It is currently WINTER in WESTEROS during the year 303 AC. The new moon cycle marks a full twenty years since the Mad King was murdered, and his son King Rhaegar ascended the Iron Throne in his place. Though the year is fresh, war in the Narrow Sea has left the Free Cities of Volantis and Tyrosh in ashes, and the Long Night continues to beckon from the Northern fringes of the Seven Kingdoms. With the Queen Lyanna presumed dead, the citizens of the realms look only to each other for survival.
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Alias: nica
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Feb 12 2018, 02:20 AM
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<h1><crown>princess visenya targaryen</crown></h1>
<h2>19 years old. dark princess. crownlands. shiloh malka.</h2>
<h3>nica. 24. est. discord/pm.</h3>
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<div class="gensmall">burn your fire for no w i t n e s s

It all started with a spark.
A single flash of light, a burst of bright warmth within icy cold. It was a small fist, balled in defiance, a high-pitched shriek, demanding to be acknowledged. A glitter of violet eyes, set deep behind dark lashes, a shock of black hair, stark against white skin. From the very beginning, you were meant to be heard. It was feared your mother would not survive the birth, that you wouldn’t live to see your first moon. You proved them all wrong. A melding of fire and ice, you were equal parts irascible and pensieve, restive and resigned. The sister who followed your birth a year later clung to your mother’s skirts, a welcome respite from your own whirlwind of activity. You preferred to chase after your brothers, escaping your disapproving septa as you challenged the older boys at their own games.
Your mother’s daughter, your father laughed.

Those words lashed against your skin, both praise and curse, pride and shame. You wanted to be like your mother, with her easy laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. To emulate the soft way she gazed at pretty things, to mirror that glint that shone in her gray eyes when she set her mind upon something. And yet, you were something else. It wasn’t the wolf-blood that coursed through your veins as it did through your mother. Your wildness wasn’t borne of fur and fangs. It did not hide in dark, twisted woods, was not at peace whilst bathed in moonlight, could not be calmed with a gentle stroke.


Yours was borne of fire; of coals that lingered, cherry bright, awaiting a breath to set them alight, of a spark that consumes a forest. You were both the candle that offered light, the hearth that offered warmth, and the flames that devoured, the blaze that destroyed. You were the blood of the dragon. But as much as the fire coursed through blood as red as your sigil, ice tempered you. Made you strong. The strength of a blaze was nothing compared to the quiet tranquility of ice, the implacable severity of a glacier. In a word, you were stubborn. A willful child, you reminded your father little and less of the sweet Rhaenys, though you were too young to know it at the time. You were a whirlwind of questions, driving poor Maester Pycelle to distraction, and a whirlwind of activity, your Septa fretting at the tangles in your sable hair, the dirt beneath your nails, the stains upon your gowns. You shunned the company of noble girls your age, preferring instead to join the boys. In your eyes, there was no reason for you to be placed among the meek nobles’ daughters who wouldn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, keep up with your play. You were far more comfortable with skinned knees and dirty cheeks than you were in silks and lace. Prone to tantrums upon failing to get your way, you were all fire as a child.

With time, you developed frost.

It perhaps wasn’t a purposeful thing, when your father chastised your wanton tongue, that he’d dim your blaze. Nor was it for ill. You swore yourself to silence for a fortnight, stubbornly refusing to say a word, much less make a sound in your father’s presence. You’d shake your head or nod, alternatively, keeping your lips a stubborn line. It was quiet Matarys who coaxed you from your self-imposed vow of silence. Home is less like home, he promised you. You spoke again, as if nothing had been amiss, and pretended as if the previous weeks had not occurred. A curious thing happened then.

The egg had been your constant companion from the time it was placed in the cradle beside you. Smooth and violet, metal swirled throughout its surface; as if the aubergine surface had broken apart and was soldered together with molten gold. Whereas another child may have clung to a doll, you were a Targaryen, and instead, clung to a dragon’s egg. Perhaps the beast inside understood a change had come upon you, perhaps it simply knew the time was right, but it hatched then, the dragonling inside scarcely larger than a kitten. If the egg was rarely seen away from your side, the dragon it contained was always by your side. Whether Biaea rode upon your shoulder, or scuttled along behind you, it was as if one soul was split asunder, and placed into two bodies.

<div class="gensmall">but when I look into your eyes,<br> it pieces up my h e a r t</div>
As you grew from a stubborn, fierce girl, into a young lady with piercing eyes, you fit more and more into the skin you wore. You were no longer a wild-haired child, barely distinguishable from the noble boys and knights’ sons, you were a long-limbed young woman. Perhaps you’d questioned your skin as a child, pushed into becoming something you weren’t, but age and ice tempered you.


Wild horses couldn’t keep you from the training yards, where you learned speed and grace like your namesake, leaping from parry to riposte with the poise of a cat. And you were your mother’s daughter, and refused to learn to ride the smooth-gaited palfreys in your father’s stable while side-saddle, preferring instead breeches and the swift coursers the knights rode. And who was to deny you? You were Visenya Targaryen. Princess of the Realm. You got your way. It was just the nature of things. You never lost that spark; that glint of flame hiding behind a bright violet gaze.
You merely learned to disguise it behind a layer of frost.
You’d always loved the cold; the way that the first shock of air stole the breath from your lungs, how your words crystallized in the air, like smoke from a dragon’s maw. There was a peace to the world when blanketed by a layer of white snow. Things were quieter, somehow. As were you. Your tongue never lost that sharp edge, the way your words sliced through air. It merely grew more still. You learned patience; the way that ladies did. Women’s weapons. A sword was not the only sharp object that found its place in your hand; so too did a needle. The work was calming; the way the world reduced to that silver fish jumping through silk, and more importantly, the way you learned to hear and not be heard, to see and not be seen.
But you’d never be completely invisible. Even from a young age, your violet gaze caught the looks of courtiers, of nobles high and low, their tongues twisting compliments, ‘those beautiful Stark locks’, before murmuring ‘she hardly looks like a dragon’ when they thought you couldn’t hear. You learned to distrust early, placing your love and your trust in blood alone. It was a method of self-preservation, one you learned early. Like a case of ice. You weren’t cold, however, not where it mattered. To your family, you were a blaze of light, a warm hearth. Amongst others is where you built your walls. It was during times like these; thrust among the lords and ladies of the court, that you learned the true meaning of women’s weapons. Yes, you held sword and shield upon the training field, circling ‘round your brothers, violet eyes meeting violet eyes, steel gray gazes. But was your courtesy not its own shield? The polite way in which you demurred, how you deftly charmed one noble with a smile, and the next with a well-placed jest, a laugh like clinking glass. Were your words not a blade? A well-placed jest an apt parry, and in lieu of a riposte, words to distract, to flatter, and to charm.
It was rare that you did not feel eyes upon you. Observing, judging, finding you wanting. Or perhaps finding you worthy? ‘Elbows off the table, my dear,’ your grandmother reminded gently, and you acquiesced, though you wished to complain. ‘Why?’ you wanted to know. You were a Princess; it was you who made the rules, why must you follow them? If you were Queen, there would be no table manners; no need for three separate forks, no need to sip delicately from the side of the spoon. But you said nothing, and sat straight in the hard-backed chair. You snuck glances across the table, at Rhaenna’s plate, the way she held the spoon delicately, at the way your Aunt Daenerys plucked the proper utensil from the beside her plate to portion small bites. You chafed against the social restraints, but with each deep breath, you pictured yourself as a pool of still water. As you let go of your resentment, you pictured each ripple fading away, until the surface was smooth, like a black mirror.
It did little good to rage against that which you could not change; those meaningless bits of etiquette which, nonetheless, painted a palette upon which others viewed you. Your grandmother had other lessons too, and you felt your tongue twist around unfamiliar syllables, the trilled r’s, the ñ swirling uncomfortably from your throat, as you attempted High Valyrian. At once graceful and guttural, the language eluded you. You did not take to these lessons as your sister did. Not to be outdone, however, you sequestered yourself in the Red Keep’s library, bent over books, memorizing vocabulary, muttering conjugations under your breath for hours. Perhaps it was a simply convenience that Rhaella taught you and Rhaenna together, or perhaps it was a stroke of genius. It might have been that she knew you’d never learn without someone to compete against. Whatever the truth, she hid it behind politely curved lips and glittering lilac eyes.
Your mother never did allow them to truly domesticate you, however. She’d never had the patience to learn each delicate stitch, to sit through hours of lessons, and she sensed that neither did you. And so, she’d steal you from the ministrations of your septa, of the Queen Mother, and challenge you to a race upon horseback, or to teach her own lessons. What was perhaps your favorite lesson was when she thrust a bow into your hands along with a coiled length of gut, and bid you to string it. Your aim was abysmal at first; arrows going so far astray as to alarm onlookers, but with time, you improved. With each draw, you inched closer to your mark. Inhale -- wiry muscles pulling the string taut -- exhale, and release. Thwap. You perhaps would never match your Northern cousins in competition, but your blood certainly rang true, here below the Neck.
Sparks flew each time your violet gaze met the golden glare of your other half. You were an unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object. Biaea was as moody and unpredictable as yourself, behind the mask you wore. She was an extension of your soul, and learning her peculiarities would likely be your life’s work. You bore scars from her rages; the rippling forms of old burns, the jagged, knobbly scar tissue where her claws scored you. But if she was stubborn, you were more so, and you outlasted her rage, returned her pure fire with ice. But for all that you clashed, which was perhaps an inevitable consquence of similar souls, no other understood you, meshed with you on such a level. Inseperable as a child, she’d followed you to each of your lessons, and even to your bed, as she grew, such things grew impossible, and she was often relegated to the Dragonpit. But you railed against this, throwing such fits that it was feared you’d inherited your blood’s madness until she was unchained, and left to roam the skies, a lavender blur far above. She was big enough to ride by the time you were five, but you were not permitted to fly with her. Nor were you permitted upon her back at age six, or at age seven. It was when you were eight, and she four, that the two of you were allowed your freedom. She was many times the size of your favorite pony by then, but this did not dissuade you. You were a Targaryen; and this was your blood’s right. As you aged, you learned to control your rages, and to control your sharp tongue; ice rimed your persona, and Biaea calmed with you. She would never be meek or accepting, however. She was the fire you could no longer be, and in many ways, she was the fire you aspired to.
Perhaps it was the flashing gray eyes, the sly smiles, the quiet kindness, but you weren’t sure when Matarys first set butterflies aflight in your belly. You knew your grandparents were siblings, and that Aegon the Conqueror loved both his sisters; why should you be any different? If he was your first infatuation, he was also your first heartbreak. He denied you gently, to be sure, but a denial is a denial all the same. Hearts heal more quickly in the young, however, and within a matter of days, you had sprung back to life, like a candle flickering back to full brightness. If Matarys was the first, he wasn’t the last. You would blush to remember it now, but you can hardly recall the name of your first kiss. He was a sweet boy, with eyes like honey; sweet and golden, with a depth that drew you in and wouldn’t let you go. He drifted into your life for a spell; and like a dream, he was gone when you opened your eyes.
But of all the gazes that captured yours, it is one that holds you still. Brown, like dappled sunlight upon polished wood, brown like the eyes of a doe caught unawares upon a wooded path. Deceptively innocent, deceitfully vulnerable. Margaery Tyrell. You joined the retinue following your aunt Daenerys to Highgarden, where you met her. Your flirtations started as innocent things; the games girls played to distract themselves, to divert their attentions from the mundane. But you found yourself drawn to the way her eyes gleamed; a brightness that was so unlike the gemtone glitters of your siblings, of your family. There was life there, and passion not borne of fire or ice, but of a vine. Twining skyward, seeking the sun, warmed by light, fed by earth. Her touch sent jolts of electricity down your spine in ways your silly flirtations with knight’s sons and boys never did. You should never have allowed it, but you began to open up to her, laying yourself bare. It was inevitable, then, that such a thing would end. ‘I never loved you, I was just using you.’ But as deep as she cut you, you did not bleed out. Instead, you cauterized the wound.
It was perhaps for the best that you were never destined to find your own love.
You were informed of the betrothal to Aegon, your half-brother, just days before it was announced to the realm proper. He’d always been more distant than the rest of your siblings; raised from his conception to be King one day; just old enough to be too mature to join you in childish games; already busy with learning the things one needed to learn in order to rule. You loved him all the same as a brother, as one of your blood; you just did not know him. You determined to yourself to change that. It was within hours of learning of the match that you sought him out, stalking him as effectively as a cat follows a mouse. You learned his routines, his habits, and inserted yourself into them; slipping into his life, gradually, at first. You’d join him upon the sparring field, matching his Dornish glaive with your long sword, or you’d ride with him, racing your horses across fields, or leisurely walking them through the Kingswood. You began to break your fast with him each dawn, where you’d sit in contemplative silence, sipping tea and plucking at your meal. It was not long before you’d broken past his shell; saw behind the mask he wore. You saw a young man with a wicked sense of humor, a tongue to match yours in your worst moments, and a devotion to his family, to his House, and to his people. Perhaps despite yourself, you began to fall in love.
The Red Prince and the Dark Princess. The two of you completed the Targaryen banners.
Dark Princess. At first, the monicker drew the fire from within your breast, and a feeling of warmth suffused your body, starting at your head, and washing down to your feet, before dissipating entirely. Rage. You recognized the emotion, you knew the look that settled behind your eyes, the cast of your expression, even the set of your shoulders. You saw it in your father after a day of holding court, you saw it in your brother Valarr after a loss on the training grounds. The smoldering glares, the haughty way their shoulders were thrown back. More than anger, it was a righteous feeling. But you tamped that fire down, you were a pool of water, still and dark. Rhaenna had no such name. She was just princess. But you were different. You knew you did not earn the name purely through the color of the hair that streamed down your back, like another princess. You were the eldest daughter of the King, but you were not the first. It was, perhaps, inevitable that you’d be compared to the lovely, lost Rhaenys. She too shared her mother’s looks; with Elia’s dark hair and dark eyes. It was said the lost princess was all sweetness and light, with a smile to brighten dark days. In many ways, you felt as if you’d never live up to that image. Perhaps you would never be beloved, but you would be respected. It was fire that flowed through your veins and ice that slowed your blood; twin inheritances that fought within your soul.

<div class="gensmall">
if you've still got some light in you, <br>then go before it's g o n e
Some mourned with their heads; lamenting the physical loss of a person, lamenting what used to be, what was, what might have been. To them, death was the absence of light; a candle, snuffed out by a breeze or a breath. Others mourned with their hearts. They felt the absence as a physical pain, as if a part of them was torn away, leaving a gaping hole that only time could suture. They felt death as a low ache, as a burning between their ribs. Time was the great healer; it allowed the ones left behind the time to understand the loss, it allowed the ache to subside. You mourned with your soul. You knew, deep down, in that churning in your gut, that she was gone. There was a childlike hope in you, however, that somehow, you would be wrong. That it was all a part of your imagination. Even before you found Muna, with her limbs splayed in the dirty snow, you knew.
Lyanna Targaryen’s death would not break you.
It would not bend you. It would not dim the fire behind your eyes. If anything, it made you more resolute. It would be her shoes you were to fill, as Queen. You did not rage at the news; sending your fire into the world, immolating what surrounded you, dimming your own glow as the destruction burned brighter around you. Instead, you focused that energy, hearing her words echo in your mind, twisting like phantasms. ‘Don’t let them dim your blaze.’ This would not diminish you. It was with a single-minded fury that you flew ahead with Biaea to break the news to your father. You only prayed to the Seven that it would not break him.
The smoke was acrid, curling into the air like serpents exorcised from the black earth, painting the blue sky shades of gray. The crowd was somber, a throng of black-clad dignitaries and nobles. Silence covered the Great Sept, broken only by the occasional cough, and the snaps of burning wood. Were you not breathing; your chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, it would be possible to mistake you for a statue, so still you were, staring at the gold and orange flames. At the base of the pyre, they burned blue, and the radiating heat dried your eyes, dried the tears upon your cheeks, leaving your visage stained by salt. You had told yourself that you would not cry, and yet the tears fell silently. Aegon, standing as still as you, placed an arm around your shoulders; the only sign anyone noticed you crying. You were grateful for the silence.
Moons passed, as if in a blur, and before you were quite prepared, you were standing at the precipice. The eve of your wedding.The anticipation of an event ofttimes overshadowed the event itself, and this was, perhaps, no different. Had you been given reign to decide, the ceremony would have been small, attended by family and childhood friends. But you were a Princess, and weddings were not a marriage of souls, they were a way to exercise power. To show the Throne was unbroken by the still-missing Queen, to prove to powers foreign and domestic that the Targaryens were strong. And what better way to prove that than to parade its heirs, wearing enough finery to beggar a lesser House, before the entire kingdom? You chafed at the fine silks you wore, at the false smiles you bore, but you played your part. All at once, the event was over both too soon, and not soon enough, and the outside world came crashing back into your life.
Biaea bore you to the Stormlands, and her wings were smoke, her breath death. The mercenaries that fled before the beating of amethyst wings could not have foreseen that their doom would come from the blue skies, and you flew low enough to see the fear in their eyes, and to smell their burning flesh; a scent at once like roasting meat, and acrid with seared hair. After the first battle, you vomited until you coughed up only bile, the contents of your stomach splashed upon the ground. You scrubbed your skin until it shone bright red, you doused your long hair in scented oils until you no longer smelled smoke. All at once, you prayed your second battle would be easier, and that it would not. You did not want to become immune to blood. Immune to suffering. Even worse, you did not want to grow to enjoy bloodshed.
You did not enjoy rest for long following the close of the Stormlands war. You bid farewell to Aegon as he flew to Volantis, ignoring the sinking in your gut, the black pit that grew wider as the days passed and no word. And then weeks. And then a great red beast crested the horizon. Aemithor. Sans his rider. Your uncle Viserys was sent to free him, and you were sent to pace the halls of the Red Keep; a dark, sharp-eyed shadow. Perhaps you might have noticed the changes in your body sooner, were you not preoccupied, but the moon came and went, and your moon’s blood did not follow. Other changes, more subtle, occurred as well; your abdomen softened, and began the suggestion of rounding, your cheeks, sunken by lack of nourishment, filled out, despite you evacuating the contents of your stomach each morning.
Upon the realization, you felt a fool for not noticing it sooner.
But you would not let a thing like motherhood get in the way of your duties, and you climbed upon Biaea’s back once more, flying towards more bloodshed. This time, you crossed the Narrow Sea to Tyrosh, to unleash the fury of your House. Volantis left in ruins by your brother-husband and your uncle, it was now your turn to turn a city to ash. Tyrion Lannister had been the architect of many of the attacks that rocked the Seven Kingdoms since his disappearance after his father’s murder. It was past time that he be brought before justice, and past time for his protectors to feel the wrath of House Targaryen. Your father’s new bride, the Archon’s daughter, returned with the Imp in fetters, and attention faded from you. These battles were no easier; and the taste of bile rarely left your tongue as you fought with sword and Biaea with fang and fire.
All your life, you’ve felt like a woman on the edge; torn between disparate destinies, blood singing of ice and fire. In your quiet moments, you strived to mesh your disparate identities; Stark and Targaryen, dragon and wolf, fire and ice, and now, sister and wife, Princess and future Queen, daughter and mother. The stakes have grown larger than yourself, perhaps before you noticed it happening, and you not only carry your own fate in your hands, you carry the future of the realm in your belly. It is neither excitement nor dread you feel at the prospect of the future.
You feel the coming winter in your bones, and the fire in your blood.

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