SEE HOW IT SHINES

III.

126 AC.

The moon is still visible against the deep blue blanket of the sky as Viserra makes her way through the castle, though the first calls of morning birds are already drifting in through the windows in their strange harmony. The servants she passes on her way to the kitchen greet her with small nods, unsurprised to see her haunting the halls at such an hour. Princess Viserra Velaryon has always been an early riser, and in the seven years she's lived on Dragonstone, they've grown accustomed to her morning routine. Cook has a folded cloth waiting for her in the kitchen, filled with honey cakes, bacon, and sliced apples, but the kindly older woman swats at her with her wooden spoon when she tries to take an extra piece of meat for her dog. Viserra may be welcome in Cook's domain at any hour, no matter how busy the staff may be, but Sȳndor—near as large as a small pony and a shameless glutton, gifted to her a year ago from a visiting Norvoshi magister—is not. She grins, deftly sidestepping Cook's weapon of choice, and darts out of the kitchen. She slips the choicest piece of her own bacon into the hound's large black maw as they continue down the stone-and-obsidian halls of the castle.

By the time she reaches the small inlet by the Dragonmont's sea-facing mouth where she and her brothers dock their boats, the sky has lightened to a hue reminiscent of the Velaryon sigil, tinged with faint oranges at the horizon. Sȳndor races away from her side to engage in his own morning routine: digging in the dark sand until his fur is caked with filth, and tormenting whatever crabs and critters he can find. Viserra unties her small skiff and lets a gust of wind fill its sail, shivering slightly despite the already-warm summer morning. She drifts out into the bay slowly, chewing happily on her breakfast. With the breeze in her hair and the smell of saltwater in her nose, the nervous roil of her stomach ceases almost immediately. The sea has always calmed her.

And between the dream she had last night and the chaos sure to come in the day ahead, she can use all the calm she can get.

She'd dreamt of him again, that black-hearted, unwelcome visitor. She hates when she dreams about him. Nearly seven years have passed since she last saw him, and she's built a life blissfully, blessedly free of him—or, as free of him as possible. No matter how long they spend apart, they are still tied together...and as it always does at the turn of the year, their bond feels more inescapable than ever. Tomorrow is their nameday. She can never not think about him on their nameday.

She shakes her head as if to clear him from her thoughts, and leans back against the bench on her skiff, letting the salty spray of water wash over her. She's determined to be at peace today, despite the madness that will descend on their little island in a matter of hours. New year celebrations are an old tradition on Dragonstone, brought from Valyria with her forebears, and Rhaenyra has taken to throwing lavish parties to mark both the turn of the year and her daughter's nameday. No doubt her mother is already awake and fretting over preparations for the feast, and will soon send someone out looking for Viserra. A flash of irritation fills her veins, and she guides her skiff further out into the Blackwater Bay to buy herself a little more time.

She loves her mother. Truly, she does. She loves her entire family: she loves the twins—her cousins, no, sisters—and the two new brothers Rhaenyra birthed in quick succession after she remarried, Aegon and Maelor, and certainly Luke and Joff, and even Daemon. She loves them fiercely, loyally, deeply. It's just that—

Sometimes, she hates their expectations of her. She hates that she is expected to take care of the children when her mother and Daemon are occupied, as if she's not still half a child herself. She hates that she is expected to know better about everything, and can never make the same small and silly mistakes as her siblings. She hates that she is expected to lead, never follow, never falter. In lessons with Septa Amarys, or Maester Gerardys, or the Dragonkeepers, or the dancing instructor brought from Lys: Viserra must be first and best and brightest. She must be perfect. And although perfect is all she's ever wanted to be, Viserra has grown to hate the concept.