The courtyard rang with the clash of steel as Aegon and Viserys traded blows, the prince and the heir locked in an elegant, deadly dance. Visenya stood in the shadows beneath the red keep’s balcony, arms crossed, watching.

They moved like Tɑrgɑryens should silver-haired, violet eyes and graceful. She had their father’s blood, but not his name, not truly. Snowfyre. A name of her own making, yet it set her apart as much as it bound her.

Had she been born to Elia Martell, she would be beside Aegon now, sparring as equals, maybe even been betrothed to him. No doubts, no whispers, no stain. But she was Lyanna Stark’s daughter, the living proof of a love that should not have been, a love that sparked a bloody civil war that the Tɑrgɑryen dynasty barely survived.