Viserra tried to delay the inevitable as long as possible, but eventually, she resigned herself to getting out of bed and preparing herself for the long day ahead.

The morning of the tourney dawned misty and grey, but as the sun climbed higher and she broke her fast, the low clouds that had rolled in from Blackwater Bay had dissipated, revealing a clear sky that did nothing to improve the sticky, humid air. It was almost as oppressive as the palpable excitement that sweltered in King's Landing and the Red Keep, drifting in through her windows along with the sound of distant ringing bells. She finished eating and then sat there, twisting the Valyrian steel ring Daemon had given her round and round her finger, her gaze on the glittering bay to the east.

She replayed the previous night in her mind, an ugly flush crawling up her neck and into her cheeks when she recalled Daemon's abrupt departure. She'd been too forward, and it mortified her.

She had always admired her uncle, cherished him and their brief but many moments together whenever he had been at court while she was growing up. In every knight's tale and princely song that she'd heard over the years, Daemon had always been the one she pictured, brave and golden-haired and strong, a true knight and true prince. Her love for him had grown from pure adoration into something else, a feeling that curled in the depths of her stomach and flared to life whenever she thought about him of late. It wasn't wrong; her family had been intermarrying for generations to keep the blood of Valyria strong, so why should she and Daemon be any different?

But she remembered the way his eyes had shuttered when she'd said his name, and shame and embarrassment welled within her again. Of course, he had shunned her. He was married already to Lady Rhea Royce of the Vale. But had he rejected her because of his lady-wife, or because it was Viserra herself who had taken the bold step to capture his attention so? The thoughts made her stomach churn, and the poached eggs she had eaten earlier now rested like heavy stones in her gut.

"Princess?" A handmaiden curtsied as servants came to whisk her empty dishes away. "Would you like to dress now?"

Viserra stopped twisting the ring and stood. "Yes. Make it quick; I wish to visit my mother before I leave."

The handmaidens worked as if she'd brandished a whip at them. It was only mid-morning by the time they finished, dressing her in a crimson gown shot through with veins of black lace and beading and plaiting her hair with a matching black ribbon that alternated with the silver of her hair. A tiara of dark iron and rubies was secured to the crown of her head with pins, and she resisted the urge to itch at the pulling in her scalp as she stepped into a pair of sturdy black slippers and departed her chambers.

"Good morn, Princess," Ser Lorent Marbrand said as he fell into step with her. His sandy hair was brushed out and his face clean-shaven, so she assumed he had been given the night off to rest. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes." She hadn't; she'd tossed and turned all night, her dreams filled with echoes of memories that were lost to her now. She gave him a cursory glance. "And you, ser?"

He seemed far too pleased by her forced pleasantry, and she regretted asking. "Well enough, Princess. Thank you."

"I'm visiting the Queen's chambers before I leave," she said, ignoring his bright smile. "You may go and wait by my carriage."

"Of course, Princess."

She was greeted by another member of the Kingsguard stationed outside of her mother's rooms, Ser Willis Fell, who inclined his head once before knocking on the sturdy oak door and announcing her presence. She swept inside when she was granted entry and was met with nearly a dozen attendants, servants, midwives, and maesters alike, all headed by Grand Maester Mellos himself.

Queen Aemma rested against a nest of pillows on her bed, her feet and belly swollen, and her face pinched in pain. Viserra whirled on the nearest maester.

"The Queen is in pain," she said. "Have you given her any milk of the poppy? Anything?"

"Viserra, my daughter," Queen Aemma called, raising a delicate hand. "It's all right. Maester Mellos just sent word to your father. The babe is coming."

Viserra went to her mother's side and perched on the edge of her bed. She took her hand in her own. It was warm and slightly sweaty, but it was her mother's gentle touch all the same. She pressed the Queen's knuckles to her lips briefly, and Aemma smiled as she caressed Viserra's cheek.

"Darling girl," Aemma said, her smile bright despite the furrow in her brow and the way she shifted uncomfortably in the bed. "Do you worry for me?"

"You know I always do," Viserra murmured. "Has Rhaenyra come to see you yet?"

"No, but I expect her to shortly." She rolled her eyes in jest. "That girl moves in her own time, I fear. Much like a glacier."

They shared a laugh at that. Viserra held her mother's hand again in both of hers. "Shall I stay, Mother? I doubt my absence will matter. The people want to see blood and carnage, not me."

"Your father will want you there."

"Father wants a great many things," she said, unable to keep the note of bitterness from her voice. "None of them pertain to me."

"He wants you to be happy," Aemma said, her lavender eyes searching Viserra's face, "as do I."

Viserra swallowed back her usual retorts. Arguing with her mother in her current condition would not do. Instead, she forced a smile.

"Of course." She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the Queen's forehead. Her lips came away sticky, and she brushed a damp piece of white-gold hair from her mother's face. "I pray the babe comes swiftly and without issue."

Her mother smiled. "If my Princess Viserra wishes it, then the gods will surely grant it." She squeezed Viserra's hand. "Go, my love. Grace the people with your presence. I will be fine."

Viserra nodded and stood, smoothing her skirts. Immediately, her spot was claimed by a servant who had brought extra pillows, and the room filled with the low buzz of conversation again.

"Viserra," her mother called when Viserra reached the door. She turned, and Queen Aemma raised a hand in farewell. "I love you."

Viserra's heart clenched, but with what emotion, she could not say. "I love you, too, Mother."

She departed then, and tried not to feel like the door closing behind her was a dreadful, final thing.

xx

The stands were still filling when Viserra arrived at the tourney grounds, assaulted with the smell of horses, manure, and the sour tang of sweat and piss. Ser Lorent shadowed her as she made her way up to the King's box, where she found her father already seated with a goblet of wine in his ring-encrusted hand.

"Ah, Viserra!" King Viserys said when she stopped and offered him a curtsy. He was in a festive mood, his smile wide and full of teeth as he opened his arms in welcome. "The second to be born, yet always the first to arrive."

The assembled lords and ladies offered polite chuckles, and Viserra had to refrain from rolling her eyes. She stepped forward and pecked her father's cheek.

"Have you received word from Maester Mellos yet?" she asked in a low voice.

Her father smiled. "I was just informed before you arrived. That's why I had the casks opened early." He raised his cup and shouted to no one in particular. "Get the Princess some wine!" Naught a minute later, a servant was pressing a goblet into her own hands, and her father raised his cup again. "To Queen Aemma's and the babe's health!"

Those in the King's box raised their own goblets and toasted. Viserra looked above her father's shoulder and met the gaze of Princess Rhaenys as she drank. The older woman inclined her head in greeting but said nothing. Next to her, her husband, Lord Corlys Velaryon, did the same. Viserra offered them a tight smile. She'd always gotten the feeling that her father's cousin and her husband did not like her much, though she could not explain why. Princess Rhaenys had been passed over as heir to the Iron Throne in favor of Viserys, she knew, but the Princess and the Sea Snake were still cordial with her father and sister in a way that they were not with her.

She lowered her eyes only to be met with another gaze, this one from the Hand of the King himself, Ser Otto Hightower. He sat to her father's immediate right, but she had purposefully attempted to ignore him and his passive face. He often reminded her of a shadow; silent, still, and always present at the King's side. His sly, narrow features and deep green eyes were carefully neutral, as ever, making it impossible for her to tell what he was thinking, even when he dipped his chin respectfully to her. He unnerved her, and she knew that he knew it, and that only added to her discomfort.

She offered him and her father another stiff curtsy before she went to the first row of the box, away from Ser Otto and his depthless eyes, only to stifle a groan when his own daughter, the Lady Alicent Hightower, looked up from her seat at Viserra's approach.

Rhaenyra's lady-in-waiting sprung to her feet and hastily curtsied. "Princess Viserra. How lovely to see you."

Viserra swept critical eyes over the other girl. Although she was a few years Viserra's elder, the way she hunched her shoulders and constantly moved her restless fingers made her appear younger. Her auburn hair curled prettily around her head and shoulders, contrasting with her pale blue gown and peachy skin. Viserra wondered, not for the first time, what Rhaenyra saw in such a timid thing as Alicent.

"Lady Alicent," Viserra returned without warmth. She moved past her and made sure to leave one vacant seat between them. Alicent sat when Viserra did and offered the princess a shy smile.

"I heard exciting news," she said. "Prince Daemon has returned to the city and is slated to tilt today."

Viserra sipped from her wine. She shouldn't have been surprised that Daemon would be jousting; he always hungered for a chance to show his prowess. But he hadn't told her of joining the lists, and she swallowed down the bitterness in her throat that had nothing to do with the wine.

Alicent's fingers tangled in her lap, and Viserra realized for the first time her raw and red nailbeds. She hid her hands in her skirts when she noticed Viserra's stare and cleared her throat delicately.

"Your favor is lovely," she said, gesturing to the woven circlet of lavenders and white clover that a servant had just placed on the small table next to Viserra's seat. "It matches you."

Viserra had chosen the flowers specifically for that purpose. Rhaenyra had laughed when she'd seen it the day before last, poking fun at Viserra's alleged vanity, but she'd ignored her sister and marched off, her nose in the air. The flowers matched Daemon, too, and since he was jousting, he'd ask for Viserra's favor as he always did, and she would gladly give him the small piece of her that she had created.

Grudgingly, Viserra said, "Thank you."

She was spared from any more forced pleasantries when Rhaenyra came bounding into the box in a swirl of red and pale gold. Her hair was pinned up that day, revealing her neck and the gleam of Valyrian steel that now hung around it. Viserra sat up straighter when Rhaenyra came to sit between her and Alicent, and her eyes narrowed.

"Has it started yet?" Rhaenyra asked eagerly. A servant delivered another goblet of wine and Rhaenyra's own favor to her before scuttling away again. "Am I late?"

"Nearly," Alicent said, giving Rhaenyra a small, teasing smile. She had relaxed some now that the other Targaryen sister had arrived, acting as a buffer between her and Viserra. Her head tilted. "Is that a new necklace?"

"Oh, yes." Rhaenyra grinned. "Daemon gave it to me upon his return."

Alicent's reply was lost as trumpets blared and the crowds cheered, but Viserra's hands clenched. The necklace was beautiful, gleaming with subtle rubies and complementing Rhaenyra's fair complexion. Viserra glared down at her plain, unadorned ring, and felt jealousy grab hold of her insides and give a sharp tug. Had Daemon considered her unworthy of something beautiful, like his gift to Rhaenyra? Was she only an afterthought?

She stewed in her own dark thoughts as the tourney began and riders started to joust. Rhaenyra cheered and clapped beside her, and Alicent's gasps punctuated the air whenever a rider lost his seat and fell. Viserra's ears rang, and she only came back to herself when screams rippled through the spectators. A brawl had erupted between two young knights, and blades had come out. The knight in a yellow surcoat ripped open the other's stomach, and pink intestines slipped out of a hole in a deep blue surcoat before the blue knight fell to the ground, where his head was promptly smashed in by the yellow knight's heavy shield.

The crowd buzzed as the blue knight was dragged off and the grounds reset, but conversation died when the trumpets blew another blast of heraldry. Horses bearing riders from greater houses sauntered out, and Viserra glimpsed Daemon among them, tall and proud atop a midnight steed that matched his armor. That phantom of jealousy grabbed hold of her again and twisted when she saw him, and she began turning the ring on her finger, round and round, as Daemon chose his opponent for the joust. He settled on Ser Gwayne Hightower, Alicent's brother and Ser Otto's son, and tension was suddenly born thick in the King's box.

As the two men prepared to tilt, Viserra snuck a glance over her shoulder to where Ser Otto sat with her father. King Viserys was relaxed in his seat, but there was an uneasy smile on his face as his eyes darted to his Hand. Ser Otto was still stone-faced, but his hands clutched the arms of his seat tightly, and Viserra figured that was all the emotion he would dare show. She turned back when the crowd's shouts and cheers swelled to see the horses pelting at each other full-tilt, their riders hardly more than blurs of black and green.

Ser Gwayne managed to batter Daemon on the first run, and shards of wood splintered the air along with the distinct crack of armor being struck. Daemon nearly fell off his horse, and Viserra's heart caught in her throat as Rhaenyra gasped beside her. But Daemon managed to haul himself back into his saddle at the last moment, and he all but yanked another lance from the squire's grasp as he readied for another tilt, Ser Gwayne doing the same.

They charged again. Viserra kept spinning the ring round her finger as the horses thundered across the ground. Sweat beaded her upper lip, and she dabbed at it absently as the riders bore down on each other, lances aimed at the opponent. At the last moment, Daemon tipped his lance down, at the legs of Ser Gwayne's horse. The horse hit the lance at full speed and shrieked as it fell, throwing Ser Gwayne from his saddle. The crowd gasped, but cheers for the Prince of the City soon swallowed the murmurs of shock as squires rushed out toward the fallen knight.

Alicent and Rhaenyra watched Ser Gwayne fearfully, but Viserra's eyes tracked Daemon as he tossed his lance aside, still atop his horse. She almost wanted to laugh; the move was so very like her uncle – not exactly clean, but not dirty enough to be accused of cheating.

"Every game has its loopholes," he'd told her once. "Finding them is easy enough, but then using them to your advantage? It is a skill that many find themselves lacking. They have neither the spine nor the stomach for it."

"Do you?" she'd asked.

He'd only given a knowing smile as his answer.

The crowd applauded when Ser Gwayne was hauled to his feet by the squires and rushed out of the ring, his legs stumbling and his face badly bleeding after his helmet had fallen off when he'd hit the ground, but alive. Viserra offered a polite clap when Rhaenyra nudged her, but her gaze was still on Daemon as he and his horse sauntered leisurely to the King's box, a new lance held aloft in his hand.

Viserra smiled as he approached, the dragon's wings sprouting from his helm gleaming fire in the sun. She gathered her skirts and her favor and stood. Every tourney she could remember attending, Daemon had always asked for her favor. Not Rhaenyra's, not anyone else's, hers. It was another small thing that reinforced their bond, and to her, proof that she was special to him in a way that her sister was not.

She stepped down to lean over the railing and bestow him with her woven crown of lavenders and clover – but he spurred his horse past her, to stand before Alicent instead.

Viserra's smile froze in place, her hand and favor still outstretched, unclaimed. She heard several snickers behind her, but all she could focus on was Daemon, clearly not looking at her, giving that charming smile to Alicent Hightower.

"I'm fairly certain I will win these games, but your favor would all but ensure it, Lady Alicent," he said with an air of self-assured grandeur, and a few noblewomen tittered at his words.

Alicent shot Viserra a look that could only be described as nothing short of fear as she stood and collected her favor. Dully, Viserra knew that the girl could hardly refuse the prince's request, but she wanted nothing more than to snatch Alicent's favor and tear it to pieces, and then maybe Alicent herself, for good measure. Or perhaps feed her to Abraxas. The possibilities tumbled through her mind as Alicent tossed her favor to Daemon with a shy smile.

"Good luck, my Prince," she said, and Viserra's insides twisted something awful again.

Daemon glanced at her once as he rode away, but the look was so quick that she might have imagined it. She didn't want to try and puzzle out what that look could mean. The blood roaring in her ears was far too loud for her to think. She only snapped out of her haze when Rhaenyra gave a sharp tug on her skirts.

Realization swept through her that she was still standing, and then mortification. She returned to her seat quickly, neck and face burning. She knew she was being stared at, whispered about, mocked. It took everything in her not to flee the box that very moment. Running now would only make her look worse.

The Forgotten Princess, dark voices crooned in her mind. The Rejected Princess. Undesirable. Unwanted.

The voices clamored, and her nails bit into her palms. Later. She would hide from their scorn later. For now, she had to keep what frayed edges of her dignity remained from unraveling any further.

xx

It was easier said than done.

She remained for another hour, watching in a distant, detached way as carnage and mayhem descended upon the tourney as the sun climbed higher and the men's blood burned hotter. It was a bloody affair and a celebration that did not herald any good omens of peace for the son being birthed that day.

When yet another fight broke out between two freeriders, Viserra seized the opportunity to make her escape. Daemon had not competed again, waiting until only the best knights remained, she knew, but she found that she did not care much to see him again so soon after her last humiliation at his hands.

Without uttering a word, she rushed from the box, not even noticing that her father's seat was vacant and that the King himself was nowhere to be seen.

Ser Lorent followed her to her carriage, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He called for his horse, but Viserra whirled on him.

"No! You are to ride with me."

His face was startled beneath his helm. "If that is what you wish, Princess."

He followed her inside, awkwardly fitting his bulky armor through the door before seating himself across from her and removing his helm. The door shut, and he watched, wary, as Viserra picked up a cushion, held it to her face, and screamed.

"How dare he?" she raged, chucking the cushion once she was done screaming into it and narrowly avoiding Ser Lorent's head. "To me? With that Hightower bitch?"

Her fury rendered her nearly incoherent. Her breast heaved, and she knew her face and neck were as crimson as her gown, but she hardly cared. Ser Lorent was the only one who could see her right now, and she needed to let all of her rage out before they reached the Red Keep.

She punched the roof of the carriage and seethed when her hand smarted.

"Faster!" she screamed at the driver.

The carriage noticeably gained speed.

She attempted to steady her breathing. "Speak," she rasped at the Kingsguard, and he started.

"Er, of course, Princess. What should I speak about?"

"Anything. Nothing. Why you think the sky is blue. What the one place in the world is that you wish to see. How love is fleeting and foolish and the worst form of torture a heart can endure."

He stared at her. She slumped back against her remaining cushions. "Never mind. You're a member of the Kingsguard. You've taken oaths of chastity and to never marry. What do you know of love?"

"Just because I've sworn vows does not mean I know nothing of love," he said quietly.

She hugged her arms to her chest. "I'm beginning to think I'm the one who knows nothing of love."

"You made sure to see your mother before you left." He offered her a kind smile. "That was love in its purest form, Princess."

"That's a different kind of love to the one I mean," she grumbled.

"You are young, Princess," he said. "I think you have plenty of years ahead yet to experience that kind of love you mean. You should not cage your heart so and give away but one key to it."

"You're not that much older than me." She sniffed. "And who fed you that sort of line? Your mother?"

That pulled a laugh from him, and she startled at the sound. She had never heard him laugh before. It cheered her ever so slightly.

She stared out the small window. King's Landing was a blur as they ricocheted through the streets, for once unhindered by crowds. The smallfolk would be outside of the tourney grounds, reveling and hawking their wares there, leaving the city relatively peaceful. The Red Keep loomed ever closer, throwing shadows over the carriage.

"He made a fool of me," she whispered, so lowly that it was a miracle Ser Lorent heard her over the rattling of the carriage and clopping hooves.

"I do not think that was his intent," Ser Lorent said slowly. When she did not turn her ire on him, he continued. "I believe his goal was to spite the Hand of the King. Asking for the Lady Alicent's favor after unseating Ser Otto's son was salt in the wound, if I may."

"I understand," she said, and if her voice wavered, he pretended not to notice. "But at the expense of mine own humiliation?" She shook her head, pressing her lips together. "Perhaps I am a fool. Thinking with a heart instead of a brain."

"It is no foolish thing." Ser Lorent hesitated. "If I may speak freely, Princess?"

She waved a hand, keeping her gaze on the window.

"Since I came into your service two years ago, I have taken note of something. The court had whispered about you, of how you preferred the company of rats and dragons to people, and that it made you appear cruel and odd – unapproachable."

The confession did not prompt any emotion from her. She'd heard the rumors her whole life. She'd learned to build up armor against them.

"But when a stonemason came to the Grand Maester's chambers and no one else was there, you took it upon yourself to nurse him until help returned. Upon the Queen's last stillbirth, Mother have mercy, you stayed by her bedside for many a night, easing her through her pain and night terrors."

She finally turned and looked at him. His face was open, earnest, kind. It made her insides pinch.

"Speak your point plainly, ser," she said.

"My point, Princess, is that you are not the image of yourself that you project to the court. You know love, and kindness, and gentleness. A great deal more than any of them presume. It is not a shame nor a sin, and I do not believe you should hide it so."

"My father is kind," she said, voice cold, "and they call him an open-handed, jolly fool. People of my station cannot afford to be seen as kind or gentle, Ser Lorent." She turned her gaze outward again. "The realm would tear us apart for it; call it weakness. That is what Daemon taught me. What you think of my true nature is not important. It is nothing more than a pretty fable you tell yourself to help ease your guilt of serving someone such as myself."

His eyes bored into the side of her face. "Did Prince Daemon teach you how to sell that lie, as well?"

Her head snapped toward him, but she found she had a difficult time meeting his gaze head-on. "Mind your tongue, ser. I am still a Princess of House Targaryen. Your opportunity to speak freely is now forfeit."

He settled back in his seat comfortably, unfazed at her anger, and that made her even angrier. "As my Princess wishes."

She felt like screaming again, her head pounding with the beginning throes of a headache, but before she could open her mouth, the carriage lurched to a halt.

"The Keep, Princess!" the driver called.

She all but leaped out of the carriage, not even waiting for the Kingsguard to exit first. She did not want to look at him anymore. Her skin crawled uncomfortably even with just his presence at her back, following her into the eerie stillness of the Red Keep. Only the occasional servant scuttled by, but they glanced at Viserra with fear and something like pity in their eyes. Her cheeks flared with heat again. Had news of Daemon's spurn of her already traveled so swiftly?

"Princess," Ser Lorent murmured behind her as they ascended the dizzying spiral steps of the towers.

"Be silent," she snapped.

"Princess," he insisted, "something is wrong. I sense it."

"You sense it?" she scoffed over her shoulder. "You sound like a superstitious wetnurse now."

They reached the royal suites, but Viserra's footsteps faltered when silence greeted her. She'd expected more noise; midwives barking orders, her mother's strained sobs of labor, a babe's squalling cries. But there was nothing. The air was stagnant, still. Empty, save for an all too familiar stench.

Blood.

Two more Kingsguard stood outside the doors. Ser Willis was still there, but he had been joined by Ser Ryam Redwyne, the Lord Commander and King Viserys's personal guard.

"Princess," Ser Ryam said, stepping forward. She noticed that he had placed himself between her and the Queen's chambers. His plain brown eyes were surprised, but his mouth was set in a grim line that exacerbated the wrinkles and lines on his face. "I did not look to see you back so early."

"I grew bored of the bloodshed," she replied, keeping her tone neutral. "I would like to see my mother and the babe now."

He hesitated. "Princess—"

Her brows raised. "Stand aside, ser."

He stepped back and sighed. It sounded weary and sad, and her heart began to beat faster in response. "Very well, Princess."

Suddenly terrified, Viserra pushed past him and flung open the doors. The stench of blood rolled over her like the waves in the sea that had nearly drowned her as a child. Her knees went weak, and she stumbled.

The servants and midwives were gone. Only Maester Mellos remained of the maesters, and crouched by the side of the Queen's bed was King Viserys himself, gaunt and grey-faced. He did not even stir when Viserra barged in, and she knew that something was horribly, hauntingly wrong, even before she turned her gaze to the bed.

Blood had saturated the sheets so thoroughly that there was no more white to be found, only red. Queen Aemma's golden hair splayed around her deathly pale face like beams of sun fell on unresponsive stone in the depths of winter. Her limbs rested at awkward angles, with one limp hand clutched between her father's own. Her womb laid bare like a savage wolf had torn her open with claws and teeth, and dimly, she realized that was the source of all the blood. Her body had been ripped apart, and she did not move. Not even a breath stirred in her lungs. She was gone. Her mother was dead.

"Princess," Maester Mellos murmured, coming to stand beside her. His hands and sleeves were coated in red. She recoiled. "My deepest sympathies. It was the only way to save the babe."

"The babe," she repeated. Her lips moved, but they did not feel like her own. "Where... Is it all right? Healthy?"

"A son," he said, but there was no joy nor hope to be found in his voice. "Alive."

That one word was answer enough. Her eyes went to the King, hunched over his wife's unnaturally still body.

"A son?" she said, raising her voice.

Her father stirred slightly.

"A son," he breathed, so softly she barely caught it. "Baelon. His name is Baelon..."

Viserra's legs gave out. She sank to her knees.

She looked at her mother's mangled corpse and began to scream.

xx

Sorry, V. Things will get better. Eventually.

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Until next time!