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BATTLE FOR WESSEX
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| THERE SHE STOOD AT THESIDELINE OF THE BATTLE, an onlooker to the slaughter that would soon unfold. Her dragons were far from sight with her brothers stationed to the side at the front —this is no place for 14 year old she thought. All the horrors of the true world placed upon her shoulders.
Then with only the anxious beating of her heart filling her ears, she watched as the two armies started running towards each other with nothing but hatred fueling them. Men of all sizes and ages clashed together and yelled at the top of their lungs—their faces scrunched up in anger. Viserya stood frozen on the side as she watched her brothers clashing with the saxons. The clanging and clanking of swords, the shouting and the crying all mixing together as one.
Instead of turning a blind eye, the young Targaryen crept forward bringing herself even closer to the enemy soldiers and the slaughter that was being unleashed.
Hatred plastered across her face, but inside she was just a frightened child—never knowing what it was like to fight in a true battle. A part of her wanted run and hide but the other wanted to fight, to stand her ground. Viserya was here for revenge of the death of her stepfather. She couldn't run away like a wimp, that's not the Dane way.
The young Targaryen tightly gripped her sword, struggling to hold up as it weighted so heavy, making her arms tremble from the unbearable weight. The sword could have well weighted more than herself. Nevertheless, she held ready to strike anyone who came close. Unlike her, Björn and Ubbe cut men down one by one like they were nothing.
A man out of nowhere charged at her and she swung her sword trying to remember the training that Björn and Lagertha taught her. The muscles in her arms ached as the sword bore down upon the man. It sliced clean across the man's armor right through his chest sending droplets blood across her face. The man let out a cry of agony before falling to the ground with a thud. Viserya stood there, her chest heaved and her body felt drained. She slowly glanced down to the sword, blood slowly dripped down the silver Valyrian blade. She didn't like this feeling, the killing—it wasn't who she was.
She regained her confidence and held the sword up once more. A sword so well crafted and made of Valyrian steel —a sword given to her by Father Beocca. Her father's sword... The ancestral sword of House Mormont gifted to Jon to become their family's ancestral sword.
