when her body was stolen away by this illness? Had her family happened upon his presence on Dragonstone?

"The maesters did not think it was fatal, but it was a high fever that did give them a scare. All of us a scare, really." Rhaenys towers over her daughter to press her lips against her forehead in a kiss. "You were asleep for two days."

"That is even longer than I have ever slept back on Driftmark."

"If you are well enough to laugh as well as that then you can hear my scolding." Even so, Rhaenys remains gentle and ever delicate with the daughter clutched by the sickness that had overwhelmed her. "I've a good idea that it came from flying so close to the waters. Your body and your clothes were soaked through when Jaenerys delivered you."

"You know that I cannot help myself, Mother." A smile sheepish in nature curves her lips as she feels a healthy warmth return to her cheeks, slow and beckoning. "I love the sea."

"Even so. I would have still expected you to practice common sense when flying on your dragon." Her voice never raises to a yell, as Rhaenys never had been one to yell, her voice kept in firmness but with enough compassion that she is merely scolding and not punishing.

"I suppose that I allowed my excitement to overwhelm me."

"And I suppose that is something that we shall need to work on. Emotions can be dangerous." Her sigh is not one of exasperation, but it is one that is knowing of the harm of too many emotions, whether they are supposedly positive or if they are negative. The Rhaenys that Viserra has known as mother has portrayed the portrait of tranquility and elegance even in her riding of her dragon Meleys — so it is a curious thing for Viserra to wonder if Rhaenys had been ever as foolish as her.

But there is a matter in requirement of her addressing that takes precedence above her curiosities.

"Mother, you did not write to me of my supposed engagement to Ser Lucamore Hightower." Viserra minds not any weakness that may possess her voice now that her head is dissipated of its heaviness and clarity has made its return.

Rhaenys becomes frozen in her movements upon the suddenness of Viserrra's revelation, her face a portrait of surprise. Though she does not wear the shock for long and recovers her composure in time for her to draw a chair from the vanity that is located to the side of her bed so that she may address the concerns of her daughter.

"A recent development I must admit. But it is a development." Though her words are made to sound as if they are a reassurance, Viserra is no more reassured by this explanation — however she is not here to demand one in anger.

"Could you have not written me. . . At the very least?" Hurt is most obvious within each of Viserra's words, not quite a betrayal of trust but certainly an intrusion into her lifetime of a decision stolen away from her.

"I was going to inform you when you were here." Her admission is not enough to rouse Viserra from her depression but then there's an arch of Rhaenys's brow in confusion of Viserra's own statements. "Who told you of this engagement, Viserra?"

"It was Queen Alicent herself. . . She even introduced me to Ser Lucamore himself. It was the night before I departed King's Landing for Dragonstone."

"Seven Hells. . . " Her mother's murmurs descend into words that do not grace her hearing. "She told me that I was the one to inform her. She promised me that."

Viserra thinks Joffrey makes for a child of exceeding beauty with his long curls of chocolate that bounce with each little joyous step he takes and the darkness of his eyes that remind her of the warmth of an hearth — certainly not the coloring of a Velaryon but he is her family in nature. In truth he may have been fathered by her good sister's sworn protector but she views little Joffrey and his brothers as her own, adored nephews in addition to her sister's daughters who are merely a few shades younger than herself.

"See, Joffrey likes you." Her second nephew explains as he wields a sword constructed of wood in his right hand, his pale fingers clasped tightly around the hilt.

"I think it is because I have some sweets in my hands."

Indeed she holds two small yet delightful lemon cakes within fingers of one hand as the other hand is managing the nearly three summers aged Joffrey in his attempts to climb upon her lap and wrangle one of the sweets for himself. Though the cuteness of his tender, chubby little fingers is far more difficult in resistance — perhaps she'll gift the cute boy half of one of the miniature cakes in appeasing his cute demands.

"Well, Joffrey does not particularly like Daemon even if he has food." HIs tone is said in a matter of fact way, with pride obviously taken in his observation of his youngest brother's personality.

"Toddlers can be rather fickle, yes?" Viserra hums her response as she gifts a broken half of one of the lemon cakes to the toddler who now has taken half her lap, his little legs floundering in the air. "But never when it comes to sweets."

Joffrey returns with a squeal of excitement with the lemon cake shoved into his mouth with not a touch of hesitation before he is throwing himself off of her lap and running for one victim or another of his adorable smiles and persuading, if stumbling words.

"Mother says I was an angelic toddler." The brag leaves Lucerys's mouth with bright clarity, as if he wishes for all his other siblings to hear — the sword is long forgotten in light of their conversation, now resting propped against a rocky wall.

"I remember that you were not nearly as loud as Jacaerys." It is with a warm fondness that she finds remembrance of these memories, she had been but a mere slip of a girl herself come the birth of her first nephew, her little hands folding over her ears at the loudness of the babe's screams and demands through the nights.

"I'll have to tell him that you said that."

"Oh, please don't." Her voice is half weary as she argues against the boy's mischievous ploy in stirring trouble between himself and his elder brother — though it may be trifling and laced with playfulness, she well knows that genuine trouble could arise from the simplest of jokes. "All of you, my nephews have been wonderful gifts to the world. I treasure all three of you more than you could ever imagine."

She draws the youth into her awaiting arms, the chocolate of his curls and the rosiness of his pale cheeks so far removed from their Velaryon heritage — and yet she adores them so. Laenor had spoken often of his complete and utter adoration for the three sons that Rhaenyra had given him — even if the truth of the circumstances of their conceptions never left his lips, he had loved them as his own.

And so she loves them as her Velaryon nephews, just as she adores Rhaena and Baela, her nieces from her sister.

"You're a sweet boy, yes. Shall we remain that way?" Fingers ruffling through the thick curls of his hair with affection.

"If only for you, Aunt Viserra."

It would have been a moment of warmth and bonding uninterrupted if not for the slamming of a door wide open, a clattering to her ears that is all the more painful. Her mother has swept into the room, hair loosely braided and her expression painted with panic that does not spell out good news for them. She has parted from Lucerys within an instant, rising from her seat and the remnants of the lemon cake taking no place in her worries — she knows not what kind of devastation to expect from her mother's words.

"Rhaenyra has gone into labor."