The Sword and the Storm

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Visenya was not like other girls. As the years passed, it became increasingly clear that she was a force to be reckoned with—a tempest in human form. Her silver hair flowed like molten metal, and her eyes, an unusual shade of blue so pale they nearly mirrored her hair, held a fierce intensity. Even at the tender age of eight, she possessed a spirit that was unyielding and a heart full of fire.

She had grown up in the Red Keep, surrounded by the whispers and shadows of court life, but those things held no interest for her. What she craved was the thrill of adventure, the feel of the wind in her hair as she raced through the castle corridors, and the weight of a sword in her hand as she practiced in secret. For as long as she could remember, Visenya had been fascinated by the warriors who roamed the halls, their armor gleaming in the sunlight. She admired their strength, their courage, and above all, their freedom.

It was her uncle Daemon who first noticed her interest. He found her one afternoon in the practice yard, struggling to lift a wooden sword nearly as tall as she was. The sword wobbled in her grip, and she nearly toppled over with the effort, but her determination was unshakable. Daemon watched her for a moment, his lips curling into an amused smile, before stepping forward to help.

"That sword might be a bit big for you, little dragon," Daemon teased, his voice warm as he knelt beside her. "But I admire your spirit."

Visenya looked up at him with a fierce expression, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I want to learn to fight like you, Uncle Daemon," she declared, her voice tinged with frustration. "I want to be strong."

Daemon chuckled, ruffling her silver hair affectionately. "And so you shall," he promised. "But strength comes with time and practice. We start with something more suited to your size."

From that day on, Daemon took it upon himself to teach Visenya the basics of swordplay. He had a special training sword crafted for her, smaller and lighter than the others, but just as deadly in the right hands. Together, they would spend hours in the practice yard, Daemon correcting her stance, guiding her movements, and encouraging her to push herself harder each day.

Rhaenyra, who often watched their sessions from the sidelines, would smile to herself as she saw the bond between her sister and her uncle deepen. Daemon had always been a bit of a rogue, a man who lived by his own rules and followed his own desires. But with Visenya, he showed a tenderness and patience that few others ever saw.

Sir Criston Cole, recently appointed to the Kingsguard by Rhaenyra, also took notice of the girl's burgeoning skill. Criston was a man of honor and discipline, a knight who believed in the importance of duty and loyalty. He had been wary of Daemon's influence on Visenya, but he could not deny the girl's potential. There was a raw talent in her that could be honed into something truly remarkable.

One day, after an especially grueling training session, Visenya approached her father. She had always been wary of him, sensing the distance that had grown between them over the years, but she had a request she could no longer ignore.

"Father," she began hesitantly as she stood before him in his solar, her voice trembling slightly. "I would like your permission to learn the ways of the sword."

Viserys looked up from the parchment he had been studying, his expression one of mild annoyance. He regarded his daughter with cold indifference, barely concealing his irritation at being interrupted.

"What do you want with a sword, Visenya?" he asked, his tone dismissive. "You are not a boy. You have no need for such things."

Visenya's heart sank at his words, but she refused to back down. "I wish to be strong, like Uncle Daemon and the knights of the Kingsguard. I want to protect those I love."

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