"Now give me, Viserra, the words and the sigil of House Hightower as well as their location and their overlords."

Septa Alayne speaks of that particular Reach house as if the Red Keep is not already cloaked within the rich, velvet verdant of the Hightowers, as if she cannot count the number of Targaryen guards in patrol of her room in comparison to the dominance of Hightower soldiers that have flocked to King's Landing. The septa herself possesses origins within Oldtown herself and Viserra seems to sniff the slight bias though not an utterance of defiance is to pass her lips.

"Their sigil is a white tower with flames at the top and their words are 'we light the way.' Their seat is at the High Tower in Oldtown, which is in the Reach. They are sworn to House Tyrell of Highgarden."

Viserra has draped her gaze over her nails that have been finely manicured and painted with the turquoise of House Velaryon — a color far prettier within her sights than the forest green of the Hightowers.

"Very good, Viserra." Her comment is dry, as much of a sneer towards Viserra as it is a praise, for she has yet to actively search for common ground that would not so differentiate themselves from one another. "Shall we attempt another, more obscure house to test your knowledge?"

"Examine me as you may all, Septa Alayne. It is not my place to defy you." Her gaze is demure and seemingly placated with a tilt of her head in the direction of the long weathered pages and the ancient binding of the book — though she intends not for humiliation to wash over her with such ease.

"Name me the attitudes of House Farwynd." A tinge of smugness upon the septa's chapped lips, subtle and resentful glowering darkening her already dark brown eyes.

"There is House Farwynd of Seaskin Point in the iron islands, but they have several cadet branches and lands from Great Wyk and beyond." Viserra begins simply, her tone kept as light as a song, as if ignorant of Septa Alayane's most blatant dismissal.

"Thes lands include Lonely Light, the smallest of the iron islands and the westernmost reach of the kingdoms. House Farwynd of Lonely Light emblazons their arms with an orange background, a red sun, and a black ship and seas in front. They are naturally sworn to the Greyjoys."

The septa's cheeks shine with the scarlet of the red sun that Viserra had just spoken of, disbelieving of the words that had been parted from Viserra's lips. Temperamental and laced with a cruel streak, Viserra had been long aware of the septa's need for humiliation of those under her instruction — before her marriage, Helaena had been a particularly favored victim of Alayne's intrusions and bullying — or so she had been in the words of Helaena.

"You speak as if you know of every little detail of every house there is in the kingdoms." She has turned to that same attitude of snideness, her dark eyes rolling far in the back of her head in exasperation of Viserra's demonstration of the knowledge. "That information will do you little good as a wife to a little lord."

The flames of her annoyance are stirred deep within her soul, certainly Viserra had held no expectation for the slightest of praise from the septa, but the rudeness that is outright and condescending has struck at her like a dagger stained with poison.

Even the contempt of Aegon had not been so blatant and forward — and ironically he has presented himself with polite manners that are becoming of a royal prince (even if merely for the instructions of his lady mother).

"My lady mother would like me to have a fine education. I should be well read and knowledgeable — I should not be ignorant of the cultures here." Viserra begins her defense, the image of Rhaenys brightening her mind, further accompanied by the memory of both Laena and Laenor assisting her in reading her first words and writing her first letters in the earliest of her years.

"I do not see why such education is important — that is the education of a queen, or a queen consort." Viserra feels her fingers curling into her gown with each drop of a taunting word, as if a dragon is breathing rage into her very soul. "Surely the queen who never was does not have ambitions to seat her only remaining daughter on the throne from the woman who was judged to be unworthy by the Great Council."

False words. A truth that never existed. Rhaenys had not been judged to be unworthy of the throne, no, had she been discarded in the favor of a male heir , the elder legitimate grandson of Old King Jaehaerys.

Viserra would dare speak the truth that the worthiness of her mother is a thousand— no ten thousand King Viseryses — but Viserra must play kind and polite, for she is but a foster child of House Targaryen and not truly a prince or a princess of the house.

"That is a vile lie, Septa Alayne, and you know it so." A voice that is practically a growl, fingers further curling into the silken skirts of her gown, and breath harsh against her lips.

"My lady mother, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, is most certainly worthy of the Iron Throne — it is because she was a woman that she was not chosen."

"Is that what she tells you, Lady Viserra?" A particular, embittered emphasis upon the title of 'lady' that precedes her name, perhaps an emphasis on the station that Viserra possesses in life. For Viserra is not truly a daughter of a queen, but of a lord and his princess wife.

"What could you ever mean by that, Septa Alayne?" Her inquiry is kept formal, her voice saccharine with his sweetness, a demure disguise of the flames that are further and further stoked by the septa's instigation.

"Perhaps your mother tries to convince you of that lie to avoid the truth that she was not worthy to be named queen. Parents, after all, must have a pristine image in the eyes of their parents."

Viserra's vision is painted dark scarlet and moments following the septa's accursed words she hears screams of fright.


The cool breath of the winds are soothing against her skin, the tears that had staind her cheeks have been long dried by the kisses of the sea's breeze and the curls of her hair are a blur of white gold with the wind's merciless playing with them.

Her emotion guided reaction had wrought unwise actions against the soul of a holy woman and she merely possesses all too much awareness of the consequences that are to follow her singular punch against the perfected target of the septa's features.

Viserra possesses only the highest regard for her mother and she's of the belief that it is a worthy goal in defending — though she had been brought to such tease of frustration for the insults that dared to part the septa's lips that control of her fist had departed from her conscious thinking.

Would she return to Driftmark a fool disgraced by the actions that had been completed without her thinking — a streak of hotheadedness that would drive her mother to merely shake her head with shame at her only remaining child? Viserra possesses neither the grace of Laena nor the charm of Laenor, there's a clumsiness to her that has her struggling over her only two feet, a step taken forward before there are stumbles backwards.

The presence of Seashine provides a soothing comfort, her kindred soul in the form of a turquoise scaled she-dragon, the heat of her body very much a contrast to the early summer's cooler evenings, and there is little fear within Seashine to speak of her mind in the presence of her rider.

"Hush now, Seashine." A trail of her hand along the smooth surface of her dragon's turquoise and cream scales of her neck, Viseera's soft words as much of a comfort as her strokes. "I know that you feel as upset as I do, but that does not mean you can disobey me and send us hurdling to the waters."

Seashine informs her of her disapproval with a snorting that rumbles deep within the back of her throat though she has yet to dare defy the words of her dragonrider. She is continuous in her efforts of the comfort of her dragon as they soar through skies of pale pink of the evening, the dragon's brief display of distress a reflection of her own. Seashine seems to return to her more amiable nature and the task of soothing her dragon gifts her the kind of tranquility that showers her mind with clarity.

Certainly far removed from the girl who had taken to fleeing the Red Keep in a mess of tears and rage painted on her features, vision soaked in the humiliation of her actions — no matter the proper justification behind her punch of the woman upon her nose that had already been broken long ago.

Viserra had taken flight on Seashine in avoidance of initial confrontation following her blind assault and to reflect over the potential consequences that are to follow once the king and queen learn of her most disgraceful conduct in their home. There is no singular intention within her to depart King's Landing for Driftmark without a word spoken to her gracious hosts — a stout refusal to sully the Velaryon name with further dishonor.

"We'll have to return to the Dragonpit I fear." Her breath is light and words even lighter as her body is leant against the heat of Seashine's body, and a dip of her head is the revelation of the clambering sprawl of King's Landing just below the wispy clouds. "I do not wish to be tried when I have not a word in my defense."

Seashine provides little in the way of argument though her head bows in the direction of the city that appears to be a miniature model at these heights in the sky. It is indication that in spite of the dragon's reluctance, there is readiness in her to follow any command that would leave her mistress's lips.

"Sōvēs, Seashine! Back to the Dragonpit we go."

Seashine roars her response before her slender body delves through the air in the descent that Viserra had pulled with her reins — Viserra takes enjoyment in the belief that she holds true conversations with her dragon through her High Valyrian and Seashine's roars, grumbles, and all of the sounds that dragons make in expression of themselves.

The swirl of the wispy, little clouds are ticklishly soft against the curves of her cheeks and Viserra cannot quite keep the laughter within her lips even despite the accursed mood that has overtaken her. Her reins laced between lithe fingers and the whipping of the curls of her hair behind her even more rapidly with the descension, Viserra allows her eyes to flutter to a close and soon becomes enveloped in the the unmatched joy that curls around her heart each and every time she takes flight on her beloved Seashine.

Perhaps the addition of a familiar pair of arms curling around her waist, warm and ever tenderly soft against her in spite of the cool leather of his clothing, would be the merest thing to sweeten the feeling of flight

The descent upon the city and in the direction of the Dragonpit is made most obvious by the permeation of the stench that clings to the buildings and citizens alike as if moths that have been drawn to flames — most certainly unpleasant in nature, however as dragonrider within the city, Viserra has long grown used to the dirtiness that had once plagued her nose, especially when in comparison to the fresh, salty smells of Driftmark.

Seashine's arrival upon the solid ground of the Dragonpit comes far too rapidly for her tastes, though no longer is she in torment over her rash punch of Septa Alayne — for she will take responsibility of her actions as is just but she shall not allow herself or her mother to become subjects of the waspy bitterness of the Septa's words once more.

"Wish me the best of luck, Seashine. I hope that I will be judged fairly."


Viserra finds herself little knowing of the expectation of the sight that is to greet her upon her landing within the Dragonpit but there is a swirl of ideas within her mind — a host of men of the kingsguard to arrest her, the septa herself awaiting her arrival with a crooked nose and bloodied robes — but all sought her punishment in one way or another. Certainly no expectation for a lone presence in the emergence near Seashine's clawed feet, cloaked within dark leather, and a face beloved to her sight.

"Aemond!" A breath of shock flushes her dark cheeks as she carefully unchains her body from the saddle atop Seashine's back, strain appears upon Aemond's features though Viserra cannot spy the worry from the anger in the fresh lines that have appeared on his youthful face. "What are you doing here?"

"I was one of the first to learn of that bitch septa's words." The tension has made Aemond's jaw taut with an anger that goes unspoken and there is a danger that lingers beneath each movement stiffened in nature, and she catches a glimpse of teeth gritting between his lips. "I had feared that you ran off, never to return."

His choice of name for Septa Alayne brushes surprise over her features, pallid eyebrows raising delicately as she slides from the saddle and boots landing upon the rocky ground in a manner as ladylike as her dragon. There's a darkening of her cheeks in her remembrance of the thought of riding with him, his arms having taken her into his embrace, just in time for the rapidness of his approach — strides kept long and quick as he arrives at the side of Viserra.

"Well, I am back here and now." The smallest of teasing smiles graces her lips in contrast to the strain that has remained upon Aemond's tightened features. "You're here waiting for me — you knew that I would come back."

Aemond has long possessed the ability of reading into Viserra's emotions and the depths of her personality through the years, merely growing with inquisitive knowledge more and more — not that there is a regret to be found in sharing her secrets with him.

"You are very much like myself in that regard, Viserra. Devoted to duty despite the obstacles." Aemond utilizes a tone of formality that is strange to Viserra — for in typical interactions he always utilizes a warmth in his words with her no matter the teasing that may depart his lips. "You could not leave without giving an answer to the king and queen."

"You've always been inquisitive like that, Aemond. Especially when it comes to me for no particular reason."

It's meant to be a slight tease that delivers lightness on their conversation and just as Viserra is to place her hands upon her hips, in the next moment her body is drawn into the arms clad with dark and verdant leather, and finding that she is sharing a space far more intimate than what had been in her expectations. The soft curves of her body now melding against his own body that has been kept stiff, his fingers coursing over her back in a quickness that reminds her of desperation — as if it is an assurance to him that she is present there, that she is within his arms. Her breath has been stolen away, not even the lightest word upon her lips as her forehead is graced with his lips, even for the merest of butterfly kisses at her hairline.

"Would it have truly pained you to say a word about that cunt's treatment of you, Viserra?" His voice taken by the thickness of an emotion unlike any other, his singular eye closing with his pallid forehead arriving to rest against her own.

"After striking her?" Words part her lips between breaths quickened by her chest that has been poured with butterflies at the closeness between herself and Aemond — not an inch in separation between their foreheads, and affection laced in each movement as nuzzling movement presses against her. "I would rather not cause more trouble."

"Not all of my family are so dishonorable — I would not have let such insults fly under my command." Passionate words that are spoken half an inch away from her lips, his breath warming the air that is between them with the continuance of his forehead resting against her own. His wandering fingers have settled upon the curves of her hips with a grasp of assuring firmness that serves to anchor her against his body and yet with the tenderness as a lover would hold their beloved.

"And what would you have done, Prince Aemond?"

The simplicity of the question posed merely extends the intensity of his words, his lips warm against the graceful curve of her cheek and eyelashes butterfly soft as they caress her skin.

"I would have the bitch's tongue throat out for speaking far above her station. For addressing with such ill respect." His words are harsh against her skin and his breathing is uneven as he subtly urges her further against his body — so close it is as if they're one.

"Such a harsh punishment over something so petty." Her words are light, breathy laughs against his face, the slightest of groans parting her lips as Aemond further nuzzles his face against her own with affection.

"You are a lady of House Velaryon. I'll have you not be insulted." Lips pressing against her cheek, his words end with a tender kiss against her skin, ever so brief but ever so wonderful that draws a flame of warmth from within Viserra's heart.

"You're quite demanding, my prince." Soft murmurs and eyes half lidded with the gentle amusement in reaction to the prince's ferocity, trailing careful fingers upwards over his lean torso so she may curl them around his collar and draw him closer.

"I do not think it irrational to demand retribution for those insults." Simplicity in his explanation and though Viserra has yet to feel the intensity and the need for retribution as he does — she mutters not a word in defiance. Her face dips in just a slight movement below for the allowance of her warm brown skin to be rained upon with soft, fluttering little kisses.

"And what would your mother say of your hunt for retribution for her ward?" Softly gentle teasing with the raise of her gaze in greeting of the familiarity of his smirk that has unfolded upon his rosy lips, fingers raising from his collar to caress the smooth lines of his jaw, ever tender and with genuine affection. "She would object to any sort of bloodshed in her domain."

"My mother need not know of that callous cunt in her own household. The matter is taken care of and your honor is avenged." He lavishes a kiss atop of her forehead. "There is nothing more to speak of."


The words exchanged with Aemond spoke nothing but the truth, for Viserra does not encounter a singular inquiry upon the matter regarding Septa Alayne even from the other septas that are bustling about the Red Keep with their once watchful eyes shaded by terror at the sight of the secondborn prince.

Aemond's fingers are firm as they grasp her hand within her own but she minds not the firmness as she is guided through the labyrinth of red stone halls, and rather her cheeks warm with the thoughts of this small affection they are duly allowed.

"Where are we going, Prince?" Her words are tinged with genuine curiosity for it has been a long while since her last entrance into the suite of rooms that are the personal quarters of Prince Aegon and the youngest, Prince Daeron.

"Daeron wishes to see you before he departs for Oldtown. I promised that I would deliver you." The mention of the youngest of the Targaryen children raises Viserra's pallid brows for he just had been in her thoughts.

"He could have asked me himself if he wished to see me."

"He saw you running out of the study with that cunt septa and complained to me." A squeezing of her hand, though she is not quite sure if it is with affection this time or some unknown emotion. "He did not believe he could say his goodbyes."

Her teeth sink into the softness of her bottom lip, the feeling of shame seeping into her soul accompanied by the thought of the potential consequences of her selfishness.

In the moments she had departed from rational thinking, there had been lack of thought for both little Daeron and Helaena — two of the companions closest to her in the years she had been fostered within the confines of the Red Keep. But she allows not for her emotions to display upon her features, as she does not wish to ruin the mood of happiness that is a constant within Daeron's chambers.

"So that is how you found out about the septa, yes?" Viserra inquires, voice kept quiet, her feet clumsy and struggling in their attempts to match the graceful strides of the long length of Aemond's legs. "Through your brother?"

"He had told me that you appeared rather upset and that the septa left the rooms with a bloody and now crooked nose. Naturally I inversited the incident."

"Responsible as always, my prince."

Upon reaching the rooms of Daeron Aemond releases her hand from his own but not without one lace grace of his fingers along her palm before his hand is raised against the great oaken door to rap a clear, loud knocking that is certain to earn the boy's attention. They need wait merely for a moment before there is a turn of the golden gilted handle and the door swinging open in revelation of a handsome boy of roughly ten summers, with curls the color shining platinum, and eyes that are the perfect reflection of deep sapphires.

"Brother." A polite nod of his head in greeting of the elder son before his sapphire violet gaze drifts to Viserra and shock coloring his cherubic little features. "Viserra, you're here!" And without a touch of hesitation to be found, his slight body is thrown into her arms.

"Of course I am." There is no greeting but genuine warmth in her voice, slender fingers curving through his bright curls that are nearly a reminder of her nephew's hair. "I would not have missed you for the world."

"I thought you had left because of that septa but Brother said you'd be here. He promised!" The childish lilt of his voice rises in tone with excitement and peering to the domineering figure of Aemond that is at Viserra's side.

"Your brother is not a breaker of his promises. Here I am, before you are set to leave." Her own eyes drift to Aemond who wears an expression of genuine fondness for his youngest sibling, a hand coming to tussle the pale curls of his hair.

"I would rather lose another eye than break a promise to you, dear brother."

"Aemond is so dramatic." There is no recognition for the genuine tone behind Aemond's words, though the elder brother seems not to mind the childishness of his brother of ten and two. A snicker departs his lips as his hand curls around Viserra's own and she is brought into the fold of Daeron's rooms. "More dramatic than the ladies at court I think."

"Very bold of you to speak of your brother this way right in front of his presence?"

The grandness of Daeron's rooms is evident within the lush furnishings of dark verdant velvet and furniture of the finest rosewood that could have been merely imported from the other continent and crafted by the most skilled of the craftsmen of King's Landing, ornate in design with carvings towers and dragons, the roses of the reach, and the seahorses of her own house. Rooms most befitting a prince of the Targaryen and Hightower bloodlines, quite lofty in nature, and constructed from marble the color of jade.

"Oh he's well aware of the way I speak of him!" A tongue pokes through his lips in display of his childish, carefree nature (though in truth, he is ever courteous and the ideal picture of a princeling in the presence of the public). "And he can't do anything about it!"

"One is never too old to be attacked by tickles." As proof of his threat, Aemond's hands are raised in the motions of tickling, and his face is one of pure amusement.

"No!" A declaration of boldness is declared from Daeron's lips before he rushes behind Viserra's body, fingers curling into her skirts as if she serves as a shield to him. "You'll have to get through her before you get to me!"

"Use me as a sacrifice for your brother, will you? How very knightly of you, Prince Daeron." Truly she does not mind in nature, laughter overtaking her lips.

Though, once her eyes are lifted from the small hands that clutch at her sides, she comes to meet the intensifying gaze that Aemond has laid upon her. The flicker of desire is subtle in the lilac hued gaze and with a suddenness she feels as if she needs to strip herself of her garments, of her dress in the burn beneath his gaze, and the flames once more returning to her cheeks. Her gaze lowers once more but the flickering desire within his eyes never seems to depart from her body.

"Be careful of your words, Daeron. I just may follow through with what you say."


Aemond remains in accompaniment of Viserra when it grows late into the evening hours, the sun having long departed into the horizon and the night is navy shadows and the glittering silver of the stars. A great many hours had been spent in the company of Daeron before the entrance of his governess to usher him into bed — but merely upon a promise that Viserra will be in attendance of his leaving of King's Landing for the seat of his mother's house, the Hightower of Oldtown.

"I shall miss his presence. He is truly a delight."

Viserra muses, her words light on her lips as she is mindful of those within their rooms readying for bed. There is little notice of the curve of Aemond's arm about her waist, his fingers featherlight at her waist.

"The most cheerful of us lot, I must admit." This time she is afforded a natural pace of her strides, she does not stumble nor does she struggle on their way to her chambers. "I suppose that is why he is Mother's favorite and he is being sent to Oldtown."

"You truly believe that?" A fluttering blink of her eyes, peering at him from her shoulder. "That Daeron is the queen's favorite?"

"There is no doubt that my mother loves all of us in equal parts . . . Even if some are not as worthy of her love." The bitterness is swallowed within before a return to a neutral turn. "But Daeron is her youngest, he is truly her baby."

"It is easy to love Daeron — he is charming and he is the picture of a perfect princeling." The sweetness of her smile does not dissipate but it evolves into a smile more serious and meaningful as she leans to entangle her fingers within his own. "But I do know that you're as worthy of love as he is — you're beloved by many. . . Even if it can be difficult to see."

"You're very pretty with your words, you do realize that?" Now they've both paused in their steps on their way to her rooms, his free hand coming to tuck beneath her chin with tenderness and thumb pressing across the skin of her chin. "I know my value among my siblings and my parents. . . What I wish to know — how do you value me?"

In a swear to herself, Viserra knows of her answer the second the words have departed his lips, a declaration that she well knows will bind herself to him with ribbon invisible to all save for themselves. But even an utterance does not form on her lips and in shame her gaze is torn away from him, searching for interest in her feet rather than his features. Though Aemond in spite of the silence that curses her does not find offense and instead has leant his head in towards her, lips and nose buried beneath her silver gold curls.

"A vow would look pretty as a formality but that bashful expression of yours is even prettier. I like it when I can make you feel like that."

Viserra merely desires to screech with surprise at his words and cure the warmth he continues to draw within her, however she is not afforded an opportunity with the arrival of a new presence within the halls. Upon their instincts, both herself and Aemond are standing away from one another a few feet in an instant — the hunched shadows of a figure draped in long robes soon revealed to be the figure of Archmaester Orwyle.

"Prince Aemond." If there is shock to be displayed at the presence of herself and Aemond into these late hours of the night, the typically severe maester does not express the emotion. A deep bow is given as due respect of Aemond's position but most curious enough — the maester is taken by concern with the presence of Viserra herself.

"A raven had been sent for you, Lady Viserra." From his wide, thickly woolen sleeves he draws a letter that has been curled into a scroll, a bow of black tying it together. He places it within her fingers, no further words as he departs from the hall, as swift as he had arrived. "From Dragonstone it had come."

Upon the maester's swift departure, with both her burgeoning curiosity and the silent encouragement of Aemond, fingers untie the bow and unfurl the small scroll in revelation of its contents:

Beloved Good sister,

I do hope that my father and my stepmother have treated you kindly in your fosterage at the Red Keep. I write to you because I wish to extend an invitation for the celebration of Joffrey's third nameday to be celebrated on the eighth day of the eleventh month. He is your youngest nephew and your other nephews, Jacaerys and Lucerys, would hope to see their aunt as well. Your mother and your nieces will be in attendance, and I do know how eager they are to see you once again. Consider your family and how long it has been, I know that my father will provide you his blessings to go.

Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone

It seems to her that a visit to Dragonstone may be in order.