Trials of Fire

They call my uncle the Anvil.
They call my betrothed the Brightflame.
They call my brother the Young Prince.

They do not know what to call me.

I am Visenya of House Targaryen-seventeen years of age, only daughter of Prince Baelor Breakspear and Princess Jena, sister to Valarr, granddaughter to King Daeron the Good. Where my father and brother wear their brown Dornish blood plainly in their dark hair-Valarr marked with that curious white streak behind his right ear-I bear the old Valyrian look without apology. Silver-white hair. Storm-grey eyes. The blood of the dragon written clear as flame.

My father, Baelor Targaryen, is heir to the Iron Throne. My uncle, Maekar Targaryen, broods at Summerhall with his sons-Daeron the Dreamer, Aerion Brightflame, Aemon the upcoming maester, and little Aegon. My brother Valarr stands one heartbeat away from being Prince of Dragonstone.

And I-

I am promised to Aerion Targaryen.

Promised since I was ten.

The realm sees it as a strength-binding the lines of Baelor and Maekar closer still. Fire braided into fire. But the court whispers. They always whisper.

They whisper of Aerion's cruelty.
They whisper of Daeron's dreams.
They whisper of Maekar's temper.
They whisper of my father's mercy being mistaken for weakness.

And soon, they will whisper of Ashford.

The great tourney at Ashford Meadow will draw every knight with a scrap of pride and every lord with a hunger for spectacle. Hedge knights seeking glory. Princes seeking dominance. The smallfolk seeking distraction. My father says it is a celebration of peace beneath King Daeron's wise rule.

My uncle says tourneys breed folly.

My betrothed says he will make them kneel.

I have seen how Aerion smiles when he speaks of kneeling.

I do not yet know that I will meet Ser Duncan the Tall.
I do not yet know that little Aegon-Egg-will follow him.
I do not yet know that a single act of cruelty beneath a bright tourney sun will fracture our family before the eyes of the realm.