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Summary
Visenya. A name that had carried both glory and ruin through the ages. A name cursed by whispers in the dark, weighed down by centuries of stillborn heirs who had never drawn breath. But Visenya lived. She tore her way into the world screaming, flailing—fighting. And the first sounds that greeted her were not her father’s words of welcome nor her mother’s loving whispers, but the anguished cries of those who watched Queen Aemma Arryn bleed out upon the birthing bed. Her mother’s life had been the price of her own.
King Viserys did not come to see her. He could not. To him, she was a specter, a living reminder of the love he had lost. If he acknowledged her at all, it was in distant, absent-minded gestures, too little to be called affection. It was Rhaenyra—her elder sister, barely past girlhood herself—who held her close on restless nights, cradling her in arms too young to bear such a burden. It was Rhaenyra who pressed soft kisses to her brow, whispering reassurances as she placed a dragon’s egg beside her in the cradle, promising her that one day, it would hatch, and she would not be alone.