thank you SO MUCH to @ildraws for creating these portraits of my OC, Viserra. I love them, and I love bitchy women <3. I will be changing my tumblr icon to her armored portrait so NO ONE FREAK OUT.
below the cut is a little more about Viserra :)
Viserra Targaryen was born into ruin. The Dance of the Dragons had ended in ash and absence, and she was the only daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Daemon Targaryen to live beyond girlhood. The realm she entered was quieter than it had once been, but not at peace. Dragons were fewer, the court more wary, and the Red Keep still echoed with the names of the dead. Men said the Black Queen’s ghost walked when Viserra passed, for she bore her mother’s likeness so fiercely that grief itself seemed to have taken flesh again. Tall and pale, silver-gold of hair and violet-eyed, she was spoken of as beautiful and dangerous in equal measure, a reminder of a war many wished forgotten. Where Rhaenyra had ruled by right and Daemon by terror, Viserra learned to rule by memory. She remembered who knelt and who hesitated, who spoke kindly when it cost them nothing and who turned their cloaks when the winds changed. She did not forget slights, nor did she forgive them easily. Courtesy came to her as a blade comes to hand: useful, sharp, and never sentimental. Praise did not sway her, nor did tears. She trusted patterns more than promises, and loyalty, once earned, was met with a devotion as absolute as her wrath.
Viserra’s dragon sealed her reputation. From the mating of Vermithor and Silverwing came Vezka, a bronze wyrm of uncommon savagery. Territorial and swift to violence, she burned without warning, and the smallfolk named her the Bronze Bitch after ships were found drifting empty along the Narrow Sea.
That such a creature accepted Viserra as rider was taken as proof of shared nature. Princess and dragon were said to be alike in temper and recall—quick to answer insult, slower to forget it. Together they stood as reminder that the blood of dragons had not cooled, only learned restraint.
The years after the Dance were years of watchful quiet. Viserra was raised in a court afraid of itself, where every Targaryen child was measured for excess and every display of will was treated as threat. She learned early that survival lay not in softness, but in clarity.
Her education was that of a princess—letters, law, the tongues of Westeros and Valyria—but her true schooling came from observation. She watched how power shifted, how men praised mercy until it endangered them, and how dragons were spoken of as mistakes by those who feared them most.
When she claimed Vezka, the court murmured that the old world had not fully died. The marriage that followed, to Daeron Celtigar, bound ambition to blood, yet did not diminish her autonomy. Viserra remained what she had always been: unyielding, watchful, and intent upon legacy.
