Larra reclined on a cushioned chaise in her bedchamber of her family's Lysene estate, the sunlight filtering through the lattice of vines above. Her young husband, prince Viserys, sat across from her on a couch, fidgeting with a dragon figure as his legs swung just above the ground. His Valyrian silver hair shone in the light, but the Westerosi cut and his boyish mannerisms grated against her sensibilities.

"Sit up straight, Viserys," she chided in High Valyrian, her tone sharp yet not unkind. "You slouch like a fishmonger, not a prince of Old Valyria."

Viserys straightened awkwardly, his ears reddening as he tried to meet her gaze. "I...I was only—"

"—Mumbling again," she interrupted, shaking her head. "And that accent. It twists the beauty of the tongue into something clumsy."

Despite her critical words, she softened slightly, leaning forward to offer him a small, rare smile. "But you are learning. Better than I expected, really."

The boy perked up at the compliment, though he quickly dropped his gaze again, nervous under her scrutinizing eyes. Larra sighed and picked up her goblet of wine, watching him thoughtfully.

"You are too young to be here, too young for a match like this," she said more gently, her gaze flicking over his delicate features. "But the world does not care for what we want, does it? They push, and we must stand, even if we are not yet ready."

Viserys blinked at her, unsure how to respond. She reached out and smoothed a lock of hair behind his ear.

"You will be strong one day, I think. But for now, you are a boy." Her tone was soft now, almost maternal, though she quickly withdrew her hand, retreating to lift her wineglass again.